“No, it wouldn’t. They know it’s true.”
“Even if it used to be true, it’s still not something you should say in front of them.” She ran a trembling hand down her hip, lightly smoothing the black velvet fabric. She’d found the dress with the burnout design and three-quarter sleeves on Amazon. It’d looked comfortable and was affordable, which was good, because Sarah didn’t intend to ever wear it again.
“I think I know why you’re fighting. Cass told me. And I can’t believe it’s true. Hope it’s not true that you’re blaming Brianna for Mom dying when you weren’t there.”
“First of all, it’s none of your business, and secondly, I’m not blaming Brianna for Mom’s death. I’m just really pissed off that Brianna wouldn’t call any of us when she saw that Mom was getting ready to go. She could have called us. We were just minutes away—”
“So you are blaming Bree.”
“I just don’t think it’s fair that Brianna was the only one who got to say good-bye—”
“But life isn’t fair! You of all people have to know that by now.”
She stiffened, shoulders drawing back as she pressed her fingers against her throbbing temple. “What do you mean, me of all people?”
“Being married to Boone. His career as a major league baseball player. The whole professional sports world.” He gave her a puzzled look. “What do you think I meant?”
“I don’t know.” She rubbed at her brow, starting to feel sick. “I don’t feel so good.”
Tommy’s gaze rested on her face. “You need to eat.”
“I do.”
“Do you want me to get you something?”
“No, I’ll find something.”
“Most of the food has been put away, with just desserts now in the dining room. But you don’t need a cookie. You need a sandwich, or some lasagna, something—”
“I know what I need,” she said, gagging at the idea of eating lasagna. That would make her throw up. But maybe a sandwich, or a toasted bagel. Something light, something to cut the acid from all that wine on an empty stomach.
Entering the kitchen, Sarah found Meg’s husband, Jack Roberts, at the old farmhouse-style sink, elbow-deep in hot sudsy water.
“Hey, look at you,” Sarah said, surprised to see him alone. “Where is everyone? Who is helping you? You shouldn’t be in here by yourself.”
“I’m fine. I don’t need help,” he answered, rinsing the pan he’d just washed and placing it on the counter to his left, where it joined a dozen other Pyrex dishes, ceramic casseroles, and wooden salad bowls. “If you’re looking for something to drink, I think there’s an unopened bottle of wine in the fridge—”
“I’m good,” she said, cutting him off, embarrassed. Make that horrified. Did everyone associate her with wine these days? “Actually I wanted something to eat. But let me give you a hand first—”
“Don’t. Honestly. I’m good, Sarah. I really don’t want help. I like doing this, makes me feel”—he broke off, his expression suddenly wistful—“better. I need to do something. For your mom. Your family.”
Sarah went to her brother-in-law and gave him a swift hug. He endured it with good grace. Jack wasn’t particularly touchy-feely. According to Meg, his family hadn’t been very affectionate. “I appreciate you,” she said, giving him another quick squeeze before going to the refrigerator to see what she could find.
The refrigerator was packed. Plastic containers of every size and shape filled every shelf. So that’s where the leftovers from all those casseroles and salads and pasta dishes had gone. Dad would have food for days. “Can you recommend anything?” she asked Jack, wondering what would be good.
“The chicken Caesar salad and the lasagna. But I think the lasagna is gone now.”
“Tommy was pushing the lasagna.”
“I’m not surprised. He was the one who ate it all.”
“I think I’ll just do toast,” Sarah said, closing the fridge door and opening the breadbox. She popped a slice of cinnamon bread into the toaster and reached for the kettle on the stove. “Want a cup of tea?”
“Actually, I’d love one,” Jack answered, taking the kettle from her and filling it.
Once the kettle was back on the stove, Sarah went in search of tea bags and told Jack his options. “Green, black, chamomile, mint, peach mango, orange something?”
“How about orange something?”
“You got it,” she said, flashing him a crooked smile. She liked Jack, always had. He was smart, funny, with a dry sense of humor. So different from Boone. Boone was Southern, born and raised in New Orleans’s fabled Garden District; he oozed warmth, charm, and oh, how women loved that warmth and charm . . .