She’d needed him here. But he’d already missed two days of games, so he jumped on a plane and was rushing back to Florida for the end of spring training.

“It’s good he came for the services,” Jack said quietly, as if he were able to read her mind.

Sarah swallowed around the lump in her throat. “I’m glad his manager let him come.”

“Your dad was glad to see him.”

She nodded. Dad loved Boone. But then, Boone was a man’s man. Big, tough, uncomplaining. Dad always said Boone would have made a great fireman.

“I just wish he could have stayed for the whole day and gone home tomorrow or with us on Sunday. It’s so much easier flying when Boone’s along. He’s so patient with the kids and he can manage all the bags—” She broke off, hating that she was beginning to sound pathetic. She had a great life, a great husband, great kids—so much to be thankful for—but she did wish she had more time with Boone. It was the one thing she couldn’t seem to get enough of, with him always packing and unpacking, his suitcase a constant on the bench at the foot of their bed.

But it wouldn’t be long before he retired. He’d be thirty-nine soon, in just a couple of weeks, and that was ancient in baseball. Grandpa, the rookies called him. The rookies weren’t far off. There weren’t many players Boone’s age in the majors who could still hit the ball like Boone. But then, Boone was special. He always had been.

“Heard he had a great spring training,” Jack said.

She nodded, relaxing a little. “It was a great spring training.”

“JJ said Boone had three home runs last week.”

“He hasn’t hit this well in a long time,” she said, wanting to be excited about the new season but dreading it, too. There was always so much to worry about. Team politics, trades, injuries, Boone’s performance at the plate, the fickle fans, the groupies.

Sarah shuddered and stopped herself there, not wanting to think about the girls or groupies tonight. They were part of baseball—a fact of life—but they didn’t have to bring her down tonight. It’d been such a hard week . . . a hard year . . .

“How’s your dad holding up?” Jack asked, glancing at her as he rinsed a massive Pyrex bowl that had been filled with potato salad.

“Okay. I think he’s reverted to his firefighter role—focus and get through it.”

“I’ve been amazed at his composure.”

“So have we,” she said, remembering the noon funeral Mass at St. Cecilia, and the graveside service after. The church had been packed, and almost everyone followed over to the cemetery. Dad had been quiet and attentive during both services. It wasn’t until the end of the graveside service, when the casket was lowered, that he went down on one knee, bent his head, and cried.

Those who’d remained left for the house then, everybody moving on to the reception, except for Boone and Tommy Jr., who stayed behind with Dad. Eventually they’d accompanied him back to the house for the reception, and then Sarah had just enough time to give Boone a quick hug and kiss before he jumped in a cab and took off for the airport.

Jack reached for a damp dish towel and dried his hands one final time before crossing the floor to toss the wet towel into a white plastic basket in the laundry room next door. “I think that’s it,” he said.

“You deserve a medal of valor,” Sarah said, sliding off the stool and stretching.

“I’m a hero?” he teased.

“You are,” she answered.