A tall, strong athlete, Sarah had been a physical player, and she’d been blessed with mental toughness, too. After UCLA, she’d planned on going on to law school to take on the bad guys in the world but instead met Boone and gave up law school to be his wife.

She’d never thought it’d been a mistake—trading her dreams for his—until her world fell apart a couple of years ago, and she’d been fighting to rebuild her marriage, and her self-esteem, ever since.

Sarah drained her glass as she eased through the crowd, wobbling ever so slightly in her black heels as she entered the dining room to refill her glass from the collection of wine bottles on the sideboard.

The pale gold bottle, newly opened, felt damp and cold in her hand. The weight of the bottle felt good. It was a familiar feeling, and reassuring. It was a new bottle, recently taken from the refrigerator. Sarah liked newly opened bottles of wine. It meant that there would be plenty more if she wanted another glass.

And she’d want another glass.

Soon.

Replacing the golden bottle on the silver coaster, Sarah felt her father’s gaze from the other side of the long dining table. He’d been watching her ever since she entered the room, but Sarah pretended to be oblivious—something she’d perfected as the youngest—and slipped from the room without making eye contact.

Being the youngest did have advantages. Sarah had learned how to manage Dad from watching her older sisters and brother. First of all, you never directly challenged him. He was old-school; a sixth-generation San Francisco firefighter, he was all about serving and protecting his family and community.

Second, even if you totally, absolutely disagreed with him, you didn’t ever tell him so. It was a disaster to pull a Brianna. Far better to at least appear to consider his advice, reflect on his wisdom. Even if it was archaic.

Mom had always been so good at managing Dad; whether it was handling a situation before it became a crisis, or smoothing Dad’s feathers once they were ruffled, she knew he needed to feel secure and respected.

Mom had never been shy about admitting that Dad had double standards. His son could do things he didn’t want his girls doing. Like drinking. Tommy Jr. could have a beer or two every night when he wasn’t at the firehouse, but it made Dad uncomfortable to see his daughters drink. A glass of champagne at Sunday brunch, or Christmas Eve, was nice and festive, but regular drinking? Bad.

Speaking of daughters—where was Sarah’s daughter, Ella?

The last time she’d seen her five-year-old, Ella had been with Sarah’s sister Kit, but that had been . . . oh, at least thirty minutes ago. Maybe longer, and that wasn’t good. Sarah couldn’t abdicate responsibility for her children just because one of her sisters had offered to keep an eye on the kids.

Entering the family room, Sarah scanned the crowd, spotting Uncle Jack and Aunt Linda with Tommy and Cass, but there were no kids anywhere in sight. Gulping her Chardonnay, she let the cold, crisp wine warm in her mouth for an extra second before swallowing, then retreated back to the hall, where she stood on the bottom step of the staircase and listened for her daughter’s high voice upstairs. Nothing.

She wasn’t panicking yet, but she took a swift step down and teetered, which didn’t help her sense of self-control.

Maybe she should stop drinking. Maybe she needed to pay a little more attention to her own family.

Weaving through the guests packing the entry hall, she was heading to the living room when a hand reached for her.

“Sarah.”

Sarah turned and felt herself be drawn against a big, maternal body, enfolded into a particularly uncomfortable hug.

“I’m so sorry, my dear,” the woman whispered in Sarah’s ear as she patted her back. “So very, very sorry.”

“Yes,” Sarah murmured, juggling the wineglass while attempting to detangle herself.

But the woman wasn’t ready to release Sarah and the hug continued, as did the firm pats on Sarah’s back. “I just adored your mother. She will be very missed, my dear.”

Sarah sighed inwardly, giving in to the hug, because that’s all she’d been doing for days. Accepting condolences. Speaking of her spirited, wickedly funny mother in hushed, reverent tones.