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 . . .

“Am I really just supposed to stand here and watch you?” she asked, once the mugs were filled with steaming water and she’d set his at his elbow.

“No. You’re supposed to sit and watch. Your feet have to be killing you in those shoes. Four inches. Ridiculous.”

She glanced at her feet as she pulled out the counter stool. “I always wear heels.”

“Why?”

“They make me feel pretty.”

“You are pretty. So stop crippling your feet.”

Sarah blew on her tea. “I’ll keep that in mind next time I have a date night with Boone.”

“I can’t believe Boone cares about what shoes you wear,” Jack said, glancing at her over his shoulder.

“He doesn’t. I just want to look hot for him. Remind him that he’s already got his number one fan, and she’s right at home waiting for him.”

Jack frowned and seemed as if he was going to say something before shaking his head. He rinsed off a platter and then a wooden salad bowl, and placed both on the counter. “So how is Boone?”

Her heart ached a little. “Good.” It killed her that Boone had to leave right after the service at the cemetery. She’d wanted him here for the reception at the house.