Even without the harsh glares cast in her direction or the cold shoulders meant to shut her away from the rest of the family, Tiffany didn’t have to be told that the entire Santini clan blamed her for Philip’s death. She’d been the one who’d insisted upon going skiing that day. Philip had only indulged her. And she’d been behind the wheel at the time of the accident.

There had been a gathering of family and friends at the Santini winery in McMinnville after the funeral and gravesite service. Tiffany had never felt so alone in her life. Everyone was coldly polite and the hours went by at an excruciatingly slow pace. She just wanted to be alone, to hide and lick her wounds, to mourn her husband and plan her future; her children’s futures.

The words of sympathy echoed in her heart.

“Sorry about your loss.”

“A tragedy. Such a tragedy.”

“I don’t know what Carlo will do without him. And Frances . . . My, how this has aged her.”

“Good luck to you and the children.”

But after a few kind words—a courtesy to the Santini family—the mourners let her be, each finding his or her small group at the gathering, each whispering and talking about the accident, sending her looks that bordered on pity but oftentimes were tinged with hate.

She’d put on a brave face for nearly two hours, sipping too much wine and fighting back tears of desperation, when a voice behind her said, “Let’s get out of here. I think you’ve done your time for today.”

She whirled to find J.D. with her coat and the kids’ jackets. Somehow she managed a thin smile and shook her head. “Thanks, but I have my own car.”

“I know.” Carefully, he removed an empty wineglass from her hand. “I think I should drive.” For once he seemed sincere. Almost kind. “This has been a rough day.”

“Amen,” she agreed, and didn’t bother to argue. She gathered up Christina and Stephen and handed J.D. the car keys. On the ride home, she closed her eyes, grateful for someone’s thoughtfulness—even her irreverent brother-in-law’s.

At the home she’d shared with Philip in northwest Portland, she managed to get the kids into bed before she felt herself coming undone. “I don’t know how to thank you,” she said as J.D. lingered in the kitchen.

“Brotherly duty.”

“Above and beyond the call, if you ask me.” She poured herself another glass of wine, though she was already lightheaded. She was a widow. A widow, for goodness’ sake. The future, once so certain, seemed suddenly bleak as it stretched endlessly before her. “Join me?”

“I think I’ve had enough.”

“Me, too.” But she took a long swallow of last year’s Santini Brothers premium Pinot Noir. Feeling dead tired, she kicked off her high heels and leaned over to rub her arch.