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flowers.
    “How far away are you?” Candy asked.
    “Still a little way out,” Lauren answered, needing more time. This wasn’t easy doing this . . . coming here. She hadn’t wanted to come. Her parents asked. They liked to come see Blake, their grandson. They didn’t understand that for her it was so much harder. Make that impossible.
    He was just a boy.
    How could she outlive her son?
    “Did you hit traffic?” Candy asked, concerned.
    Lauren closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun beating through the glass. “No.”
    “But you left almost two hours ago.”
    She couldn’t do this. Wasn’t ready to do this. “I’m turning around.” Her voice was low, tight. If she wasn’t careful, she’d start crying. “I’m heading home.”
    “How far away are you?”
    “I can’t do this, Mom. I can’t.”
    “But we made plans.”
    “You and Dad can still come. Bring the flowers—”
    “Lauren.”
    “I love you, Mom. I’ll call you later.”
    “At least come to the house. Come see us. Have lunch with us.”
    “I’m already on my way home. But I’ll see you soon. Okay?”
    Lauren hung up quickly. She dropped the phone into her lap. She stared blindly out the window. Blake.
    And then from nowhere a voice whispered,
Love doesn’t end.
    Tears prickled the back of her eyes. Lauren drew a slow, deep breath.
That’s right, baby,
she whispered.
Love doesn’t end. And I will love you forever.
    Lauren numbly started the car, eased into drive, and headed for home.
    * * *
    A half hour away in Santa Rosa, Jack and JJ remained at the house while Meg and Sarah took the younger kids to the Palm Sunday service.
    Sarah secretly wished she had stayed behind, too. In Tampa, Sarah rarely went to Mass. Her kids didn’t attend Catholic school either, or Sunday school, and as she watched Ella and Brennan during the service, she knew they didn’t really understand what was going on. Over the summer her parents had talked to her about getting Ella and Brennan enrolled in her local parish programs, thinking that both children were of an age at which they’d benefit from Catholic education, but Sarah had been bored silly by her years of such schooling and wasn’t in a hurry to sign the kids up.
    Now, as they fussed and whispered and stared up at the ceiling, she felt guilty for not doing more.
    Maybe it was time her children learned more about their faith. Or maybe she’d continue to wait until Boone retired and they moved somewhere, and were settled somewhere, for good.
    After Mass, they returned to the house, where Meg made brunch and the girls helped Sarah set the dining room table.
    During the meal, Gabi and Ella talked about Easter next week, and dyeing eggs, while Meg’s son, JJ, said he was looking forward to Opening Day of baseball season on Thursday.
    “How does Uncle Boone think Tampa Bay will do this year?” he asked, between enormous bites of a Belgium waffle dripping with strawberries and whipped cream.
    “He’s hopeful, as always,” Sarah answered, reaching over to place a restraining hand on Brennan’s arm to stop him from flicking any more bacon bits across the table at Tessa, who—judging from her annoyed expression—had had enough.
    “What?” Brennan demanded, pushing Sarah’s hand off his arm.
    “Stop,” she corrected him under her breath.
    “Why?” he asked, preparing to launch another bacon bit from his spoon.
    “It’s not appropriate,” she answered firmly, taking the spoon from him and tucking it onto the far side of her plate. “Boone had a great spring training—” She broke off as Brennan flung a strip of bacon with his fingers.
“Brennan!”
    “What?” he said innocently, smiling at her so broadly that his dimples flashed on either side of his wide mouth. Boone had the same dimples. Ella had inherited them, too.
    “Knock it off,” she whispered. “You know how to act at the dinner table.”
    “But this isn’t the dinner table. It’s breakfast.”
    Sarah’s