The Good Wife

Praise for the novels of Jane Porter

The Good Woman

“Porter does an excellent job of capturing the not-always-smooth bond between sisters . . . and the dynamics of guilt, silence, and strength in a large Irish Catholic family . . . It is an honest story of a woman making her first real mistake.”

—Booklist

“Porter writes with honesty, warmth, and compassion about the uncomfortable issues that may arise in one’s life. Anticipate a good series as each sister explores different paths and different outcomes that are challenging and real.”

—Library Journal

“Porter portrays family relationships with insight and fairness. Her characters are compelling individuals who quickly grab your heart. Intense family scenes are balanced with moments of quiet reflection. The interaction between the characters blends high emotion with realistic events and choices that can turn a person’s life upside down. This beautifully written story sends readers on an emotional roller-coaster ride that twists and turns right to the end.”

—RT Book Reviews

She’s Gone Country

“I’ve always been a big fan of Jane Porter’s. She understands the passion of grown-up love and the dark humor of mothering teenagers. What a smart, satisfying novel
She’s Gone Country
is.”

—Robyn Carr,
New York Times
bestselling author of The Virgin River Novels

“A celebration of a woman’s indomitable spirit. Suddenly single, juggling motherhood and a journey home, Shey embodies every woman’s hopes and dreams. Once again, Jane Porter has written her way into this reader’s heart.”

—Susan Wiggs,
New York Times
bestselling author

“Richly rewarding.”

—Chicago Tribune

“Strongly plotted, with a heroine who is vulnerable yet resilient . . . engaging.”

—The Seattle Times

Easy on the Eyes

“An irresistible mix of glamour and genuine heart . . .
Easy on the Eyes
sparkles!”

—Beth Kendrick, author of
The Pre-nup

“A smart, sophisticated, fun read with characters you’ll fall in love with. Another winning novel by Jane Porter.”

—Mia King, national bestselling author of
Good Things
and
Sweet Life

Mrs. Perfect

“With great warmth and wisdom, in
Mrs. Perfect
Jane Porter creates a richly emotional story about a realistically flawed and wonderfully human hero who only discovers what is important in life when she learns to let go of her quest for perfection.”

—Chicago Tribune

“Porter’s authentic character studies and meditations on what really matters make
Mrs. Perfect
a perfect summer novel.”

—USA Today

“The witty first-person narration keeps things lively in Porter’s latest. Taylor’s neurotic fussiness provides both vicarious thrills and laughs before Taylor moves on to self-awareness and a new kind of empowerment . . . a feel-good read.”

—Kirkus Reviews

Flirting with Forty

Basis for the Lifetime Original Movie

“A terrific read! A wonderful, life– and love-affirming story for women of all ages.”

—Jayne Ann Krentz,
New York Times
bestselling author

“Fits the bill as a calorie-free accompaniment for a poolside daiquiri.”

—Publishers Weekly

Odd Mom Out

“Jane Porter must know firsthand how it feels to not fit in. She nails it poignantly and perfectly in
Odd Mom Out
. This mommy-lit title is far from fluff . . . Sensitive characters and a protagonist who doesn’t cave to the in-crowd gives this novel its heft.”

—USA Today

“[Porter’s] musings on balancing work, life and love ring true.”

—Entertainment Weekly

“The draining pace of Marta’s life comes across convincingly, and Porter’s got a knack for getting into the heads of the preteen set; Eva’s worries are right on the mark. A poignant critique of mommy cliques and the plight of single parents.”

—Kirkus Reviews

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA)

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

Copyright © 2013 by Jane Porter

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

BERKLEY
^®
is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA)

The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA)

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-62519-4

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Porter, Jane, date.

The good wife / Jane Porter.

pages cm

ISBN 978-0-425-25367-0

1. Married people—Fiction. 2. Adultery—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3616.O78G66 2013

813'.6—dc23

201301520

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley trade paperback edition / September 2013

Cover design by Rita Frangie

Cover photo © Andreas Gradin / Shutterstock

Book design by Laura K. Corless

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

For Megan Crane

You are a wise woman

Safety net

And glue.

I love you!

Acknowledgments

Books are work. This book was especially demanding. I tore the story apart over and over to make it into what I wanted it to be. The process was hard and scary but ultimately I wrote the story I wanted. But I didn’t get this story without help.

So, first and foremost, thank you to my amazing editor, Cindy Hwang. You give me such freedom to find my stories and push the boundaries of what I know, I believe, and what I can do.

Thank you to Megan Crane for discussing this story endlessly. Your friendship has changed me, and given me strength to live, love, and create even in the middle of messy.

Thank you to Lilian Darcy for being willing to read this story in various drafts, and give me your insights so I could make it even better. Your input made such a difference. You are a truly gifted writer, a dear friend, and I value you immensely.

Thank you to Lee Hyat. You work so hard for me, and have for years. I’m deeply grateful. You’ve made a significant difference in my life, and career.

Thank you to Kari Andersen, Kimberly Field, and Marlene Engel for being Beta readers. You girls rock! Thank you also to my awesome Street Team. You know who you are. Thank you for being part of my world and making each book launch fun!

Thank you to Shevawn Maida for all your care, compassion, friendship, and love. We are so lucky you agreed to become part of our family.

And last, but not least, thank you to my husband, Ty Gurney. You always have my back, and you make me feel like I can do anything. Thank you for being my guy. I love being your girl.

One

A
ll you have to do is get through this,
Sarah told herself, gulping down wine from her mom’s Waterford Lismore goblet.

She didn’t have to like it. Didn’t have to be at the door, greeting every single person as he or she arrived. Didn’t have to know the right thing to say, or the right thing to do, because that was Mom’s job. Dad might be the rock in the family, but Mom was the glue.

Mom.

Jesus.

Sarah drank more wine, blinking back tears as she dodged yet another well-meaning guest, trying to avoid her family at the same time, which was even more challenging as the Brennans were a large family, and she the youngest of five, with aunts and uncles and cousins in every corner of the house.

Normally she loved her close, opinionated family, but right now she didn’t want to talk to any of them, unable to deal with them. They’d spent the past few days monitoring her eating, her drinking, her parenting skills, and then bombarding her with unsolicited suggestions and advice, forgetting that at thirty-five, she was an adult, a woman, not little Sarah, the charming, good-natured baby of the family.

It’d been years since she had thought of herself as charming or good-natured. Sarah was also certain that Boone, her husband of thirteen years, wouldn’t call her good-natured either. No, he’d probably describe her as intense, emotional, demanding. Maybe even a little unstable, but honestly, what professional athlete’s wife wasn’t?

Once upon a time, a long time ago, she’d been the athlete, playing soccer, basketball, and softball in elementary school, and then volleyball, basketball, and softball in high school before going on to play volleyball at UCLA. 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. Speaking of her lively, loving mother in the past tense.

I absolutely adored her . . . She was just wonderful . . . She will be so missed . . .

Sarah blinked hard, willing the lump in her throat to go away. “Thank you for coming,” she said huskily, successfully pulling away even as she injected the right note of warmth and appreciation into her voice. As the youngest, Sarah had been able to watch her mom in action the longest, and her mom, a nurse who had returned to school to earn her MBA in Hospital Administration, was brilliant with people. She had a soft touch that belied her steely core.

And then the woman was gone, and Sarah was back on her mission to find her daughter, and she squeezed through the crowd, into the living room, searching chairs and small corners in case Ella had found a quiet spot to sit.

But no Ella here either, and trapped as she was by the mantel with its profusion of flowers and framed photos of Mom, Sarah’s head spun, her stomach churning from too much wine on an empty stomach and the cloyingly sweet scent from the Stargazer lilies filling her nose.

My God, but the living room smelled like a mortuary.

Suddenly the tears were falling and Sarah faced the mantel so no one could see her cry. She couldn’t bear it if someone approached her now, trying to comfort her. She didn’t want to be comforted, not when she hadn’t even truly begun to grieve. And how could she grieve with hundreds of people reaching for her, talking to her, trying to keep her from feeling whatever it was she was feeling?

But maybe funerals weren’t for grieving. Maybe funerals were just a thing you did, a way you marked an occasion, passed time.

Maybe once she returned home to Tampa Bay, maybe once she was with Boone, she could let herself feel . . . let herself hurt . . . let herself need . . .

“There you are,” Meg Roberts said, pushing through the crowd to reach Sarah’s side, with another sister, Brianna, in tow. Sarah had three sisters and Meg was the oldest and married with three kids, while Sarah’s fraternal twin sisters, Brianna and Kit, were both forty, single, and committed to their respective missionary work—Kit, teaching Catholic school in Oakland, and Brianna, working as an infectious disease nurse in Africa.

“Kit was looking for you earlier,” Meg added, tugging gently at the severe neckline of her black dress and fanning herself. “She wanted you to know that she’s taken your two and my Gabi to the park, thinking it would be good to get the younger kids away from the house for a while.” Meg exhaled hard, cheeks flushed. “Is it hot in here, or is it just me?”

“It’s hot in here,” Brianna said. “Somebody needs to turn down the heat.”

“Good to know it’s not just me,” Meg muttered, lifting a hand to wave at a couple across the room. “Can’t remember their name. Friends of Mom. I think the woman used to work at St. Mary’s—”

“Lorraine O’Neill, and her husband, Charlie,” Brianna said, glancing over her shoulder. “I’ve already spent a half hour talking to them today. Lorraine is taking Mom’s death really hard, and she’s quite emotional. If she nabs you, you’ll end up comforting her.”

“Don’t want to do that,” Sarah said. “Don’t want to do any of this. When are people going to go?”

“Soon, I hope,” Meg said. “I’ve got a terrible headache.”

“I do, too. I think it’s the flowers.” Sarah slid her empty glass onto the mantel, where it clinked against a vase, and then against a metal frame. All week Aunt Linda had been gathering pictures of Mom, turning the living room into a shrine. Mom, the swaddled newborn. Mom, the wary toddler on a red tricycle, and then again as the serious, knobby-kneed five-year-old in her plaid uniform on the first day of kindergarten.

And then there was Mom, in her stiff white dress and veil in the all-important First Communion photo, and again at the beach house in Capitola at thirteen with her three brothers, and later as the high school graduate in her velvet shrug, with dark red lips and high arched brows.

Sarah reached out to touch her favorite, the photo of Mom as a slender, stunning, twenty-year-old bride just about to walk down the aisle, with the sun shining around her from the stained-glass windows behind her, silhouetting her, making her look like an angel.

“I love this one,” she said, adjusting the eight-by-ten frame. It was the picture Dad kept on his nightstand, the one Sarah used to stare at as a little girl, dazzled by the beauty of her dark-haired, dark-eyed mother in her beautiful white dress.

“I do, too,” Meg said, her voice cracking. Impatiently she reached up to wipe her eyes. “This has to stop. I can’t cry anymore today. I’ve had it with tears.”

“Me, too.” Sarah glanced toward the crowded room and beyond to the hall. “It’s been a long day. I had no idea the reception would last this long.”

“Poor Dad. He’s been surrounded all day. How does he do it?” Brianna asked.

“Must be his training, all those years as a fireman, keeps him focused.” Meg’s brow furrowed. “But what about later tonight? When everyone’s gone? I think it’s going to be hard then.”

“But I’ll be here tonight,” Brianna said. “And Tommy and Cass. They’re staying over, too.”

Meg nodded. “That’s good. Makes me feel better.”

But Sarah shot Brianna a cool look. She was glad Bree was staying with Dad for the next few days, but she wasn’t happy with her. Wasn’t sure when she’d stop being angry with Brianna for her power play when Mom was dying.

“What?” Brianna demanded, eyebrows arching as she noted Sarah’s expression.

Sarah shrugged, refusing to engage, and turned to Meg. “Can Kit manage three young kids on her own?”

Brianna groaned. “Kit’s a teacher, Sarah.”

Sarah ignored this, too.

Meg seemed oblivious to the tension between her younger sisters. “Kit’s not alone. She has Jude with her.”

“I don’t find that in the least bit reassuring,” Sarah answered. She didn’t like Kit’s new boyfriend, biker Jude Knight. Jude claimed he’d hung out with Sarah and a friend of Sarah’s years ago, but Sarah didn’t remember him and couldn’t imagine ever hanging out with someone like him. It wasn’t just his tats and piercings that put her off; it was his whole I-don’t-care-about-anyone vibe, and Sarah just couldn’t understand how kind, compassionate, bookish Kit could be attracted to someone so completely opposite her in every way. “I don’t trust him,” she added. “And we know nothing about him—other than the fact that he works part-time as a mechanic at a garage in Oakland—and frankly, I don’t think he should be around our kids until we do know more.”

“Kit adores her nieces and nephews. She’s not going to let anything happen to them,” Meg said.

Sarah didn’t have the same confidence, and her wine-fueled imagination was taking flight. “But what if he’s a child molester? What if he tries something when Kit’s not around?”

Meg glanced from Sarah to Brianna and back again. “I really doubt he’s a child molester. Jack talked to him a few days ago and thought he was interesting.”

“But interesting and safe aren’t the same thing. And we want safe around the kids.”

“Sarah’s right,” Brianna said quietly. “One shouldn’t take chances. You really never know. But, on the positive side, I do think Kit is . . . sensitive . . . to that sort of thing.”

“Okay. You’ve got me convinced. I’ll go give her a call,” Meg said, before slipping through the crowd to look for her phone.

Sarah watched Meg go, wishing she had taken Brianna with her instead of leaving Brianna here. Meg knew Sarah was upset with Brianna. Meg knew that they weren’t talking—

Oh.

That’s what was happening. Meg had just engineered this moment, leaving Brianna with Sarah, hoping that the two of them might finally talk. Sort things out. But Sarah felt far from conciliatory, and she turned away from Brianna, reaching for one of the little cards tucked in the nearest floral arrangement.

Tom, our thoughts and prayers are with you and the children. Love, the Deluceys

“Nice card?’ Brianna asked.

Sarah eased the little card back into the equally tiny envelope. “Yes.”

“Who was it from?”

Sarah tried to give her the envelope but Brianna wouldn’t take it.

“How long is the silent treatment going to last?” Brianna asked, her naturally husky voice sharp with exasperation and mockery.