Prologue
Savannah
Five years ago
Goddessinheaven,whydo you keep punishing me like this?
As if the divine being above enjoys my pain, she teases me with the cool bay breeze. My hair lifts off my shoulders and swirls around me, tempting me to chase the freedom I so desperately desire.Visions of my cozy little apartment in Knob Hill, with my pillow-top mattress and my flannel pajamas, tempt me to make a run for it.
I look around my parents’ backyard and groan. Empty champagne glasses and half-eaten cake plates litter the tables. Scraps of gift wrap and ribbons from the giant pile of presents given to the bride lie on the floor.
How on earth did I get stuck on cleanup duty?
Because there is no fighting Sarah Stratford. When my mother wants something, she gets it, and today that was my complete and utter servitude.
I stop and take in the gorgeous view of the San Francisco Bay to the east and the Pacific Ocean to the west. Just north, the metal structure of the Golden Gate Bridge stands firm as the lights turn on and transform the iconic red bridge into a sunset golden orange. The perfect backdrop for a bridal shower.
An opulently decorated white tent, adorned with Tiffany blue ribbons and gossamer fabrics, covers the backyard, stone patio, and veranda. Oversized white floral arrangements fill the leftover open spaces and tables. My mother spared no expense to celebrate my little sister, Charlotte. Her favorite child. My older brother, Denver, comes in at a close second, leaving me last, though I’m probably not on her list at all.
Middle-child syndrome much?I internally groan and remind myself that I do not need my mother’s validation to be happy or to be successful. Which is easier said than done when said mother is perfection personified and demands it of others. Especially her children.
My mother and I rarely get along. No matter how hard I try, I don’t meet her standards. She comes from a lengthy line of successful surgeons, and my being “just” a pediatrician is an asterisk on her family tree. A mark of mediocrity.
As if she could hear my thoughts, my mother stops at her place across the patio and glares at me. “Savannah, stop standing around and staring off into space, and start helping.”
Forcing back an eye roll, I bend over to grab a scrap of wrapping paper off the floor and shove it into the trash bag. “Happy?”
“No need to be snarky. Can you, for once, just help without the attitude?”
My stomach sinks at her exasperated tone. She shakes her head in disappointment and returns to stacking dirty plates into the catering bucket.
A warm hand lands on my forearm. “Don’t take it personally, sweetheart. It was a long day, and she’s tired,” my dad says, downplaying the harshness of my mother’s tone.
For as long as I can remember, Dad’s been the mediator between Mom and me. We are like oil and water, and my dad is the whisk, forcing us to mix.
I try with my mother, I really do, but she’s not an easygoing person. She’s intense and stingy with her affection. But my dad? He’s charming and kind. Compassionate. He loves unabashedly. I’m a lot like him. A daddy’s girl to the core.
My dad understands me in ways my mother doesn’t. We’ve always had a strong bond. He is the top neurosurgeon in Northern California, and he’s never pressured me to follow in his footsteps. He’s supportive of all my choices—personal and professional. Not once has he made me feel less than for choosing pediatric critical care as my specialty instead of surgery.
“I wish it were that easy.”
Dad gives me a weak smile. “Your mother loves you. She just has a tough time showing it.”
She doesn’t have a tough time showing Charlotte. But I keep that thought to myself.
My dad, who knows me better than anyone, catches it. He takes the trash bag from my hand and nudges me towards the house as Mom flutters around the backyard collecting plates. “Why don’t you go find your sister? I think she’s had a little too much to drink tonight and could use some sister time.”
Thomas Stratford is the best man I know. My savior. “You don’t have to tell me twice. I owe you one, Daddio.”
“I’ll hold you to that, my Savy girl.”
I kiss him on the cheek and go in search of my sister.
“Char?” I give a warning knock as I push open the door to her childhood bedroom and walk in. Her room looks the same as it did when we were teenagers: canopy bed, pastel pink walls, and boy band posters.
The French doors that lead to the small balcony connecting her room to mine are open. Charlotte is still in the white lace wrap dress my mother had custom made for her as she sits in our spot on the chaise lounge, staring up at the sky.
The perfect bride-to-be.
