To Jane: A Tribute to the Woman Who Made Every Table Feel Like Home

We lost her on July 7, 2025. But everything she touched—remains.

The first time we met, we shared a watermelon salad by the pool.

It was light, fresh, and unexpected—just like her.

She’d just heard we were newly engaged. Before I could finish my second bite, she was already planning a celebration.

“We have to throw a party!” she said with that unmistakable sparkle in her eye.

And she meant it.

She gathered twenty of her closest friends, chilled the champagne, and toasted like it was her own engagement. That day, Jane didn’t just welcome me—she claimed me.

Not as an in-law.

As a sister.

Later that same day, she handed me her trust like it was second nature.

“Sweetie, set the table while I run out and do some errands. Do whatever you want—cut fresh flowers from my garden, make it special. I trust you.”

I was nervous as hell.

Jane was Jane—a master entertainer, a brilliant artist, a woman with bold strength and unmatched presence. Her walls were filled with her own masterpieces, and her home carried the energy of someone who had lived fully and beautifully.

I didn’t want to let her down.

But I dove in anyway—clipping hydrangeas, gathering twigs, and decorating her battered oak table. A table that had heard decades of laughter, heartbreak, and secrets shared over candlelight.

That moment marked the beginning of something sacred.

She wasn’t just part of the family—she became part of my soul’s story.

Jane welcomed me into her beloved circle:

The Ladies of Longwood Lane.

A rare and radiant group of women who opened their doors the same way Jane did—without hesitation. Because of her, I was folded into the fabric of their friendship. We consider them family now, too.

She had a gift for connection—and it didn’t stop with me.

When my son accepted an opportunity to caddy at East Hampton Golf Club, Jane didn’t just support him. She amplified him.

She networked him into her circle, welcomed him fully, and became not just an aunt—but a trusted mentor.

Someone he could lean on. Laugh with. Learn from.

Their friendship grew in the most unexpected and beautiful ways—just like ours.

But it was in the Dominican Republic where our bond became something deeper.

She was our very first guest at the villa—before the art was hung or the furniture arrived.

She didn’t care that it wasn’t “done.” She was the finishing touch.

We spent jungle mornings barefoot on the veranda, sipping rich Dominican coffee, listening to the breeze rustle through the monstera leaves.

One morning, I apologized for the state of the space.

She smiled and said:

“A house isn’t made into a home with furniture. It’s made with love.”

And she filled ours with just that.

Jane had her rituals.

Softened butter left out for crusty bread.

Candles lit just because.

A reason to celebrate, always.

Last night, we honored her the only way we knew how:

We left the butter out. Covered it with the dish we both adored.

Lit a candle beside it.

And let the memory of her laughter drift through the room like perfume.

We lost Jane on July 7, 2025 at 4:10 PM.

But truthfully, we haven’t really lost her.

She’s in the watermelon salad.

She’s in the hydrangeas.

She’s in the soft butter and the worn oak table.

She’s in the hearts of the Ladies of Longwood Lane.

She’s in my son’s stories.

And she’s in mine.

So tonight, we raise a glass.

To the woman who celebrated life before it even introduced itself.

To the sister I didn’t grow up with—but was lucky enough to grow beside.

To the artist, the host, the heart of our chosen family.

To Jane.

You lit up this life.

And now you light up the next

.