She picked up the small black-and-white clutch she’d packed with tissues. “I’m ready to go.”
Her grandfather nodded. “Why don’t you come down to the living room first, Sutton? I think it’s time to have a family meeting.”
“Family meeting?”
Mr. Mercer nodded. “Laurel and Mom are already waiting.”
Emma bit her lip. She’d never been to anything like a family meeting before and didn’t know what to expect. She stood unsteadily on Sutton’s black wedges and followed Mr. Mercer down the staircase and through the bright entryway. Crisp, early-afternoon light flooded through the high window.
The Mercers’ living room was decorated in luxe Southwestern colors—lots of earthy reds and tans paired with Navajo chevron prints. Paintings of desert flowers hung on the walls, and a Steinway baby grand stood gleaming beneath one window. Mrs. Mercer and Laurel were already there, sitting close together on the wide leather couch.
As with Mr. Mercer, Emma could see her own resemblance to her grandmother now that she knew to look for it. They had the same marine-blue eyes, the same slender frame. Mrs. Mercer looked nervous, her lipstick torn where she’d been biting her lip. Next to her, Laurel sat with her legs crossed, jiggling one foot up and down anxiously. Her honey-blonde hair was twisted back in the exact updo Emma had been trying to pull off. She’d chosen a black pencil skirt and a button-down blouse for the occasion, and she wore a tiny gold bracelet with a charm shaped like a tennis racket. She was pale beneath the light freckles across her nose.
Emma sat down carefully on the suede wing chair across from Laurel and her grandmother. From the entryway, the clock gave a single resonant bong.
“The funeral starts in an hour,” Laurel said. “Shouldn’t we get going?”
“We will, in just a minute,” said Mr. Mercer. “Your mother and I wanted to talk to you first.” He cleared his throat. “Nisha’s death is a reminder about what’s really important in this life. You girls are more important to us than anything.” His voice caught as he spoke, and he paused for a moment to regain his composure.
Laurel looked up at Mr. Mercer, her forehead creased in a frown. “Dad, we know. You don’t have to tell us that.”
He shook his head. “Your mother and I haven’t always been honest with you girls, Laurel, and it’s hurt our family. We want to tell you the truth. Secrets only drive us apart.”
Emma suddenly realized what he was talking about. Neither Mrs. Mercer nor Laurel knew that she and Mr. Mercer had been in contact with Becky. Laurel didn’t even know Becky existed. As far as she knew, Sutton had been adopted from an anonymous stranger. As for Mrs. Mercer, she’d banished Emma’s mother from the household years before. Emma shot a panicked look at Mr. Mercer. He clung to the back of the chair as if bracing himself.
Mrs. Mercer seemed to notice Emma’s anxiety and gave her a weak smile. “Honey, it’s okay. Your father and I have talked about this. I know everything. You’re not in trouble.”
Laurel looked sharply at her mother. “What are you talking about?” Her gaze shifted to Mr. Mercer. “Am I the only one who doesn’t know what’s going on?”
An awkward silence descended on the room. Mrs. Mercer stared down at her lap, while Mr. Mercer adjusted his tie uncomfortably.
Emma swallowed hard, meeting Laurel’s eyes. “I finally met my birth mother.”
Laurel’s jaw fell open, her neck jutting forward in surprise. “What? That’s huge news!”
“That’s not all, though,” Mr. Mercer broke in. His mouth twisted downward unhappily. “Laurel, honey, the truth is, Sutton is our biological granddaughter.”
Laurel froze for a moment. Then she slowly shook her head, staring at her father. “I don’t understand. That’s impossible. How could she be your . . .”
“Her mom—Becky—is our daughter,” continued Mr. Mercer. “We had her when we were very young. Becky left home before you were even born, Laurel.”
“But . . . why wouldn’t you tell me something like that?” Angry pink spots appeared in Laurel’s cheeks. “This is insane.”
“Honey, I’m so sorry we never told you before.” Mr. Mercer’s voice had a pleading note to it. “We thought we were making the right decision. We wanted to protect you girls from our own mistakes.”
“She’s my sister!” Laurel snapped, her voice shrill. For a moment, Emma thought she was talking about Sutton—but then she realized Laurel was referring to Becky. “You kept my sister from me!”
Emma’s fingers clutched her dress, her knuckles pale from the force. After everything she’d been through, she was startled to find she was still afraid of a Class Five Laurel Tantrum. But she couldn’t blame Laurel for her reaction. Emma had spent so much time thinking of Becky as her missing mother that she’d almost forgotten Becky and Laurel were sisters. Laurel was right; it wasn’t fair that she’d never been given the chance to know her.
“Where is she? What’s she like?” Laurel demanded. Emma opened her mouth to answer, but before she could, Mrs. Mercer spoke.
“Troubled.”
That one soft word seemed to fill the room. They all looked toward Mrs. Mercer, who was quietly crying, her hand pressed to her lips. The sight of her mother in distress seemed to derail Laurel’s anger. She bit her lip, and her eyes softened.
Mrs. Mercer continued, her hand lowering to her heart. Her voice was low and shaky, barely louder than a whisper. “Becky hurt your father and me so much, Laurel. She’s a difficult person to care for. We decided that it would be better for all of us if we didn’t have contact with her. She’s done so much damage to this family over the years.”