“Libby Tyler. Your sister,” she said, as if Madeline hadn’t heard the news that she had inherited two sisters. And she walked right past Madeline’s extended hand and threw her arms around her, hugging her tight.
Madeline had tried to prepare herself for meeting sisters, but nothing could have prepared her, not really. A thousand questions danced through her head as Libby hugged her, such as how old Libby was, and where did the hair come from, and were there more like her? But Madeline couldn’t speak. She was momentarily overwhelmed by the actual, physical proof of a sister. Someone who shared her DNA.
Libby was not what Madeline had imagined—she couldn’t even say what she’d imagined, really, but she supposed she thought her sisters would look like her: medium height, brown hair, a butt that was this side of bouncy. Madeline had not thought once about curly hair, or boyish hips and a toothy smile.
“You’re suffocating her, Libby,” someone said, and Libby laughed, her breath in Madeline’s hair, then let Madeline go.
“That’s Emma. Your other sister,” Libby said, and turned her head.
Madeline followed her gaze. Not only did Emma look nothing like Madeline, she looked nothing like Libby. She was tall and thin, almost painfully thin. Her hair was golden blond, sleek and hanging to her waist, the sort of hair Madeline knew cost hundreds of dollars to possess. She wore a flowing skirt that danced around her knees and a short brown leather jacket that matched the brown leather boots that were loose around her calves.
Emma eyed Madeline suspiciously, as if she’d caught her trying to make off with a cow. She casually perched one hip on the railing as she gave Madeline a good once over, and said, “You should probably know that we never heard of you until a couple of weeks ago.”
Madeline appreciated straight talk, but in this case, she didn’t care for the accusatory tone. “Same here,” she said. She didn’t add that she hadn’t heard anything about her father, either, until a couple of weeks ago.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Libby said again, looking between the two of them. “I mean, how often is it that you find out you have a sister?”
“Never,” Emma said and stood up from the railing. “Leave it to Dad to omit that detail.”
Dad. That casual reference did not escape Madeline’s notice. It suggested Grant Tyler wasn’t just a sperm donor to them, he was a dad, just as Madeline had assumed. A tiny bubble of resentment pressed against Madeline’s thoughts, making her head hurt worse.
“Come in!” Libby said. “Come in, come in, I have so many things to ask you!” She hopped up on the porch steps as Madeline moved carefully in her pumps on the gravel drive, watching the garage in case the dogs renewed their interest in eating her.
“So you live in Orlando, is that right, Madeline? Do you go by Madeline? Or do people call you Maddie? I knew a Madeline once and she went by Linny.”
Madeline couldn’t even begin to explain how far removed she was from a Linny. These questions, fired at a rapid clip, in a cheerful manner, made Madeline feel uncomfortable and exposed. Outside of her bubble as Trudi would say. Moreover, she was mystified and a little alarmed that she should feel so panicky. Control freak, yes, she was definitely that, but she didn’t generally panic.
“It’s Madeline,” she said. “And I live in Orlando.” Was that the question? She stepped up on the porch, noticed the sag in the steps. The roof looked old, and she could see evidence of rot around a couple of window frames.
“Have you always lived there?” Libby asked. “When I heard about you, I wondered if you were from there, or moved there?”
“I’ve always lived there.” Madeline didn’t think this meeting was supposed to go this way. She thought surely there would be some introductions, some facts presented. She didn’t think she would be questioned on the steps of the porch. Order—that’s what Madeline needed. But for once, Madeline’s curiosity won out over her need to shelter herself. “And you’ve lived here?” she asked, gesturing vaguely around her.
“Mostly,” Libby said.
Madeline could picture Libby here in this charmingly quaint house in the mountains. She could picture her swinging on the tire swing, or standing at the window and watching it snow.
“When I was little,” Libby said, “I lived in California for a while with Emma and her mother.”
Whoa. Well that was a curve ball tossed out of left field—Emma and her mother. Did that mean there were three mothers? Good God, Grant was a serial monogamist! Hell, she didn’t know what the man was. “In California—with Grant?” Madeline asked carefully.
Libby paused on the top step next to Emma, who was casually studying Madeline. “Is that what you called him? Grant?”
Among other things, Madeline thought wryly. “I didn’t really call him anything,” she said with an uncertain shrug.
“What do you mean?” Libby asked.
“I didn’t know him.”
“Ever?”