The Perfect Homecoming (Pine River #3)

That was okay with Emma. They could keep this money-eating ranch for now. Personally, she’d put a lot of money aside and could even float the ranch for a few months if necessary, if for no other reason than to have a place to be. That was what Emma needed from the universe right now—a place to be, a place to figure out how to make her way back to the world.

But eventually, she’d leave. Emma knew herself too well. She’d go on with her life and forget her sisters. It was an ugly but certain truth about her.

It was Madeline who shook Emma out of her thoughts by mentioning Grant. “I ran into Grant’s friend Sylvia Breslin,” she said. “Know her?”

Emma shook her head.

“Yeah, of course,” Libby said. “She’s been selling real estate forever in this town. What about her?”

“So Michelle Catucci, the banker? She introduced us, and mentioned that I was one of Grant Tyler’s daughters. You know, like that’s my identity,” Madeline said with a snort. “Anyway, Sylvia perked up. She said she’d heard about what had happened with Grant and his kids, and Libby’s meltdown last summer—”

“Oh my God!” Libby exclaimed. “I swear, you have one small meltdown in Pine River and no one will forget it.”

Libby failed to acknowledge that hers was a pretty spectacular meltdown, judging by what Jackson had told Emma—she’d taken a golf club to a man’s truck.

“Don’t worry about it,” Madeline said to Libby. “Anyway, Sylvia said that just before Grant got sick, he’d been talking to her about buying some property in Vegas. And I was like, seriously? Because he couldn’t pay his bills. But Sylvia said that’s what she’d heard and thought he was planning to move before he got sick. She asked if he had ended up buying property there—you know, like I would have any idea.”

The mention of Grant and Las Vegas was an unwelcome jolt of memory for Emma. She put down her fork, her appetite gone.

“Vegas,” Libby said, her voice full of disgust. “That’s just like Dad, to plan something without mentioning it to anyone. What would he do there?”

“Gamble, among other things,” Emma said. “How do you think he made the money to buy the ranch in the first place? It’s not like he ever held a real job.”

“Who would know?” Madeline said.

“Seriously?” Libby asked. “I mean, do you know that for a fact? I didn’t think you’d had much contact with him.”

“I didn’t,” Emma said. “My mom kept in touch with him.” She looked off, unwilling—unable—to think of how her mother had kept in touch with Grant after what had happened.

“So what was he like?” Madeline asked curiously.

“How the fuck would I know?” Emma said sharply, surprising even herself.

“Hey,” Libby said. “She was just asking.”

“You think I knew him any better than either of you? He was never around for more than a minute, and when he was, he made trouble for everyone. He was a prick.”

“Hey!” Libby exclaimed again. “He was still our father.”

“Yeah, right,” Emma said. “And how’d that work out for you, Libby? He wouldn’t give you the time of day even when he was on his deathbed.”

Libby gasped.

Emma hadn’t meant to wound her with that remark, she’d meant to make Libby see just how awful . . . forget what she meant. If Libby hadn’t figured out what a prick Grant was by now, she never would.

“Well, I didn’t know him at all,” Madeline said, her back up now. “I don’t know if he was a prick or a saint because I couldn’t even pick him out of a lineup. You know what I remember about him? That he smelled like smoke. That’s it, that’s how much contact I had with my father. So pardon me if I am a little curious about the man who abandoned me. I just thought maybe you could give me some insight since you were closer to him than any of us.”

“But I wasn’t closer,” Emma said. “I’m not close to anyone.”

“No surprise there,” Madeline said flatly.

“He was always nice to me,” Libby said, sounding uncertain. “I mean, when he was around. Which he never was.”

“He wasn’t nice to me and he wasn’t around. He lied about everything,” Emma said. “That’s what you need to know about him, Madeline. He was a lying bastard.”

Madeline and Libby looked at each other. There it was again, that exchange of knowing looks between her sisters, the unspoken unity against Emma and her mouth. Emma didn’t blame them one bit, and, in fact, she sided with them. Her sharp tongue had put a damper on an otherwise perfectly enjoyable evening with them, had perhaps even taken a bite out of their fragile camaraderie. Her only regret was that she hadn’t meant to bite. Her reaction had been disturbingly visceral.

“I’m sorry,” Emma said tightly.

“It’s fine, it’s all right,” Madeline started, but Emma waved her hand.

“It’s not all right. Look, I can’t change—” She stopped. She wasn’t going to apologize for who she was. She felt as if she’d been doing that for a very long time. “It’s not my intent, never my intent, to hurt anyone.”

“Then why do you keep doing it?” Libby muttered.

Emma glanced down at her hands. “Touché, Libby. I wish I had an answer for you.”