arrived. It’s what Donald and Theresa wanted, and they were right. But I was curious to meet you. Especially you.” The emphasis forces me to look up again, and I flinch. If I was ever under the impression that Gran was paying attention to me because she liked me best—wow, that was wrong. She looks like she hates me. “Adam has always held a unique place in my memory. I’ve wondered, over the years, if you were like him.”
My mouth is bone dry. “I don’t think I am.”
“No.” Gran’s stare doesn’t waver. “He must be quite proud of you.”
Not really, I think, but I don’t say it.
She waits for a response, and when none comes, she lets out a small sigh. “At any rate, my curiosity has been satisfied. What I’d like to tell you now is that the ties I severed with my children twenty-four years ago are absolute. It was a mistake to allow you into my life, and it’s not one I’ll make again. I can’t force you to leave the island, of course, but I hope that you do. This is my home, and you are not welcome here.”
I was ready for this, so I’m not sure why her words land like a slap. Maybe it’s because I’ve never had anybody say, so plainly, what I’ve always felt about being part of the Story family. You are not welcome here.
Gran sips her tea while I grapple for an appropriate response. Finally, I just say what I’m thinking. “Don’t you even want to get to know us? Or our parents, the way they are now?”
My grandmother’s eyes are cool and appraising. “Do you think your father is a man worth knowing?” she asks.
My phone sits heavy in my pocket, full of all the reasons why he’s not. My father is a cheater, and a liar, and he’s never—not once—failed to put himself first in any given situation. But then I think back to the picture of him and Gran in Sweetfern: her hand placed lovingly on his cheek, both of them beaming real, genuine smiles. The kind I’ve never gotten from him, no matter how hard I tried to please him. “He could have been,” I say.
Gran refills her cup. “We don’t live in the world of ‘could have been,’ though, do we? We live in this world.”
“You made this world.” My directness surprises us both.
“I had no choice,” my grandmother replies, looking me up and down. “You should understand that. As I said, you strike me as a sensible girl.”
“Sensible,” I repeat. The word hangs between us, and I know what it really means. Docile. I’m the one who won’t cause trouble—who won’t try to manipulate her like JT, or challenge her like Milly. I’m the safe bet, someone who’ll swallow whatever she tells me and dutifully report it back. I have a sudden urge not to do what she expects and not to leave quietly. “Okay,” I say. “I’ll go. But maybe you can tell me one thing before I do?” She lifts both perfectly arched brows. “Is there something unusual about how Kayla Dugas died?”
I wish Milly were here to see the expression on Gran’s face. She stares at me in utter shock, putting her cup down so swiftly that tea sloshes onto her gloves. “How do you…,” she breathes. She makes a visible, mighty effort to compose herself. “What on earth are you talking about?”
I pause, not sure how much to reveal. I don’t want to get Hazel or Uncle Archer in trouble. To buy time, I reach for the carafe of coffee. But I’m too nervous to aim properly, and my hand knocks hard against its side. For a half second it tilts precariously, and I almost manage to right it. Then it topples, spilling its scalding contents directly onto Gran.
“Good Lord!” The words are shrieked as my grandmother rises in an instant, ripping off the gloves that got the worst of it and holding her skirt away from her body. I stare at the mess for a few horrified seconds before I have the presence of mind to jump up myself.
“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it! I’m so sorry!” I babble, shoving my napkin at her.
“Mildred?” Theresa appears in the doorway. “What happened?” Then she takes in the scene and rushes to the table, dumping ice from an otherwise empty glass into a napkin and wrapping the napkin around Gran’s hands. “Are you burned?”