“You’re too easy on her,” Grandma snapped. “Was she even punished for what she did?”
Mr. Mercer seemed to wilt a little. “Well, yes. She was grounded.”
Grandma guffawed. “For what? A day?”
Actually, Mr. Mercer had lifted the grounding early. Everyone shut their mouths awkwardly, and for a few long beats, the only sounds were the sizzling grill and the calling birds. Emma glanced at Grandma Mercer, who was staring at her son. It was strange to see someone boss Mr. Mercer around.
After a beat, Mr. Mercer cleared his throat. “So, girls. Chicken or steak?”
“Chicken, please,” Emma said, eager to change the subject. She took a seat next to Laurel on one of the green patio chairs assembled around a glass outdoor table. The patio door creaked open, and out bounded Drake, the Mercers’ enormous Great Dane. As usual, he made a beeline straight for Emma—it was like he sensed she was uncomfortable with dogs and was trying his hardest to make her like him. Tentatively she stuck out her hand and let him lick it. She’d been afraid of dogs ever since a Chow bit her, but she was slowly getting used to the massive animal.
Mrs. Mercer emerged from the house next, a blue-and-white-checkered tablecloth in one hand and her BlackBerry, which was always ringing, in the other. Her expression was drawn, but when she saw her daughters sitting at the table, she broke into a smile. Even when Mrs. Mercer was stressed, the sight of Emma and Laurel seemed to lift her mood. It was a new experience for Emma. Usually parent-types looked at her with a tight-lipped, where’s-my-paycheck expression.
“So, girls. How was practice?” Mrs. Mercer raised the checkered cloth in the air and let it settle over the glass table.
“Murder.” Laurel grabbed a carrot stick from a vegetable platter on the grill and crunched down on it loudly.
Emma flinched at Laurel’s choice of word, but forced a tired smile on her face. “We had a five-mile run,” she explained.
“In addition to tennis drills?” Mrs. Mercer squeezed Emma’s shoulder. “You must be exhausted.”
Emma nodded. “I’ll definitely need a hot shower tonight.”
“I need one, too,” Laurel said petulantly. “Don’t take one of your thirty-minute soaks.”
Emma opened her mouth, about to tell Laurel she’d never take a thirty-minute soak, but then she realized that was probably something Sutton did. She’d started another list as well: Ways I’m Not Sutton. It helped her remember who she was amidst all this. When she’d come to Tucson, all she’d brought was a small duffel, which had been stolen when she arrived. The rest of her belongings—her guitar, her savings, and the secondhand laptop she’d gotten at a pawn shop—were stashed in a locker at the Vegas bus station. Lately, it felt like she’d left her identity in that locker, too. The only person she kept in contact with from her old life was her best friend, Alex Stokes, who she’d barely spoken to since she got to Tucson. Alex thought Emma was living happily with Sutton at the Mercers’. Emma couldn’t tell her the truth, and all the lies made the distance between them feel too great to cross.
Mr. Mercer swooped up to the table and set down five plates full of grilled food. “Chicken for my girls, steak for me and Grandma—medium rare—and super-well-done for my beautiful wife.” He pushed a lock of hair out of Mrs. Mercer’s eyes and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
Emma smiled. It was nice to see that two people could be together for decades and still be so solid. Rarely did she ever live with a foster family who had two parents who lived together, let alone loved each other.
It was something I noticed now that I was dead, too—my parents did really care for each other. They finished each other’s sentences. They were still affectionate and sweet to one another. It was never something I’d appreciated when I was alive.
Grandma Mercer turned her steely blue eyes on Mr. Mercer. “You look thin, dear. Are you eating enough?”
Mr. Mercer chuckled. “Seriously? My washboard abs are no more.”
“He eats plenty. Trust me,” Mrs. Mercer said. “You should see our grocery bills.” Then her BlackBerry chimed, and she glanced at the screen and frowned. “I don’t believe it. The party is on Saturday, and now the florist tells me she can’t do desert globemallows in the table bouquets. I really wanted to keep all the flowers and plants native to Arizona, but I may have to do a few bouquets of calla lilies if the florist can’t get her act together.”
Emma laughed good-naturedly. “Tragic, Mom!”
Sutton’s grandmother’s clear blue eyes narrowed, her face suddenly hard. “Attitude,” she warned. Her voice was so sharp it could cut glass.
Emma’s cheeks burned. “I was just kidding,” she said in a tiny voice.
“I highly doubt that,” Grandma said, spearing her steak.
Yet again, there was a long, awkward silence. Mr. Mercer dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, and Mrs. Mercer fiddled with the Chanel bangle around her wrist. Emma wondered what subtext she was missing here.
I racked my foggy memory for an answer, but I couldn’t come up with anything. Grandma definitely had it in for me, though.
Mrs. Mercer looked around the table, then shut her eyes. “I forgot the pitcher of water and the glasses. Girls, can you go inside and get them?” She sounded weary, as though Grandma had drained her of strength.
“Sure,” Laurel said brightly. Emma rose, too, eager to get away from Grandma. They made their way into the Spanish-tiled kitchen. The dark soapstone countertops gleamed, and pineapple-themed dish towels hung neatly from the oven handle. Emma was just grabbing the water pitcher when she felt a hand on her shoulder.