But Emma knew the truth behind what they projected to the world and what went on behind closed doors.
Growing up, her mom had insisted the Sullivans put their best foot forward, and it meant decorating the house and filling it with things they didn’t need, all to keep up appearances.Behind the glossy veneer, everything had felt empty and soulless.
Like staring into an abyss.
But now and again, when she was growing up, Emma had almost succeeded in convincing herself it was real, that somewhere under the polish and rehearsed smiles was the potential for a family.
A real one, not the one they pretended to be.
And she had no idea why they had given up pretenses altogether.
What had caused the incomparable Marie Sullivan to give up the ruse?
Emma’s eyes filled with tears as she traced the last picture they took together, the three of them standing around the Christmas tree in the town square, beaming at the camera. It was one of the few pictures that hadn’t been staged or set up with any real goal in mind.
It was the picture they took before she went off to college.
And the last one they had of the three of them smiling.
When she flipped through the pages, she saw a few pictures of Jules, ones she had sent them over the years, and her heart caved in on itself. Jules’s voice drifted closer, and Emma dashed away the tears before rising to her feet. She was putting the albums away when she spotted something out of the corner of her eye. Frowning, she pulled out a journal, turned it over, and her heart skipped a beat.
There was no mistaking her grandfather’s initials embossed on the back of the black leather.
But why was it upstairs and not in a drawer in the study with the rest of her grandfather’s belongings?
“Hey.” Jules pushed the door open and brushed off a few more flakes of snow. “I was going to make us all something to eat. You want anything specific?”
Emma spun around to face her daughter and forced a smile to her lips. “Why don’t I give you a hand? It’s getting a little too stuffy up here anyway.”
Smiling, Emma covered the distance between them and paused to pull the door shut behind her.
Arm in arm, the two women climbed down the stairs and into the kitchen, the weight of her grandfather’s journal digging painfully into Emma’s side.
She wasn’t sure she could handle any more secrets.
Chapter Seven
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay home with you?”
Emma shook her head and tucked the blanket tighter around her legs. “I’m sure. I’m just feeling a little tired; that’s all.”
Marie frowned and touched Emma’s cool forehead. “Well, I made some of your grandma Rose’s flu recipe in case you start to feel bad. It’s in a thermos on the counter, so it’ll stay nice and hot all day.”
Emma offered her mom a small smile. “Thank you.”
Marie lingered a while longer, fluffing up pillows and bringing out plates of cookies. When her phone rang again, she gave Emma a quick hug and raced out the door. A short while later, Henry gave her a gruff pat on the hand and disappeared out the back door. Jules had left an hour later, having volunteered to help with the Christmas Decorating Committee, so Emma sighed and enjoyed the silence around her.
She pointed the remote at the TV above the fireplace and tried to focus on the plot of the series, where the big city girl had to fly back home to save her family’s ranch from the threat of foreclosure.
Half an hour later, when she realized she had no idea what was happening, she threw the blanket off and padded upstairs to the attic. After rifling through a few more of the boxes and coming up empty-handed, she tried to ignore the pit of disappointment in her stomach. Then, she paced the second-floor landing, frowning when she stood in the doorway to her old room, the lavender-colored wallpaper peeling to reveal the plaster underneath.
There were still a few holes in the wall where she’d hung up pictures over the years, and she could’ve sworn she saw the vague outline of a few posters.
If her parents really wanted her out of their lives, why was her room still preserved?
It felt like a shrine to the kind of life she could’ve had—the kind of life they’d dreamed up for her.
With a slight shake of her head, Emma turned away and shuffled back downstairs. In the kitchen, she rummaged through the fridge, sniffing through one container after the next. She pulled out a loaf of bread, some leftover cheese and turkey, and shoved it in the microwave. While she waited, she drummed her fingers against the marble counter and turned over everything she knew.
