Page 31 of Huckleberry Hill
“Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise,” Dad said. “A redirection, you know?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
In the darkest part of my soul, if I admitted it to myself, I was more cut up about my infertility than the loss of Gianni. And that said it all.
“So, you were talking to your sister,” Dad prodded.
“Yeah.”
“Why won’t she talk to me, Hadley?”
I loved my father. But Salem was my twin. We’d shared a womb at the same time. And I wouldn’t betray her, just like she wouldn’t ever betray me.
“She’s trying to figure out her life, Dad. Just give her the space to do it. She’ll come around.”
“I’ve given her five years,” he murmured. “She barely calls. She doesn’t come home unless she knows you’re going to be here and even then, she makes a last-minute excuse not to come.”
I swallowed. “It’s harder for her. She was Mom’s favorite.”
He looked at me. “Your mother didn’t have favorites.”
I smiled. “Daddy. Come on. It doesn’t hurt my feelings.”
“Kathleen understood Salem in a way that I never could. And it wasn’t just because she was her mother. It was something else.”
“Mom was Salem’s safe place,” I said quietly. “She could be her absolute rebellious, rotten self. And Mom would just . . . love her anyway.”
“So did I. Even when she was difficult, I never stopped loving Salem.”
“No,” I agreed. “You didn’t. But the things you loved in Mom were things you didn’t understand in your daughter.” I placed my hand on his and gave it a squeeze. “And when Mom died . . .”
“She wanted to leave. Salem always wanted to leave.”
“Nomad spirit,” I said with a rueful smile.
He squeezed my hand. “I hope the nomad comes home. I hope she knows how much I love her.”
“She does. Which makes it that much harder for her.”
“I hate the reason you came home. But I’m glad you’re here.”
Emotion thickened my throat. “I’m glad I’m home too.”
Chapter Seven
The Ranch
* * *
“They make this appliance called an emulsion blender,” I said to my grandmother. “It’ll whip the potatoes faster than you can mash them.”
She snorted. “This potato masher belonged to my mother. It was good enough for her, it’s good enough for me.”
“It’s gonna give you a splinter,” I teased. “The handle is split.”
“Are you going to stand there and sass me or are you going to pour me another one of those bourbon things,” she commanded.
“It’s a bourbon maple martini,” I stated.
