“I’m holding you to that ‘normal’ diagnosis,” I tell her, only half kidding. “If she turns up next month with a forehead tattoo, it’s on both of us for missing the signs.”
“Deal.” She flicks a glance at the door where Soph disappeared. “I’m glad she’s settling in well at school. That’s something I felt pretty strongly about when we planned out Fresh Start at Juniper Ridge.”
“My kid’s school?”
“Education options for all the children of community members.” She pushes her glasses up her nose, a gesture I’m starting to recognize as the precursor to Mari shifting into shrink-mode. “We knew there wouldn’t be enough kids here to give them a sufficiently enriching school experience. Private tutors don’t allow for adequate socialization.”
“Is that what you had?” It’s a blunt question, but I’m curious. “Growing up in Hollywood like you did—is that what school was like for the Judson kids?”
Mari tilts her head. “You find my socialization lacking?”
There’s a teasing note in her voice, but her eyes tell a different story. Like she really wants an answer.
So, I give her one. “Seems like you’re doing okay to me. I imagine you had lots of learning opportunities most kids don’t get.”
She laughs, but there’s an edge to it. “Like how to shake paparazzi or snort coke with a hundred-dollar bill?”
“What?” It takes me a second to realize she’s kidding. “Jesus. I mean, I know celebrities have a different upbringing.” It’s just now dawning on me how different. “Still, you must’ve learned the same reading, writing, and ‘rithmatic as everyone else.”
“Of course,” she says. “I wasn’t joking about tutors teaching us unusual skills. Cooper had one guy who was a Rubik’s Cube master.”
From what I’ve seen of tabloid headlines featuring the youngest Judson brother, Mari’s cocaine quip wasn’t too far off the mark. Not that I’m judging. The guy got his act together, as far as I can tell.
“What’s your special skill?” I ask.
Mari looks startled. “You mean besides having a doctorate in clinical psychology?”
“Yeah, besides that.” I lean back against the closest brite tank, not sure why I’m so eager for a glimpse behind Mari’s cool shrink front. “Can you play the harmonica or juggle knives or something?”
She hesitates. I can almost see the wheels turning in her head, the decision-making process as she decides whether I’m worthy of an answer.
At last, she clears her throat. “I crochet.”
“You what?”
“Crochet,” she repeats. “It’s like knitting, but with one crochet hook instead of two knitting needles. The stitches are more like small knots instead of little loops.”
“You’re kidding.”
A faint blush stains her cheeks as she folds her arms over her chest. “You find that funny?”
“I find it fucking awesome.” I glance at the door, making sure Soph’s long gone. Not like my kid doesn’t know I curse, but I try to keep it to a minimum. “Seriously, that’s a great skill to have. A little unexpected, but—”
“You thought I spent all my time reading self-help books?”
Folding my arms over my chest, I let my gaze drift to the books resting on the side table. “Nothing wrong with that,” I clarify. “I think it’s cool you’ve got a creative outlet.”
“Thanks.” She looks at me like she’s still not sure if I’m teasing. “I haven’t done it for a while. One of my tutors thought I needed a more artistic avenue. Something to teach me patience.”
I don’t know why, but I suspect she’s just revealed something way more personal than a hobby. “Do you make hats or dish towels or blankets or—”
“Animals.” She lowers her voice like she’s just shared something scandalous. “My first project was a rainbow-striped slug that I gave Lana. Well, I stuck it in her playpen. She was too little to know where it came from.” She looks thoughtful, almost like her mind isn’t here in the brewery anymore. “I made a bumblebee for Lauren and an alligator for Cooper. My older brothers were too cool for stuffed animals, but I made lots of other creatures like penguins and turtles. Even a hedgehog.”
Her amber eyes have taken on a misty quality I’ve never seen before. I wonder how many people know about this talent of hers. “I’d love to see some of your stuff sometime,” I say.
She hesitates, then lifts an eyebrow. “Is this like the old pickup line—come on over and check out my etchings?”
I laugh, but the thought of being in Mari’s house is anything but funny. I wonder what her furniture’s like. Is it stiff and modern, all sleek lines and polished leather? That’s what I might have expected. Now, I’m not so sure.
My brain stumbles over an imaginary area rug, tripping its way down the hallway to a bedroom. Mari’s bedroom, filled with sunshine and bright pillows on the backdrop of a big, white bed.
Stop picturing her bed.
I clear my throat. “I wonder if Soph would like learning something like that. Crocheting, I mean. She asked to take a knitting class before we left Sacramento, but I haven’t had time to look into it here.”
“Creative hobbies can be a great outlet for kids.” She shifts a little, resting her shoulder against the brite tank just a few feet from mine. There’s still plenty of space between us, but I swear I feel her warmth. “Especially for kids dealing with adjustments like new schools or household moves or divorce.”
“In other words, all the shit her mom and I put her through.” My voice sounds angry, and I force myself to lighten up a little. “It hit her pretty hard, her mom leaving.”
Mari hesitates. “Does she have much contact with your—with her mother?”
“Is this for the TV show?”
“Of course not.” She pauses. “You’re aware of the psychological research we’re conducting, of course. But we’ll be sensitive about what’s actually televised.”
“Yeah, got it.” I have vague memories of the forms I signed at the start of this. Cameras will be rolling all the time, but some of it’s for documenting psychology research and not for the televised reality show. “I just—my kid is off limits. I signed up so Soph and I could have a fresh start, and yeah, I know she’ll be on the show sometimes. But I don’t want her personal pain being used for ratings.”
“Understood.”
I search her eyes, recognizing sincerity. Also, that I’ve never seen this exact shade of hazel. It’s halfway between gold and silver, and I find I’m not able to look away.
Question. She asked you a question, idiot.
“No,” I say abruptly enough to make her jump. “Soph’s mother—isn’t in the picture. It’s been months since she called. Even longer since Soph saw her.”
Her expression softens, a reminder of how good Mari must be at her job. “That must be difficult,” she says. “I meant what I said about recommending a good teen psychologist. It could really help with the transition.”