by Tawna Fenske
“Dad, I know.” She grabs two fries and shoves both in her mouth. “When I’m a psychologist, I want to work with the really crazy people. Serial killers and cannibals and stuff.”
“Okay.” I choose my words carefully, not wanting to stifle her dreams. “A: I think psychologists don’t refer to patients as crazy people. And B: I’m not sure how I feel about my baby girl running around with cannibals and serial killers.”
That earns me a smile, albeit a small one. “Whatever.”
“Tell you what.” I lean back in the booth, ready to roll out the big guns. “You remember when we watched One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest with Jack Nicholson? And how I told you it was filmed in Oregon?”
“Yeah.” She draws the word out as she drags another sweet potato fry through a puddle of mayo.
“What if I told you we could visit the place it was filmed at the Oregon State Hospital Museum of Mental Health?” I’m crossing my fingers she finds this as cool as I do. “It’s in Salem, about three hours away. They have a whole exhibit dedicated to the movie, plus rooms filled with stuff from the late 1800s when it was the State Insane Asylum. They used to drag people against their will for things like syphilis and dementia.”
I’ve just said “syphilis” loudly in my workplace, but Soph lights up like it’s Christmas morning. “Seriously? That sounds cool.”
“We’ll go then.” I hesitate. “Maybe we could have Mari join us. As a friend who’s a psychologist, I mean.”
Soph’s smile turns coy. “Or as your girlfriend?” Her tone is teasing, but she’s smiling again, so I can’t be mad. “I went to her house yesterday to work on my crochet stuff. I got to see Leonard.”
“Oh?”
Please, God, don’t let the damn parrot spill dirty secrets to my kid.
“He kept saying your name.” She grins and grabs another fry. “Like maybe Mari’s been talking about you in a lovey way.”
I’m about to ask what she means by “lovey way” when the door opens, and Lana and Lauren stride through. Lauren spots me first and beelines to the table.
“Bad news,” she says without preamble. “Jen’s got major drama with her ex-boyfriend, and we’re pulling her from the show for a few days to deal with it.”
I blink, orienting myself to the conversation. “My bartender Jen?”
“Yep,” Lana confirms. “We’ll handle things gently, and she should be fine, but it means we need another bartender for the event.”
Crap. “It’s two days away,” I remind them. “Where are we going to get another bartender on short notice?”
The door opens again, and Mari rushes in with flushed cheeks. She spots me, and her cheeks go pinker, but she squares her shoulders and approaches the table. “I got your message,” she says to her sisters. “Soph, Griffin—good to see you.”
I nod and look from Lauren to Lana to Mari, wondering if Mari’s told them anything about us. We’ve laid low since the kitchen table incident, both busy as hell getting ready for the event. But we talked on the phone past midnight the other day, and this morning we sent a flurry of flirty texts.
“Griffin.” She clears her throat. “I’ve got a call in to a temp agency about securing another bartender. Maybe two or three, just to make sure we’ve got enough help.”
“Wow, that’s—thank you.” I fold my hands on the table and watch her cheeks flush darker as her gaze flicks over them. “Is Jen okay?”
Mari tucks a curl behind one ear, and I recall what it felt like to dot kisses in that warm, fragrant hollow. “I can’t discuss another community member with you, but she said to tell you she’s fine and that she’s sorry to leave you high and dry.”
“I’m just glad she’s okay,” I say. “We’ll figure out the rest of it.”
I glance at Lana, who’s pointing at a table across the room. “Hey, Mar—I told Lauren I’d introduce her to the wonder of tater tots dipped in maple syrup. Want to join us?”
Mari hesitates. “I’m just here to go over production details. If this is a social thing, I can come back another time.”
Lauren shrugs and starts toward the table. “It’s not some big formal deal, but suit yourself. Join us if you want.”
There’s nothing hurtful in Lauren’s words, but I hear them through a Mari filter. It’s Lauren and Lana acting as a unit, and Mari as an afterthought. I don’t think they mean it that way, and maybe what I’m witnessing is a result of Mari throwing up walls all these years.
As the sisters wander away, I study her face. “You okay?”
“Of course.” She gives me a smile that’s a little forced. “It’s not like I’m an integral part of the planning.”
She’s donning her armor, and part of me wants to take a sledgehammer to it. Instead, I try a softer touch. “Ever heard the one about the guy working as a bartender while going to grad school?”
Mari cocks her head. “Is this a joke?”
I ignore the question, hoping it’ll be obvious in a second. “A customer asks ‘what’s the usual tip?’ and the bartender says, ‘well, it’s my first day, but the other guys said I’d be doing great if I could squeeze five bucks out of you.’ The guy gets pretty annoyed by that and says, ‘Is that so? In that case, here’s twenty bucks. What are you studying, anyway?’ Bartender pockets the cash and says, ‘applied psychology.’”
Mari laughs. “That’s terrible.”
Soph scrunches her forehead. “I don’t get it.”
I nudge a napkin across the table, hoping Soph will take the hint and wipe ketchup off her chin. “The bartender used psychology to get a bigger tip from the guy,” I explain. “There are lots of jokes about bartenders being like therapists because they’re good at listening to people’s problems.” I swing my gaze back to Mari, who’s watching me with a guarded look. “Which is why I think Mari should fill in for Jen at the event.”
Mari blinks. “What?”
“You’d be great,” I tell her. “You could have a jar on the counter that says ‘tips,’ but instead of putting money in it, they’d pull out slips of paper with helpful therapy hints like, ‘stop self-sabotaging’ or ‘ask for help when you need it.’”
She shakes her head slowly, but the edges of her mouth tug up. “That’s—impractical.”
“It’s not, and you know it.” I grin and lift my beer. “You’re hell-bent on being behind the scenes with this thing, but you belong in the center. You’re smart and funny, and a therapist bartender would be a great gig.”
“Yeah,” Soph adds, rallying. “And psychologists are cool. Dad was just telling me about a guy you know who works with teenagers.” She bites her lip, looking strangely shy. “I think I’d like to see him.”
“Really?” A smile spreads over Mari’s face. “Soph, that’s wonderful.”
It is wonderful and a little surprising. “I’ll book an appointment right away,” I tell my kid, ignoring the niggle of nerves telling me a thousand ways this could go wrong. “That’s a really healthy, mature thing to do.”
“Yeah.” Soph smiles at Mari. “Trying new stuff is good, right?”
“Yes, absolutely.” Mari fishes a card out of her purse and hands it to me. “That’s Dr. Joel Adams’s information.”
Soph’s smile turns thoughtful as she studies Mari across the table. “So if I’m trying new things, maybe you can, too.”
God, I love my kid. I grab the rope she’s just tossed me. “Being a bartender psychologist would certainly fit the bill, wouldn’t it?”
Mari laughs, but her gaze skitters to where her sisters are sitting. “Wouldn’t I need some sort of permit to serve alcohol?”
I fight the urge to do a fist-pump. She’s actually considering it. “I’ve got a friend at the OLCC who owes me a favor. He can do a rush job on your Alcohol Server Education Class and Alcohol Service Permit. You’d be set by the big day.”
Her silver-gold eyes lock with mine. She’s got her mask of professional indifference in place, but it’s slipping. There’s a yearning i
n her eyes, a quiet craving to be part of things. I’m no shrink, but I’m sure that’s what I’m watching.
She flicks another gaze at her sisters. I can see her wavering, wanting to belong. “I don’t know…”
“Ask Lana,” I tell her. “She’ll back me up on this. It’s a great PR stunt to put the family psychologist behind the bar. The ultimate family production with all of you playing a role.”
When Mari’s gaze swings back to mine, her expression softens. “All right,” she says. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
“This is my new English brown ale.” I fill the taster glass with an ounce of amber liquid and pass it over the bar to Amy Lovelin, the off-duty police chief. “It’s a little higher on the ABV scale at almost six-percent, but most folks like the toasted nut notes of the northern English style.”
The pretty blonde cop smiles and takes a sip. “I love that we’ve got our own brewmaster at Juniper Ridge.”
“Cut!” Lauren steps around the camera and touches Amy’s shoulder. “Good job. We’ve got what we need, so go mingle.”
“Thanks.” Amy sets the glass down and ambles off, and Lauren fixes her gaze on me. “That goes for you, too. We’ve got lots of extra hands to sling drinks. Go play so we can grab footage of you having a good time.”
I swear I don’t mean to, but my gaze flicks to Mari. She’s behind the bar across the room, hair loose around shoulders bared by a sexy-as-hell drapey black top. Her cheeks are flushed, and slim jeans hug curves I’ve touched with my bare hands. I only mean to sneak a peek but realize I’m staring open-mouthed when Lauren clears her throat.
“That’s what I thought,” she says.
I blink back to her. “What?”
“Nothing.” She flashes her cagey smile. “Pretty good turnout, huh?”
“I didn’t expect this many people to show.” I survey the space, admiring the twinkle lights strung along the bunker walls and the bistro tables topped with black tablecloths. Doctors and lawyers, teachers and grocers, families and singles—they’re all here sampling craft beer and soda and having a good time.
I swing my attention back to Lauren. “Are you getting the shots you want?”
“Always do.” She jerks a shoulder toward the other bar. “Mari’s a hit.”
I’m pretty sure she’s baiting me, but I don’t care. I let myself look back at the corner where Mari’s deep in conversation with a woman I recognize as the community’s dentist. “I should go see if she needs anything.”
Lauren smirks. “You do that.” She steps back toward the camera where Gabe is fiddling with buttons. “Great work getting her to do this, by the way. We owe you.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to suggest they pay me back by putting in a good word for me with Mari. Maybe a nudge for her to date me instead of dodging me the way she’s done the past couple days, but I bite back the words. As far as I can tell, Mari hasn’t breathed a word to her family about what’s happening between us.
That doesn’t mean Lauren hasn’t picked up on it. She’s a helluva lot more perceptive than Mari gives her credit for.
“See you around,” I say as I start across the room.
On my way to Mari, I pass Cooper Judson holding a ginger beer and talking with a cluster of starstruck women. In the opposite corner, CEO Dean Judson is faking a serious conversation with CFO Vanessa, but I see them sneaking kisses anytime the camera’s pointed away.
I notice it all, but my gaze is on Mari. God, she’s beautiful. I’m used to seeing her in yoga pants or pencil skirts, but the jeans lend a new dimension to her magic. This Mari is smiling and casual and girl-next-door gorgeous.
“Dad!” Soph’s voice pulls me off-course, and I turn to see my girl sipping one of my craft root beers and smiling. “Cool party, huh?”
“Not too shabby.” I glance around for her friends, hoping she’s not struggling with her social game. “Having fun?”
“Yeah. Olivia just went to the bathroom. I’ve decided I might want to go to that sleepover.”
I breathe a sigh of relief and put on my dad hat. “Were you invited, or is this just your plan for inviting yourself?”
“Daaad.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s a bunch of girls from school, and it’s tonight, and I really want to go, pleeeease?”
She knows I can’t resist the puppy-dog eyes, so I don’t bother trying. Honestly, I’m just grateful she’s fitting in. “Let me text Mrs. Cox to make sure it’s okay with her.”
“Thank you!” She bounces up to kiss me on the cheek, smearing my skin with the sticky lip gloss she’s been wearing lately.
Since I’m a sucker, I don’t bother wiping it off as I continue on my path to see Mari. By the time I get there, she’s moved on to talking with a woman I recognize as the community’s hairdresser.
“And how did you feel when you caught him in bed with your sister?” Mari looks kind and earnest, her gaze fixed intently on the woman’s face.
“Terrible,” the other woman says. “But like—how do I move past that? I feel like such a failure.”
Mari shakes her head and slides an amber-filled glass across the bar. “Your marriage wasn’t a failure. Think of it as graduating to something else. Something better.”
I shouldn’t be eavesdropping, but I can’t look away. Seeing Mari in her element like this is captivating. I notice the long line of customers snaking from the bar around a curve in the cavernous bunker. As she sends the hairdresser away with a hug, she moves to the next guy in line.
“Can I pour you something, Sam?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t even like beer. But maybe you can suggest how to handle it the next time my mom calls and starts telling me what a failure I am?”
Mari doesn’t miss a beat. “Why is it you think you should be responsible for managing someone else’s disappointment?”
The man’s brow furrows. “Wow, that’s—I never thought of it like that.”
Someone touches my arm, and I turn to see Lana smiling at me. “She’s great, isn’t she?”
I nod, thinking of way more than her skills as a therapist. “I’m surprised she’d agree to do this out in the open.”
Lana points to a sign above the bar. Free mini therapy. Privacy not guaranteed.
“Ah, I see.” I’m guessing for folks who agree to star in reality TV shows, privacy isn’t a top priority. I’ve sure as hell had to get used to it. “Does she see this kind of volume in her office every day?”
“No, that’s the thing.” Lana gestures to the bar lined with beer taps and a jar that says “tips: take one.” It’s filled with tiny cards, and I’d bet my last paycheck they’re filled with therapy advice. “Something about this format has people falling over themselves to share. I guess it’s about making it accessible.”
Or it’s about seeing Mari looking competent and courageous and open as hell. When she looks at me and smiles, my heart starts knocking in my chest. I wave, but she’s already turning back to the woman next in line.
“Everyone needs a coping mechanism,” she’s saying. “Some—like exercise or meditation—are healthy, while others—drugs or violence, for example—are less healthy strategies for coping.”
The woman nods, then points to the taps. “How healthy is the IPA?”
Mari grins and grabs a taster glass. “Everything in moderation,” she says. “Besides, a study at Loyola University found that moderate beer drinkers are twenty-three percent less likely to develop dementia than those who don’t drink beer.”
“No kidding? I always knew it made me smarter.”
The woman wanders away with her taster glass as I glance toward the back of the line. It stretches clear into the next room, with everyone waiting their turn for Mari to address what’s ailing them. Young, old, male, female, smiling, unsmiling—they’re stacked single-file and eager for this stunning, brilliant woman to dole out advice.
My chest squeezes tight, and I force myself to look away. This is…not good. Or hell, maybe it is good. Maybe I
’m ready to move on. Not just a physical fling, but a relationship with real emotions. A relationship with Mari. I think I could be ready for that. A shrink could say for sure, but being with Mari has taught me plenty about trusting my instincts.
I glance back at her, feeling another surge of instinct rising inside me.
This one.
I shake my head. There’s no way. I’ve fallen for the soulmate myth before, and I’m not doing it again.
But maybe, just maybe, with a lot of hard work and patience, we could find a way to make it work.
That’s the moment I know I’m falling for her. As I take a sip of IPA, I decide then and there to make her fall for me, too.
Chapter 9
CONFESSIONAL 716
Judson, Marilyn, PsyD (Psychologist: Juniper Ridge)
Studies show that a sense of belonging leads to improved health, happiness, and motivation. You’ll even see “belongingness” on Abraham Maslow’s hierarchy of needs as a major motivator in human behavior.
It’s why people present themselves in particular ways with the hope of belonging to a specific group. The practice is normal and healthy and—well, yes.
Belonging to a cult does present some challenges.
I pride myself on being one hundred percent focused on the patient during every therapy session.
But normal therapy doesn’t occur in an underground bunker with a beer tap and the man who made me come my brains out standing ten feet away, so yes, I’m distracted.
That doesn’t mean I’m not giving damn sound advice.
“What if you tried this the next time you meet someone new,” I say to the pretty young horticulturalist we hired a few weeks ago to tend the Juniper Ridge grounds. “What if you thought of dating as a chance to see how you like them and if you enjoy spending time with that person, rather than focusing on getting them to like you. Concentrate on your own experiences instead of someone else’s.”