by Tawna Fenske
“Absolutely not.” I draw in a breath, forcing myself to calm down. To take myself out of the equation and focus on Soph. “Honey, no therapist is going to counsel a parent to leave their daughter unless that parent is a danger to the child.”
She frowns. “Like how?”
“Well, say there’s a father who thinks he might lose his temper and hit his kids,” I say. “Or a mother addicted to drugs who can’t stop herself from driving impaired with her children in the car.”
Soph looks startled. “My mom isn’t like that.”
“I know that, sweetie.”
I wish so badly I could tell her what else I know. That Gabby might’ve been selfish and starstruck and hungry for fame. But also, that she’s human. That she loved spending whole days at zoos and museums with Soph and Griff. She never mentioned them by name, of course—she talked about Gary. About a niece who sometimes tagged along on their adventures.
What kind of mother lies to her therapist about—
But no, that’s not where I was going with that. Sorting through half-truths in hindsight, I’m sure Gabrielle Walsh loved her daughter. It wasn’t a perfect love, and God knows she made poor choices. But the smile on her face when she talked about taking Soph to the zoo, spending hours watching the otters—she couldn’t fake that sort of joy. She wasn’t that good an actress.
Tears tingle behind my eyelids, and I order myself to keep it together for Soph’s sake. “I don’t know your mother.” That’s the truth, at least on some level. The woman I knew as my patient isn’t the same one who’d abandon her child. “But I know anyone who’d choose to exit her child’s life must have been hurting really badly. I know it’s not about you, Soph. Whatever happened with your mother—that’s about her, okay?”
I’m treading so close to the line of what I’m not allowed to say. What could wreck my career irreparably. But if that’s the cost of giving this child comfort, so be it.
Soph studies my face for a long time, then nods. “Yeah. I guess that makes sense.”
I need to extricate myself from this discussion. “Have you shared your feelings about your mother with Joel?”
She shakes her head slowly. “We mostly talked about school. About how things have been weird with Avery since I laughed at Ryan’s meme.”
“That’s a big step, opening up about something you feel bad about.”
“Yeah.” Her expression turns sheepish. “I apologized like you said. To Avery, I mean. Things have been better since that. Joel said it was a really mature thing to do.”
“I’m so glad.” The urge to hug her is overwhelming, but I hold back. “It’s great you’re comfortable sharing things like that with Joel already.”
“He’s nice,” she says. “It’s really easy to talk to him.”
“If you feel okay sharing some of your feelings about your mom, he might have some ideas for how to work through it.”
Soph nods, and I see her bottom lip tremble. “Yeah. I should do that.”
“Whenever you feel ready. It’s important to trust your therapist. To have the kind of relationship where you know you can tell him anything, and he won’t tell a soul. That’s the law, and it’s something psychologists take very, very seriously.”
Am I laying the groundwork for my own defense? I honestly don’t know, but I do know I’d like to hug this poor girl. I wonder if she sees that in my eyes, because she steps toward me and looks up with earnest eyes.
“Mari?”
“Yeah, honey?”
“Could I have a hug?”
I answer by pulling her into my arms, cradling her against me as though the force of my love might protect her against hurt. It’s a feeble thought, but it’s all I have right now.
She’s sniffling against my chest, and I stroke her hair to let her know she can cry on me all she wants. I don’t know how long we stand like that before Soph draws back with a watery smile.
“You give good hugs.” Her lopsided smile gets bigger as she wipes her eyes with her sleeve. “My mom used to smother me.”
“Hugging too tight, you mean?”
Soph shakes her head. “Her boobs are really big and sometimes I’d get trapped in there and—”
“Okay, I get it.” I ruffle her hair, then grab the tissue box off the table. “You can come to me anytime for non-smothery hugs. Deal?”
“Deal.” She takes a tissue and blows her nose loudly, prompting a fresh round of squawking from Leonard.
“Love you!” he shouts. “Griffin Walsh! Love you!”
Soph turns to look at him. “Wow,” she says. “I guess he really likes my dad.”
“I guess so.” Since he’s parroting me, it’s safe to say everyone in this room feels that way.
Movement flashes in the corner of my eye, and I glance out the window to see Griffin striding up the walk. He sees me and grins, then bounds to the door and raps twice.
My heart pounds as I throw it open, wishing I could throw myself into his arms.
“Hey there!” He pulls me against his chest, answering my unasked question about how he wants to handle things with Soph. “I see both members of the Walsh family had the same idea.”
Soph grins and wraps her arms around the both of us. “She gives the best hugs, huh, Dad?”
“That she does.” Griffin plants a kiss on top of my head, and I pray Soph won’t decide to praise the huggability of my small boobs. “I was actually coming by to see if Mari might want to have dinner with us Tuesday.”
“What’s Tuesday?” I cross my fingers and hope I haven’t forgotten someone’s birthday.
“Nothing special.” Griff draws back and grins. “Well, it’ll be special if you’re there. But it’s also the first day all week that I don’t have to work late training new staff in the brewery.”
I hesitate only a second before accepting. Surely it’s not an ethical issue if his daughter is there, making it not a date? “I’d love to come,” I tell him. “What can I bring?”
Soph wrinkles her nose and glances at the garbage can. “Maybe not muffins.”
“Definitely not muffins.” I laugh and look at Soph. “I have it on good authority you like things a little tart. How about I bring lemon meringue pie?”
The girl gapes at me. “You can make that?”
“No, but Patti and Colleen make the best lemon meringue pie I’ve ever tasted. And if they can’t teach me to bake one between now and Tuesday, I’m hoping I can persuade them to sell me one.”
“Deal.” Soph laughs and skips over to Leonard’s cage. “You hear that, birdie? We’re getting pie.”
Leonard tilts his head and looks at her. “Bad sign!”
I force a laugh because that’s how Griff and Soph respond, but I have no idea how he learned that phrase. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything.
But deep down, I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I just need to get the forms signed. Then I can tell Griffin and things will be okay.
I take a deep breath, hoping like hell that’s true.
Chapter 12
CONFESSIONAL 729
Walsh, Griffin (Brewmaster: Juniper Ridge)
Yeah, I’ve made mistakes in my career. Bought a bunch of used equipment with my first brewery and scorched some expensive grain when the heating element malfunctioned. Coulda burned down the whole brewery if I hadn’t caught on in time.
But I try to learn from stuff like that. It sounds cocky, but I’m a damn good brewer, and I owe that to my own screwups. I’m in a good place now because I was in a bad place before, and isn’t that what progress looks like?
“Not to brag, but I’m pretty sure those were the best ribs I’ve ever made.” I rest my napkin on my plate and look at Mari. “Did you want to get the film crew in here to document their majesty?”
She laughs and wipes her hands on her own napkin. “They were pretty amazing. Did you do something special?”
“Soph and I picked up a Traeger in town last week.” I gl
ance at my daughter, remembering the easy joy of strolling the home improvement store debating the merits of hickory versus pecan versus alder for our wood pellets. A year ago, we were flat broke and couldn’t have afforded a bag of pellets, let alone a top-of-the-line smoker.
Soph looked so happy, swinging her arms as we surveyed the options. “Junipers are trees, right?” She touched a bag of applewood pellets. “We should find some of those to go with our new home.”
Hearing her call Juniper Ridge “home” had my heart swelling up like Ballpark franks on a grill. We’ve come so far these past couple months, and I owe much of that to Mari.
She catches me smiling at her and grins back. “I couldn’t possibly eat another bite,” she says. “Unless someone just happened to put one medium-sized, extra saucy rib on my plate. Then, I’d be forced to enjoy it.”
I grab the tongs to set one on her plate. “Your sacrifice is admirable.”
“Dad, can I get dessert?” Soph stands up and eyes Mari eagerly. “We’ve got your pie and also banana bread. I made it myself because your banana muffins didn’t work out.”
“That’s so thoughtful.” Mari sets her rib down and smiles at my kid. “Any chance I can have both?”
Soph beams and turns to the kitchen. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
While Soph’s back is turned, I reach across the table and take Mari’s hand. “Thanks for joining us.”
“Thank you for inviting me.” She glances at Soph. “Both of you. You’re officially two of my favorite people to spend time with.”
“That’s just the ribs talking.” I squeeze her hand as Soph bangs around in the kitchen.
“And the dessert,” Soph calls. “Two kinds.”
Mari smiles, but her eyes are earnest. “I mean it, though. It’s just so easy being around you. I don’t feel anxious or awkward.” Her smile turns self-conscious. “Okay, a little awkward. But no more than normal.”
“Joel says that happens when you find your people.” Soph returns to the table with two plates, both piled with slices of pie and thick hunks of banana bread. “So maybe we’re your people.”
Mari stiffens, and for a second I think Soph said something to freak her out. Then a slow smile spreads over Mari’s face. “Maybe so,” she says as Soph sets a plate down in front of her. “Maybe so.”
She’s still smiling as Soph puts a dessert plate down in front of me and grabs my empty plate. “Are you done with the ribs?” she asks Mari. “And do you maybe want to come with us to the Mental Museum?”
Not the smoothest transition, but Mari doesn’t miss a beat. “All done with the ribs. Mental Museum?”
“The Oregon State Hospital Museum of Mental Health,” I explain. “It’s in Salem. Soph and I were planning to go the next time we head over the mountains.”
“It sounds really cool.” Soph sits down with her own plate of dessert and picks up her fork. “Back in the old days, they locked people up and did weird surgeries and stuff. Like in the movie.”
“They filmed ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest’ there,” I explain for Mari’s benefit. “It was a real mental health institution starting in the 1800s, but it’s a museum now.”
“I’ve heard of it.” Mari picks up her fork. “I’ve never been, but I’ve wanted to go. You’re sure you wouldn’t rather have an outing with just the two of you?”
She’s looking at both of us, but I know this question is for Soph.
My kid answers with a mouthful of pie. “You’d make it fun. You know lots of stuff about psychology and weird stuff they used to do. Like shocking people and stuff.”
My inner grammarian resists the urge to point out she’s just said “stuff” three times. I’m just thrilled she’s excited about it and happier Mari’s on board to join us.
I clear my throat. “We’d love to have you.” I touch Mari’s hand again, waiting to see if Soph reacts.
“You’re kinda like family.” Soph grins and forks up another bite of pie. “Girlfriends are family, right?”
It takes me a second to realize she’s talking to me. And that she just used a word Mari and I have danced around for days. Watching her face, I answer carefully. “As long as Mari’s comfortable with that.”
With the outing, with our relationship. With being so open in front of Soph. Mari looks down at our intertwined fingers for a second, then smiles up at me. “I’m good with all of it.”
There goes my heart again, kicking up like a steady drumbeat. We sit locked in the moment, looking at each other like giddy schoolkids. The chime of a cell phone breaks the spell.
“Soph.” I glance at my daughter. “Haven’t we talked about shutting off your phone during dinner?”
“Dad—”
“Actually, that might be mine.” Mari looks at Soph as the ringing stops. “But that’s my sister’s ringtone, and I’m pretty sure she’s just calling about some changes in tomorrow’s filming schedule.”
The ringing starts again, a different tone this time. Mari stands up and walks across the room to her purse. “And that’s my other sister. I’m turning it off.” Extracting her phone, she powers it down and shoves it back in her purse. “No phones during dinner sounds like a good rule to me.”
She walks back to the table and I try not to notice the sway of her hips. I know it’s just her normal walk, and I’m the one turning it into something sexy.
“You sure you don’t need to answer?” I ask. “If they’re both calling—”
“No, they do that all the time.” She sits back down and picks up her fork. “They’ll keep on tag-teaming me until I answer, which I’m not going to do because we’re enjoying our meal together.”
Soph smiles and returns her attention to her dessert. “I had another appointment with Joel. We talked about my mom.”
My chest squeezes tight, but not with hurt or regret. It’s joy, plain and simple. I’m happy Soph’s working through her trauma and even happier to be moving on with my own life.
“That’s great, kiddo.” Mari dabs her mouth with a napkin. “You know, you can share anything with us anytime about your therapy, but you’re also okay to keep it to yourself. That’s the thing about therapy—it’s private.”
“Yeah, I know.” She grins at me. “It’s kinda fun having secrets.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.” I’m mostly kidding, but it’s a struggle not to feel flickers of alarm. How close are we getting to Soph not needing me at all?
“I’m just happy you’re happy,” I add because it’s the responsible, mature thing to say. “And I’m also happy we’ve got two kinds of dessert.”
My girls both laugh, and I don’t know what’s more satisfying. How Mari and I complement each other with our different approaches to pre-teen angst or how quickly I’ve come to think of them as “my girls.”
I know it sounds douchey and borderline misogynistic, and I swear I don’t mean it in a “she’s my property” way. It’s just that we work well together, the three of us. Like a unit that was always meant to fit together but never matched up until now.
A chime sounds, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s not another cell phone. Soph sprints to the front of the house the same instant I recognize the doorbell. “I’ll get it,” she shouts.
Mari glances at me. “You expecting anyone?”
“Actually, yes. I loaned my Dutch oven to the Coxes last week. They’re probably returning it.” I stand up and head for the door the same instant Soph swings it open.
Lana Judson’s gaze lands on Soph first. Her eyes go wide as they flick to mine. “No.”
Huh?
“No what?” I ask, setting my napkin on the entry table as it dawns on me Lana’s not alone.
Also, she’s not talking to me. She’s turning to folks behind her, and holy shit…there’s an entire fucking camera crew on my porch. Gabe, Lauren, some lighting guy whose name I can’t remember. I survey the crowd, feeling uneasy. “What’s going on here?”
Lauren’s go
t her back to me, blocking my view of the woman she’s talking to. The breeze catches a shock of long dark hair, and my brain does a bizarre ping to how Gabby’s hair used to ruffle just like that. How she’d reach up to catch it in one hand, just like this lady’s doing.
Then Lauren turns, and I catch sight of the woman’s face. My stomach lurches. She’s not Gabby, but she is Gabby.
Or Gabrielle or Elle, the reality TV star, the mother of my child, the woman who crushed my heart beneath the heel of her shoe.
My mouth goes dry as I clamp a hand around Soph’s shoulder. “What the hell is this?”
Lana’s reaching for Soph’s hand. “Let’s step out of the shot, sweetie. Right over here.”
Soph doesn’t move, and she hasn’t noticed her mother yet. She looks up at me with big eyes. “Daddy?”
I’m torn between wanting Soph safe beside me and letting Lana take her away from all this. “Go to your room, sweetheart.”
“But Dad—”
“Baby!” Gabby shoves Lauren aside and rushes to Soph, hair flying as she drops to her knees in front of our daughter. She throws her arms around Soph’s waist with tears shimmering on lashes too long to be real.
None of this is real. None of this can be real.
But as Gabby or Elle or whoever the hell she is squeezes Soph and buries her face against our daughter’s T-shirt, the buzz in my brain gets louder. This is happening. Holy shit.
I look at Lauren, needing someone to yell at.
But Lauren’s steely demeanor has shifted to something tinged with regret. “I’m so fucking sorry.” She winces and flicks a gaze at Soph. “For cursing in front of your kid, but also that these things happen on a show like this.”
Gabe frowns behind the camera. “I thought you called to warn them—”
“We did.” Lana steps in front of the lens, blocking the shot of Soph as she stares down Gabe. “No.” She folds her arms over her chest. “I don’t care that this is how the show works. We’re not using this footage.”