Chapter 11
CONFESSIONAL 1171.5
Judson, Lana (Public Relations Director: Juniper Ridge)
It’s weird sometimes, being part of a family legacy.
Not to be all dramatic about it. I mean we’re not British royals or the Kennedys or whatever.
But everyone’s got a role to play. Some special place in the family story where you’re the sassy one or the troubled one or the smart one or some mixed-up combination of those things.
It’s like being typecast, I guess. It’s great if you love your role, but if you don’t?
[clears throat]
Well. You work with what you’ve got is what I’m saying.
* * *
Iwalk through the door of the two-story deluxe cabin, hands tucked under my arms. It’s freezing in here. “Mom?”
Mari said she set them up in our largest guesthouse, but maybe I got it wrong. “Hello? Dad, Mom—anyone here?”
“Your mother’s freshening up.”
I turn as the great Laurence Judson steps from the study, holding a highball glass in one hand. He’s got the same straight nose and peaked forehead all my siblings share. Traits so subtle, no one would notice one child out of six who didn’t share them.
Not unless you looked.
I deliberately do not glance at the entryway mirror that frames up my face. I already know what I’d see there.
“Dad.” I lick my lips, because my mouth feels weirdly dry. “Why is it so cold in here?”
“Is it?” He glances around and I seize the chance to study him. Laurence Judson cuts an imposing figure. Tall and handsome, like my brothers. Smart and in charge, like my sisters.
What do I have to show for being raised by him? This man I’ve called father, who taught me to ditch paparazzi and seal business deals and make the perfect martini. Maybe he didn’t put Band-Aids on my boo-boos, but he’s been my dad for nearly twenty-eight years.
He’s still my father, no matter what the fucking DNA says.
I force myself to smile naturally. “What a surprise. You and Mom must be exhausted, flying all this way.”
“Not particularly.” My father sips from his drink. “Ever since we upgraded to the Airbus ACJ 220, your mother sleeps like a baby on the jet.” He swirls the ice in his glass. “Six spacious zones with a queen-sized bed in the primary suite. Top-of-the-line mattress, en suite bathroom with a rain shower, full-sized office with a?—”
“Why did you rush back?” It’s not like me to interrupt, and his brows lift to his hairline.
“Your mother has an interview on the Jamila Jarrett show.” He sips his drink again. “It’s a live show.”
Oh, God.
I lick my lips again. “What’s the topic?”
His head cocks curiously. “Lemon Light, obviously. Your mother’s memoir?” He stares like I might’ve sustained a head injury. “Are you okay, Lemon Drop?”
Lemon Drop.
He’s called me that since I was little. A hat-tip to the title of my mother’s breakout film. A nod to my hair color, to the lone towhead in a sea of darker-haired siblings. Even Cooper, with his sun-bleached surfer waves, had our father’s olive complexion from the time he was tiny.
Not me.
Not little Lana Judson, pale and blonde and slathered with sunscreen at the beach while my brothers and sisters frolicked carefree in the sand. The paparazzi snapped photos on one of our rare family outings to the shore. The nannies shielded us as best they could, but one pic made the front page of a tabloid rag.
I must’ve been two or three, and I’d tripped and fallen in the waves. My father scooped me in his arms, holding me like the world’s most precious child.
Google his name and you’ll find that picture. Even today, it’s one of the best-known photographs of Laurence Judson.
I force myself to swallow. “Of course she’s promoting the book,” I say, smiling again. “I only meant, what’s the angle? Is she reading an excerpt or teasing some big revelation or sharing scandalous secrets?” I’m trying for chipper, for the sort of irony I’ve always used. But it falls flat. Does my father hear it? “I know Jamila has been after Mom to come on the show.”
My father smiles broadly and sets his drink on a hickory side table. “That’s the best part. It’s Mama Madness week. They’re doing a segment on mothers and daughters. She wants you and Lauren and Mari to join her. Won’t that be a kick?”
“A kick.” I feel the words like a boot to the side of the head. “Absolutely.” I’m still smiling, still pretending everything’s normal. Does Dad know it’s not? “Has Mom talked to Mari and Lauren?”
“Not yet, but they’ll be thrilled.” It sounds more like a command than a father’s dearest wish as he turns to the wet bar and busies himself making another drink.
With his back turned, I let my shoulders sag, my smile wilt like a daisy left out in the sun. I think about Dal as I kissed him goodbye on the path leading up to this guesthouse.
“Do you want me to join you?” He looked deep in my eyes, fingers twined with mine. “I can be there, if you want moral support.”
“No.” I answered too quickly, I think. “It’s best if I do this alone.”
His lips pressed together. “Best for whom?”
I didn’t have an answer. “I should go.”
The sound of stilettos on hardwood jerks my focus to the hall of the cabin. I turn to the right, and there she is—Shirleen Judson, sex siren of seventies cinema, tabloid darling, the woman who gave birth to me.
My mother wears a green silk caftan that would feel chic and effortless in Hollywood. Here, she looks like an uncomfortable peacock.
“Mother.” I step to her side and offer a hug that feels much too stiff. “Nice to see you. Did you have a good trip?”
“Oh, you know how it is.”
Not really; not anymore. It’s been ages since I flew on a private jet, but that doesn’t matter right now. “Dad told me about the interview. That’s exciting.”
“Isn’t it?”
I nod and slip into PR mode. “Her show’s been in the number one slot for the past sixteen weeks. Viewership numbers around two and a half million last month. She teases each show on her podcast, so we’ll see plenty of extra exposure.”
“Wonderful.” Mom tries to frown, but the fillers in her face have other ideas. “Unfortunately, there’s been a wrinkle.”
Not on her forehead, that’s for damn sure. “What wrinkle?”
Mom heaves a put-upon sigh. “Jamila’s being difficult. She says four guests on screen will be ‘too distracting.’” Her fingers scrape the air to form facetious quotes. “No more than two of us, she says. Can you believe it?”
“I can.” I respect that Jamila’s producers run a tight ship. I’ve been on her show more times than I can count. Back when I ran my own PR firm, I sent dozens of clients her way. “She likes to keep things intimate. It’ll be cozy, just the two of you.”
“Absolutely not.” She squares her shoulders like she’s taking a stand to end world hunger. “I’m reading the excerpt about Mother’s Day. They can’t expect me to do that without at least one of my children beside me. How would that look?”
Ah, yes. Because how it looks is the main thing here. “I’m sure it’s fine,” I tell her. “We’ll send her some B-roll that shows the whole family. Maybe some footage from Cooper’s wedding, or that time we all got together for Mari’s?—”
“I told her you’ll be there.” Mom hooks an arm around my waist, a gesture more possessive than affectionate. I force a bigger smile as my brain flips to the walk around the lake with Dal. That feels like two weeks ago instead of twenty minutes.
“Great.” I’m trying for bright, but it comes out wobbly. “I—” can’t come up with any excuse not to be there. “I’ll check my schedule.”
“It’s free,” she says. “I already checked.”
Of course she did. “Well.” I smooth my hands down the front of my shorts. “We don’t want Mari and Lauren to feel left out.”
“I just texted, and they’re fine with it.” This doesn’t surprise me, either. Mom looks in my eyes, and my stomach curls in on itself. “It’s partly your story, after all.”
She gives me a meaningful look. I know what she means, what she’s implying.
I also know the scene she’ll be reading. It’s one her editor nearly cut from the book, but Mom insisted it stay. One of those “isn’t that adorable” anecdotes meant to tug fans’ heartstrings and show them how Shirleen Judson is Just Like Us?.
“Mom—”
“It’ll be great, Lana.” She wraps me tight in a hug, an itchy maternal blanket of overpriced silk and cloying Chanel. “Just what we need right now.”
“Right.” I’m not sure we includes me, but I make myself smile anyway. “Sounds good.”
* * *
It’s latewhen I make it to Dal’s. Serenade closed an hour ago, so I’m hoping I’ve timed this right. That I can steal ten minutes of his time, or maybe just a hug.
My knock echoes loud and hollow over the sound of crickets. I jump when the door swings open, but it’s not Dal.
“Hey, Lana.” Ji-Hoon smiles and wheels himself aside. “Come in. We just poured a shift drink.”
“Oh.” I glance at the table where Dal sits next to his uncle. Korain waves from his chair as Dal gets to his feet.
Concern folds his forehead in creases as he moves behind his brother. “Lana.”
Missing the change in Dal’s posture, Korain pours red wine into a stemless glass. “We were just talking about you.” He gestures to the bottle. “Join us?”
“Oh, I—” Crap. “That sounds great.”
Dal watches my face. “Actually, guys—give us a second?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. Just puts a hand in the small of my back and steers me toward the bedroom. It’s a much different march from the one last night, but my heart pounds just the same.
As soon as he gets the door closed, my shoulders sag. “I have to go on live fucking television.” The words rush out on an exhale, part sob, part relief. I shiver and Dal slides both hands to my biceps. “The day after tomorrow.”
“God, you’re freezing.” He rubs my arms and looks deep in my eyes. “I’ve seen you on live TV a million times. I didn’t know it made you this nervous.”
“No, that’s not it.” I draw a deep breath and pull it together. “Mom’s publicist booked her on the Jamila Jarrett show. She’s doing a segment for Mama Madness week. They want her to read this chapter from her book?—”
“About motherhood,” he says, realization turning his eyes coal black. “And she wants to trot you out as her show pony.”
I breathe back my feelings and try to be brave. “It makes sense. I’m the PR spokesperson for the family. Lauren’s prone to cursing on camera, and Mari filled her lifetime quota of TV interviews when she did Shrink to the Stars.”
Dal’s forehead creases with concern. “What about your brothers?”
“It’s a women’s variety show.” I did consider asking Coop to appear shirtless, but that’s a bit off-brand for a mother-themed show, and besides. “The excerpt she’s reading—it’s a story from my childhood.”
“Really?” He frowns. “Not the tutu on the red carpet.”
“No, a different one.” He’s never heard this one. “A story about me as a baby.”
One edge of his mouth ticks up, then drops again quickly. “Sounds harmless enough, but this is your mom we’re talking about.”
I’m filled with a weird wave of feeling. Delight that Dal grasps the awkwardness of Judson family dynamics. Protectiveness for my flawed but fearless mother. Shame for having mixed feelings in the first place. “Right,” I manage, since that sums it up. “Anyway, it’s filming on location—right here at Juniper Ridge.”
“Here?” His eyebrows lift again. “Really?”
“Mom thought we’d benefit from the publicity.” See? That’s why it’s complicated. “In her own way, she’s looking out for us. Her book gets a boost, and we see a ratings spike. It makes sense. All our recent B-roll footage of the family was filmed here.”
“Okay.” He searches my eyes, hands still cupping my upper arms. “Do you want me to be there?”
“On camera?”
“No, on set. For moral support.”
“Really?” I think of him there at the edge of the set. How nice it would feel knowing he’s right offstage, lending me strength. “You’d do that?”
“Of course. I mean, it’s not like I’m being filmed. You’re doing the hard part.” He frowns and takes one hand off my arm, rubbing his chin. “I mean, if you wanted me on camera, I’d do it. Whatever you need to get through it.”
“You would?” This from a guy who swore he’d never do live TV.
“This isn’t about me.” He’s got both hands on my arms again, rubbing warmth into my chilled skin. “But yeah, if you needed me to, I’d strip naked on live TV and do a puppet show with my penis in a pirate costume.” He frowns. “That sounded more romantic in my head.”
“It is romantic.” I can’t believe he’s willing to do that. “I don’t need you to, but?—”
“Good, because I don’t think they make pirate costumes that size.”
I swat his arm, laughing. “I meant you don’t need to swoop in and rescue me, but I love that you’re willing. That you have my back like that.”
“I do,” he says, gliding both hands up and down my arms. “Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”
“Thanks.” I press the heels of my hands against my eye sockets, regaining composure. “I love you so much.”
As I drop my hands to my sides, he pulls me close. “I love you, too.” As I burrow against his chest, my head fills with the thrum of his heartbeat. I feel safe. Supported. Wanted.
He draws back and searches my eyes. “You want me to tell Korain to fuck off with the wine, or are you up for a drink with my family?”
“I’m up for it.” Honestly, it sounds nice. Family time that requires nothing from me besides lifting a glass? “I could use the break.”
“We’ve got you, girl.” He puts an arm around me and reaches for the doorknob. “Call on Team Yang for all the breaks you need.”
Warmth curls in my chest like a cat settling down by a fire. This right here? It’s what I’ve wished for my whole life. Unflagging support, paired with trust that I know what I’m doing. A willingness to step in if I need it.
It’s a fine balance I’m not even sure my siblings have mastered. “Thanks,” I murmur as he leads me down the hall.
“No problem.” He kisses the top of my head. “You can always count on me.”