Page 84 of Show Off

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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 calledfather,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.”

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