I slide over on the cushion until I’m right beside her. Yanking open the drawstring of my backpack, I pull out a coloring book and a massive pack of crayons. “Do you want to color withme?”
Sophie’s eyes light up. She doesn’t respond audibly, except for an excited intake of air which I take as a resoundingyes. After much deliberation, she settles on a garden scene in the middle of the book. I work on the flowers at the edge while she meticulously applies various shades of brown to the squirrelcenterfold.
Watching her color from the corner of my eye, I find myself somewhat taken aback. I’ve never seen such concentration in a five-year-old. She’s so very serious. Almost… somber. It’s an eerie trait, in a child. She’s more self-contained than most adults Iknow.
I study her perfectly groomed pigtails, not a hair out of place. Her pale pink dress looks freshly ironed. There are no runs in her tights, no smudges on her shoes. Not a single stain or trace of wear anywhere, so far as I can tell. Her white sweater has pearl buttons, for god’s sake. I don’t doubt for a minute that they’re real. She looks more like a china doll than a littlegirl.
I can’t help but wonder about herlife.
Do they ever let her play? Run through the dirt? Splash in a puddle? Roll in the grass? Skin her knees? Jump in a pile of fresh-rakedleaves?
I can’t see Mrs. Flint, with her perfectly manicured fingers and high-fashion ensembles, condoning suchbehavior.
When Samantha walks back over a few moments later, we’ve nearly finished ourpicture.
“Look, Mama,” Sophie says, holding up the book for her to see. “Isn’t itpretty?”
“Mmm.” Samantha’s eyes are trained on her cellphone. They dart up for a nanosecond, scan the work of art, and drop back to the screen. “Lovely job,sweetie.”
I swallow down a scoff of disbelief as Sophie slowly lowers the picture book. Our eyes meet across the coffee table. I smile at her as I pass her a purplecrayon.
“Hey, Soph, can you show me how you made your flowers so pretty? Mine don’t look half asgood.”
She blinks gravely. “That’s because you’re not using twocolors.”
“Twocolors? Pinkandpurple?” I gasp. “I didn’t think ofthat!”
She sighs deeply, as if I’m a total idiot. “Okay, I’ll show you. Payattention.”
I salute her and am rewarded as she cracks her firstsmile.
Maybe there’s a little girl beneath all those manners, afterall.
We color for a few more moments in silence, until Samantha’s sound of displeasure makes me lookup.
“What could be taking so long…” she murmurs, crossing one leg over the other. Her eyes lock on mine. “We’re supposed to take off in a few moments and we haven’t evenboarded.”
“Are we still waiting on someoneelse?”
She nods. “The photographer Seth hired. He takes brilliant shots, but you know these artistic types — they’re always a loose end in need oftying.”
I nod, as if I know anything aboutartistic typesor their habits. The only real photographer I’ve ever met was the man who took my senior portrait for the yearbook last summer, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t his day job since a few weeks after our photoshoot I saw him working as a barista at the one fancy coffee shop within a twenty-mile radius of myhometown.
“More trouble than they’re worth, if you ask me,” Samantha mutters. “I don’t know why we couldn’t just take our own photographs. You know, I’ve built quite a strong social media following with just my iPhone. No need for a telephoto lens and some overrated National Geographic shutterbug who charges an astronomical fee just to take some snapshots. So, he won a Pulitzer or two. I don’t see what the bigdeal—”
Her stream of words is cut off by the pointed sound of a throat clearing. Before we can even turn our heads to the door, a wry male voice fills theair.
“Three,actually.”
I go totally still at the sound of that sarcastictone.
No. No.No.
It can’tbe…
A low chuckle reverberates from his throat. “Three Pulitzers, that is. But, by all means, if you think your iPhone can outperform my Nikon, I’ll save myself eleven hours on a plane withyou.”
Glad I’m not the only one he’s rude to — even if she does deserveit.