“Event planning,” Tessa told her, surprised she’d showed even that much interest. “And we have an actual client who wants us to plan a Bat Mitzvah. I’m making a list for Lacey in case I, well, because you want me to leave.”
Her eyes shuttered. “It’s what my mother wants and I…I can see her point.”
Tessa looked away, her gaze falling on the document that really seemed wiggly now. “It’s a shame, all of it.”
“No kidding,” Crista scoffed, taking a few steps closer to the table, her gaze landing on Tessa’s short list. “What does that mean, ‘understand the mother’s vision’?”
“Exactly what it says,” Tessa replied. “Before I plan an event I want to know what the client sees when she closes her eyes and imagines she’s walking into the room the moment the party starts. The colors, the textures, what Lacey would call ‘the vibe.’”
“Mmm. That sounds like a fun job.” A whisper of a wistful smile pulled. “You were always fun.”
“I do place a high value on a good time,” Tessa confessed. “Life’s too much of a struggle to not have fun.”
Crista searched her face, an intensity in her espresso eyes.
“I can’t imagine you struggling over anything,” she said. “I mean, look at you. Always the prettiest girl for miles and the center of attention.”
Tessa managed a wry smile. “Oh, I struggled.”
“Eli had such a crush on you.”
She chuckled. “I’ve heard. Well, now he’s…” She caught herself, instinctively guessing that Eli might have kept his budding romance with Kate from his younger sister. Anyway, the relationship was too new to even classify it as anything but friendship. “He’s over that,” she said instead. “And trust me, people do struggle on the inside even if you don’t see it on the outside. I’m sure you know that.”
Crista took a sip, her expression dubious.
“I mean, look at this mess.” Tessa gestured to her notes. “The awkward writing of a dyslexic.”
Crista almost spit her tea as she blurted, “What?”
“Oh, I never made a big deal out of it,” Tessa said quickly. “But yeah. The words, they wiggle.”
“You’re dyslexic? How do you function?”
“Quite well. It’s not a death sentence,” she replied with a quick laugh. “It’s just a challenge to manage, but I do fine most of the time.”
Crista just stared at her, so hard Tessa could practically see the wheels turning in her head. Then she set the mug on the table, pulled out the chair across from Tessa, and sat down.
And no one could have been more surprised than Tessa.
“How did you know?” she asked. “And when? How old were you? How did it manifest itself? When did you learn to read? Did you have to be held back or?—”
“Whoa.” Tessa held up her hand at the onslaught of questions. “Where did this all come from?”
“I just…I’m curious and I want to…” She blew out a breath, closing her eyes. “I think my daughter might be dyslexic.”
“Ohhh.” Now it made sense. “Okay. Well, like I said, not a death sentence. Just a roadblock.”
She snorted. “Feels like way more than a roadblock to a seven-year-old.”
“Oh, yeah. Rough year. Second grade?” Tessa made a face. “Maybe the toughest year of all, if I’m being honest. But now? There are so many programs, even technology that can help her. The tricks of the trade, my—” She was going to say “my father called them” but caught herself. “I call them,” she said instead.
“What are they? How do you find them? Where do parents go?”
“Relax. She’ll learn to manage.”
Crista looked like she didn’t know how to relax as she leaned closer. “It’s a mess, though. My husband wants to teach her morning, noon, and night. Always forcing her to read, making her power through.”
“That’ll only make her hate reading—and him.” Her own father had exhibited the patience of a saint when Tessa was seven, determined to help as only he could—by making it fun.
