“There’s one in Traverse City,” Caleb offered.
“Where’s that?”
“’Bout ninety minutes away.”
“I’ll take the coffee maker.”
Camellia lugged the bulky coffee-maker box and the bag of supplies the three blocks back to the cottage through the same cutting wind, wondering how hard it was going to be to find coffee beans.
Henry returned home just before six to find Camellia engulfed in the oversized chair, wrapped in her favorite cashmere throw, squinting at the local news on the TV that was coming in as snowy as the weather. “What’s with the TV?” he asked.
“No cable,” she muttered. “No internet access either.”
“That won’t do,” he commiserated, taking off his jacket and hanging it on the coat rack. “Can you take care of that tomorrow?”
Camellia exhaled loudly. “Sure honey. What else do I have to do?”
Henry knelt in front of his wife. “I know this isn’t what you were expecting. It wasn’t what I was expecting either.” He looked at the country décor surrounding them. “This place is temporary. We’ll find a home we love.”
“Henry, we could live in a mansion with a full staff. It would still be Markleeville. How am I supposed to survive here? There’s no shopping, no Starbucks. Hell, there’s barely any people!”
“Yes, actually, I found out about the lack of people.”
“What? Where is everybody?”
“According to one of the partners, Markleeville isn’t very populated until the weather turns warm. Then it explodes. Lots of tourists come for life on the lake and the small-town charm.”
“And in the winter, it’s a ghost town.”
Henry nodded. “Afraid so. A large amount of summer homes here, apparently.”
“Any chance that come summer this place will transform into the Hamptons?”
Henry kissed his wife’s hands. “I’m kind of doubting it.”
He headed upstairs to change with Camellia on his heels. “I’m surprised you have enough patients to keep you busy at one hospital, much less two of them.”
“That’s the thing,” Henry noted, unbuttoning his shirt and slipping into a soft blue sweater. “With the amount of hunting, ice fishing, and skiing around the area, the hospitals can barely keep up. Northern Medical Center, which I saw today, isn’t the kind of hospital we’re used to. Very small scale. Barely enough staff to handle all the injuries and frost bite, not to mention every other reason people require medical care.”
“So your practice will never need for patients.”
“Nope. And I’ll tell you another thing I learned. Around here, when a guy comes in with a gunshot wound, it’s not going to be because of a burglary or some other act of violence. The poor fool most likely was mistaken for a deer.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Camellia said, looking out the bedroom window at the thick woods that was their backyard, and thinking about how close hunters might get to the cottage. In Pennsylvania, the start of deer season was like a holiday, with many schools closing for the day so kids could go off with their fathers into the woods, rifles in hand. Camellia wondered how she allowed herself to come full circle to the very type of place she spent years trying to escape.
By the end of the week, Camellia had cable television and high-speed Internet. The second she had the installer out of the house, who was noticeably perplexed by her turban and lace bed jacket, she was back in the all-consuming country-blue chair, with laptop on lap, pulling up her Internet bookmarks for Style.com, The Cut on New York Magazine’s site, and of course, Women’s Wear Daily. She read everything she could find: new designer collaborations, hits and misses from movie premieres, trend forecasts, and all the buzz for Mercedes Benz Fashion Week, which was only a month away. For the first time in a decade she would not be attending the shows.
When Henry clumped into the cottage just past seven, the new snow heavy on his boots, Camellia was still in front of the laptop, which now had two extension cords tethering it to the power source on the other side of the room. Her turban and bed jacket were still in place.
Henry discovered his wife in this same arrangement each evening for the next two weeks, save for his days off, when he insisted Camellia put away the laptop and go on driving excursions to nearby towns. He even drove her as far as Traverse City, an hour-and-a-half drive along winding two-lane roads, hoping to lift her spirits with good shopping and a busier environment. However, Camellia was not impressed when they set foot in the Grand Traverse Mall, causing Henry to announce that there would be no more trips without a little online research.
“At least it’s a full-fledged mall,” he offered.
“Yes, with full-fledged mall stores,” she reminded.
He interlaced his fingers in hers as they passed the typical store offerings of Express, Victoria’s Secret, and Charlotte Russe. “Maybe we should lower our expectations,” he said, gazing at the windows filled with cookie-cutter clothing.
“Maybe we should start online shopping.”
“At least there’s a real coffee shop,” Henry said, pointing ahead. “I’ve seen what a good cappuccino can do for you. Let’s go.”
One full hour of coffee sipping and people watching was all Camellia could take. “Why do I feel like I’m the one people are watching?” she questioned as they sat at a little table with a wide view of the mall’s second floor. The passersby of young families and teens traveling in groups, all in nondescript clothing topped with bulky outerwear, conspicuously gaped at Camellia’s bright abstract dress and thigh-high boots.
“Well, you don’t exactly blend in.”
“These are Etro boots straight off the runway!” she exclaimed. “They are the epitome of chic!”
“I’m not disagreeing with you,” Henry said, admiring Camellia’s shapely legs covered in laced-up leather. “But I don’t think the locals are used to seeing such grand fashion statements.”
“Well, why the hell not?” Camellia questioned, getting up from the table and tossing her paper cup into the wastebasket. “Is exciting fashion only allowed in highly populated areas? Henry, it’s not like there’s no money around here. We’re standing in the middle of a resort town and the only label people seem to understand is North Face.”
They scurried through the frigid parking lot into the black Jeep Grand Cherokee Henry had purchased from an area dealer. “Why don’t you drive?” Henry asked. “You’ve got to relearn sooner or later.”
“Later please,” Camellia said sharply, fastening the seatbelt.
“Don’t you want your own car? To be able to take off whenever you like?”
Camellia looked at Henry and grinned devilishly. “Aren’t you concerned I might start driving and not stop?”
He hit the gas and backed out of the parking spot. “Maybe I should be.”
“I’ll make you a deal: Once this ice melts and I don’t have to worry that one bad turn will send me over an embankment, I’ll give driving a try. But if I’m not comfortable, you’re getting me a car and driver.”
“In Markleeville?” Henry crowed. “That won’t have people staring at you at all.”
“Henry,” Camellia sighed, gazing out at the quiet road in front of them, “Markleeville needs a serious makeover.”
“And there’s no one better to make that happen than you.”
FOURTEEN
Camellia spent the first week of February glued to her laptop, ingesting any and all news she could search out on New York Fashion Week. The palette for Fall 2009 was noticeably somber, a telling sign of the troubled financial times. The clothing had a more timeless feel, not as frivolous as in years past, pointing to designers anticipating a woman’s desire to fully utilize her wardrobe instead of chucking costly pieces to the curb the second a one-season trend’s moment had passed. While Camellia didn’t like why the movement was happening, she did approve of the end result.
She was also pleased her upper body was as toned as it was, with
one-shoulder dresses and tunics showing up in most every collection from Carolina Herrera to Oscar de la Renta. However, she shuddered as she browsed far too many examples of an ‘80s revival for fall – especially from her beloved Marc Jacobs – complete with neon hues, tapered pants, and raised shoulders.
By the end of the week, Camellia knew without a doubt that she had to peel herself away from the computer and find something satisfying to do. She had spent days watching others’ outstanding accomplishments sashay down runways while she was merely a bystander. While it was one thing to be invited to the shows, it was certainly another to silently watch from afar. She no longer contributed to anything. And it had to stop. Somehow, she had to find direction and the only place to look for it at the moment was Markleeville.
Still without a car or the will to drive, Camellia trekked back to town on foot, this time pairing a matching fur hat to her sumptuous fur jacket, and pleasantly discovering that warm ears made for a more bearable commute. As she walked she pledged not to leave the town until she found one single thing that interested her. She also added in a pledge to first stop for a steaming cup of coffee. Her interest was piqued the moment she walked into the diner.
Behind the counter was a tall, willowy girl with long dark blonde hair dressed in black jeans and a slouchy black t-shirt. She looked positively chic and effortless at the same time. As she poured coffee for a couple at the counter, Camellia observed the girl’s high cheekbones and full lips. If this were New York, a modeling agent would have walked into this joint, taken one look at that girl, and had her signed before the day was over. But this was Markleeville. That girl could rot here and no one would ever understand what she had to offer.
A loud crash tore Camellia from her thoughts, and as she refocused, she realized the girl had dropped the coffee pot and was staring directly at her, her mouth agape. “Are you okay?” Camellia asked approaching the counter, concerned the girl might have had a seizure.
“Oh my God. You’re Camellia Rhodes,” the girl gushed, bordering on hyperventilation.
Camellia felt dizzy upon hearing her name. She couldn’t believe someone had recognized her in Markleeville. She wanted to throw her arms around the girl, but reminded herself about constraint and instead held out her hand. “I am,” she said, perfectly poised. “How do you do?”
The girl squealed and grabbed Camellia’s hand like it was a lifeline. “I’m Shelby, and I love Flair more than just about anything in the whole world!” She continued to pump Camellia’s hand, smiling a wide toothy grin. Her green excited eyes were blinding.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Shelby,” Camellia said, patting the girl’s hand while removing her other one from the firm grasp.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m just so excited.” Shelby reached under the counter and pulled out a cup, placing it in front of Camellia. “My mama owns this diner and she would whip my hide if she saw me behaving this way. Can I get you coffee?”
“That would be lovely.”
Shelby grabbed a fresh pot and poured, her hand noticeably shaky. The broken pot and its scattered contents were still on the floor. “What in the world are you doing in Markleeville?”
“Living here, apparently,” Camellia responded, taking the stool positioned in front of the cup and sipping her coffee. She noticed the handful of customers listening to their exchange, Shelby’s loud enthusiasm garnering full attention. “My husband and I moved to town about a month ago.”
“Well this is just the best day ever!” A thought crossed Shelby’s mind then, because her smile disappeared as her brows knitted. “But why are you here?”
Camellia crossed her legs and slipped out of her jacket, placing it on her lap. “My husband got a job nearby with a radiology practice,” she explained simply.
“Oh.” Shelby leaned on her elbows, her eyes darting about Camellia’s luxurious clothing. “I guess with all the technology available, you can edit a magazine from anywhere, huh?”
Camellia pressed her lips together. “Shelby, Flair doesn’t exist anymore. The publishing company decided to eliminate it from their group of magazines.”
Shelby’s fist hit the counter, startling Camellia. “Are you shitting me?” She clapped a hand over her mouth as Camellia burst into laughter.
“Between you and me, Shelby, that was exactly my thought.”
Camellia spent the rest of the afternoon drinking coffee and nibbling on a colorful fruit salad while she and Shelby talked all things fashion, beauty, and celebrity. She found out that Shelby’s favorite label was Rodarte – very fashion forward, especially coming from a small town girl – she loved Gucci’s ad campaigns, and she thought Jennifer Aniston was the quintessential It Girl. Camellia agreed with her on all parts, causing Shelby to once again shriek with pleasure. It was the most enjoyable day Camellia had experienced in months.
They parted ways with Camellia promising to return to the diner for lunch in two days. She would have liked to have seen Shelby the very next day, however, not only did Camellia not wish to appear too eager, she also needed time to muse about how this girl figured into her comeback plans.
It was impossible to deny Shelby’s beauty. She went beyond attractive. From her wide-set green eyes and straight nose to her high cheekbones and symmetrical face, Shelby would look just as good in photos as her long, slender body would look on a runway. And her bubbly personality was the tape holding fast the perfect package. Shelby was muse worthy. And she had absolutely no idea.
That evening, Camellia filled in Henry on her discovery. “This girl really has it,” she explained, her eyes bright. “She’s stunning, but not in that just-another-beautiful-girl way. You cannot take your eyes off of her and you can’t put your finger on why. That’s what makes for an extraordinary face and an über-successful model.”
Henry kissed Camellia on the forehead before adding wood to the cast-iron stove. The bright flames danced merrily. “It’s just nice to see you smiling again,” he said. “I support anything that makes you this happy.”
Camellia spent the next day on the Internet, trying to determine the best route to take with Shelby. Perusing photos from the past year’s catwalks and magazine editorials, a number of the images from back issues of Flair, Camellia studied the faces and bodies of the most in-demand models of the moment: Karlie Kloss, Chanel Iman, Anja Rubik, Miranda Kerr. They all possessed the same winning combination of unforgettable looks and an inner glow that made them dazzle. Just like Shelby.
The way Camellia saw it, she could go two routes with the eighteen-year-old beauty: acting as her manager or starting a modeling agency built around a single superstar. Every agency had to start with one girl and then grow from there. Why couldn’t she do it? Granted, this wasn’t New York or LA or Miami or Chicago. Hell, where she was located in Michigan – just above the third knuckle of the mitten as Henry described it – felt like a world away from Detroit, which her research showed had several agencies in the city’s suburbs, with a couple of their girls landing a few major fashion show bookings. With amazing photos of Shelby and her contacts there was a real chance Camellia could find Shelby plenty of work, and wind up with a nice commission and newfound respect from the fashion world. Camellia Rhodes could be the next great ‘fashion eye” – finding the undiscovered gems and turning them into superstars. It would be quite rewarding, giving these young unknowns opportunities they could never fully imagine. And Camellia would once again have a full, exciting schedule.
Now that Henry was receiving a regular paycheck, and a nice one at that, Camellia could afford to have a logo and business cards created, along with a state-of-the-art website for her business, which she decided would be called The Rhodes Agency, keeping the business open for all types of talent, from models to actors.
She located a design firm in New York that she had worked with several times and spoke with one of the partners, arranging for them to start working immediately on her logo, which she expressed should be clean and modern in appearance. W
ith a promise for a one-week turnaround of preliminary designs, Camellia ended the call feeling unbelievably satisfied. The next step was to approach Shelby.
At noon the following day, Camellia was back in the diner, as promised. Shelby was behind the counter, taking direction from a petite woman with graying hair at her temples and the same green eyes as Shelby. Camellia guessed this was Shelby’s mother, the diner’s owner, and apparently not where Shelby got her soaring height. Camellia took a table at the back, motioning to Shelby to join her. Within minutes, Shelby was at her side, looking rocker chic in black leggings, black embellished flat boots, and a little white tank, with silver chains dangling past her bust, which Camellia guessed was about a 34A, perfect for runway, but not right for Victoria’s Secret. “Sit,” Camellia said, patting the seat beside her. “I have an amazing opportunity for you.”
Shelby’s face flushed. “For me? Oh my gosh, what is it?” She slid into the seat and crossed her legs gracefully.
“Shelby, have you ever considered modeling?”
The flush on Shelby’s cheeks turned crimson, and she put a hand over her mouth, hiding her adorable gap-toothed smile. “Are you kidding?” she replied, her voice muffled behind the still-in-place hand.
Camellia pulled Shelby’s hand down and placed it between her own. “I’m not kidding. I’ve been in this business a long time, and I know a model when I see one.”
Shelby’s giggles were contagious; Camellia couldn’t help but laugh along with her. “Come on,” Shelby managed, genuinely surprised. “Me?”
“Yes you. What do you think about giving it a try? I’m starting my own agency and you can be the first girl I sign. Before you know it, you’ll be walking alongside Gisele and Naomi.”
That did it. Shelby’s shriek turned every head in the diner. She seemed to have a knack for it. “Miss Rhodes, I’m going to cry!” And then she did.
“Thanks for the heads up,” Camellia chuckled, patting Shelby on the arm. She noticed the woman behind the counter, who was rather skinny upon closer look, was watching them intently. “Is that your mom?” Camellia asked, nodding in the woman’s direction.
The Makeover Page 9