“Small,” Camellia admitted, sipping her whiskey.
“I imagine so,” Cassandra said, gingerly taking the finished gin and tonic from the bartender and eyeing it just as warily. “Have a good evening,” she said, not particularly addressing either Camellia or the bartender, and walked away.
After three grueling hours, Camellia flashed Henry her take-me-home-now look and walked to the foyer for her coat, leaving Henry to bid their hosts farewell. She couldn’t take another strained minute. He practically carried her back to the car, knowing full well what Camellia looked like when she was about to combust, and obviously not wanting that to occur within earshot of his colleagues. He drove as quickly as the icy roads would allow, as an enraged Camellia dramatically recounted their first party at the lake.
“Am I missing something? I mean seriously, what don’t I know about these women? Henry, they’re so mean!” She switched off the heat, feeling feverish. “I kept wondering: Am I doing something insulting? Was I supposed to remove my shoes? Do I match the description of a serial child killer? What was it? What had I done to make these women shut me out upon introduction?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know,” Henry said. “While I don’t know any of the wives, I can tell you that the guys in my group are all pretty decent human beings.”
“And what’s with all the doctors being men and all the women being, well, the little women? It’s like I stepped back in time in there.”
“Kind of Stepford-like, wasn’t it?” Henry conceded.
“That’s what I thought!” Camellia reached up and began pulling out hairpins, releasing her hair from the messy bun she had created for the evening. “Honestly Henry, if I wanted to be treated this way, I would have gladly stayed in New York.”
“Maybe they’re intimidated by you.”
“Intimidated by an out-of-work editor with a contact list full of high-profile celebrities who wouldn’t call her back if her hair was on fire?”
“No, intimidated by what you built; what you’ve accomplished. And, of course, how freaking gorgeous you are.”
Camellia had to smile. Henry always had her back. “They obviously know something about me. That one evil thing, Cassandra Ward, was fully aware we were living in town. Which apparently, in their set, is frowned upon.”
“I can understand that,” Henry said, turning into their driveway, which suddenly felt like a haven to Camellia. “After all, we do have easy access to the best big-girl panties around.”
NINETEEN
Shelby’s mood wasn’t right when she arrived at Camellia’s house the following week to practice posing for photos. Instead of her customary jovial greeting, she barely managed a terse smile as she pushed passed Camellia and dropped into the oversized living room chair.
Camellia bit her lip, studying her pupil for a minute, and then perched on the arm of the sofa. “What’s on your mind?” she asked in a gentle voice.
“I’m not really sure,” Shelby said weakly.
“Boy trouble?”
Shelby shook her head. “No, things are fine with Justin.” She looked up at Camellia, her eyes holding all her sorrow. “It’s my mom.”
“Your mom?”
“Yeah. She was clearly not happy that I was coming to your house today.”
Camellia cocked her head to the side. “Did she say why?”
“No. That’s the thing.” Shelby shifted in the chair, tucking a long leg under her. “We had breakfast and folded laundry and we talked like we normally do. Then I told her all about New York, and she got really quiet. And really cold.” Her eyes welled with tears. “Camellia, she’s never been like that with me before. Never.”
“I’m sorry.” Camellia leaned back and grabbed a compact camera from the coffee table. “Maybe she’s just worried,” she suggested, turning on the camera and quickly capturing Shelby’s misery.
“Delete that,” Shelby said, wiping a rogue tear. She sniffed then wiped at her nose, too. “Why would she be worried? You’re a prominent editor, not some skanky old man trying to photograph me naked.”
“Was,” Camellia noted, sliding onto the floor to snap more photos from a lower angle. “Moms worry, Shelby, and you’re her only child to worry about. You have an exciting life ahead of you in New York. That can be a very tough scenario for a mom to take, especially if she’s feeling left behind.”
Shelby popped up and slapped her thighs. “That’s it. She thinks I’m abandoning her. That I’m going to run off to New York and forget all about her.” She shook her head and smiled as if enjoying a private joke. “She’s so silly.”
Camellia continued taking pictures of Shelby’s seemingly endless expressions, which was now transforming from a smug smile into something resembling a trance.
“Are you lost in thought?” Camellia asked from behind the camera.
Shelby snapped out of it and giggled, curling her lithe body around the arm of the chair. “There’s no reason she couldn’t move to New York with me, is there?”
Camellia lowered the camera, considering the question. “No, there really isn’t, as long as she’s willing. She is selling the diner, so there wouldn’t be much tying her down here.”
“Exactly!” Shelby bounded to her feet in one graceful move. “Do you mind if I go tell her the good news?”
“Do you mind getting through your primer on posing first?” Camellia asked authoritatively. “You’re not going to be sought after as a model if you don’t know what you’re doing. Or if you can’t focus.”
Shelby obeyed, gingerly settling back into the chair. “Got it, Boss Lady. Where do we begin?”
Camellia turned the camera around for Shelby to see, scrolling through the photos she just took. “You photograph beautifully. There’s no question. What’s really important in these pictures is your expression. Do you see how believable you are?”
Pulling the camera closer, Shelby studied the photos. She nodded. “Sure. When I’m happy, I look happy. When I’m sad, I look sad.”
“That’s right.” Camellia set the camera on the floor beside her. “It’s easy to show what you’re feeling. But what if a photographer wants you to appear happily in love, when in reality your boyfriend has just broken your heart?”
“That would be tough.”
“Or, you just landed a fabulous apartment, are booked for work all month, and you can’t stop smiling about it, and then you’re asked to appear sullen and on the edge of tears. How do you find that expression and then convince the person viewing the picture that it’s real?”
Shelby shrugged her shoulders. “Acting classes?”
“No. It’s quite simple, actually. You find a memory that matches the expression you need to give, and you live in that memory as you’re posing.”
“What if I don’t have a memory that matches?” Shelby questioned. “What if I’ve never been in love and have no idea what my face would look like if I were in love?”
“Then you imagine it. Whether it’s from a love scene in a movie that affected you or it’s from what you imagine it would feel like to be completely consumed by love, you go to that place and sink into it, and it will show on your face.” Camellia rolled onto her knees, grabbed the camera, and held it to her face. “Okay, now let’s see how well you listen to me.”
Camellia spent the next month coaching Shelby, from how to follow a photographer’s direction and what to expect at a go-see to putting together a portfolio and the ins and outs of living and working in New York. Once she was certain Shelby was ready for the next step, Camellia went in search of a photographer to create Shelby’s comp card.
What she really wanted was to fly out Sylvia Steiner to photograph Shelby. Sylvia was a pro and had worked with nearly every supermodel in the business. She had also been responsible for photographing more than a dozen Flair covers. They had always worked so well together, and Camellia knew Sylvia would most certainly be up for the trip, especially it meant not only getting paid well but also having a hand i
n introducing the hottest new model to New York’s fashion sect.
But Camellia couldn’t do it. She couldn’t risk bringing Sylvia to Markleeville – to have her witness the way she had been living for the last three months. If the lake house had been built, that would have been different. She pictured a stunning Hamptons-esque home with a glorious sailboat docked in back and a groomed-and-ready supermodel in the making, gracefully reclining in a vintage Eames chair positioned next to a roaring fire with a view of the lake. Now that was a scene in which Camellia would have happily welcomed any guest. But country furniture in a cramped cottage with a ghastly wood-burning stove? Sylvia, who conveniently always had a camera in hand, would have sent those images in a New York minute to every editor she knew. Sylvia Steiner may have once been something of a friend, but few could pass up sharing such a juicy discovery about Camellia Rhodes.
Instead, Camellia turned to a reputable online site that served as a source for models, photographers, and stylists to showcase their work, searchable by geographic location. In less than fifteen minutes she had found a photographer in Traverse City with a decent ability for capturing people.
She was in the middle of typing up an introductory email when Henry bounded through the door, holding daffodils wrapped in paper. Camellia was delighted. “Daffodil season,” she said, accepting the flowers from her husband. “Spring must be around the corner.”
He kissed her on the head. “Let’s hope so, my dear. I am sick of snow.” Removing his wet boots, Henry hung his jacket on the coat rack and then tended to the fire, which was only glowing embers. “Honey, you’ve got to keep this fire going during the day.”
“I hate that thing.”
“Yes, but if you put a log on from time to time, you wouldn’t have to wear two sweaters and a scarf in the house.”
“Luckily layering is in,” she said, as her fingers resumed clicking along the keyboard. “Besides, we’ll have a new house soon with a fireplace that operates via remote control. Now that I’ll learn to use.”
Henry closed the door of the wood stove and sat beside Camellia on the sofa. “That reminds me, the architect wants to come by this week to go over the plans.”
Camellia’s stopped typing. “They’re done?”
“Yep. And the old shack has been demolished, too. I’ve been told we are going to be very pleased with the plans. It’s a Cape Cod with edge. What do you think of that description?”
“I think it sounds truly fabulous.” Camellia set her laptop on the coffee table, too excited about the house to concentrate on the letter. “Oh Henry,” she said, throwing her legs over her husband’s lap, “this feels like the start of us becoming us again.”
“We’ve always been us, Camellia,” he said, holding onto her legs. “Through our highest and lowest points, we’re the one thing that has remained constant. A new house will be nice, but it’s nothing compared to what we have in each other.”
“Henry.” Camellia was beyond touched. She was also aware just how right he was. They had been through extraordinarily shitty times. And their marriage had never faltered. Even during the past six years at Flair as she transformed from merely confident and opinionated into a cold know-it-all. She was crazy lucky to have found him at that fateful photo shoot for Elle. The rising-star photographer and the outspoken junior fashion editor, she thought, grinning. It had the makings of a teen romance novel. Maybe once Shelby was well on her way to supermodel status, Camellia would try her hand at penning the story.
And then an even better idea popped into Camellia’s head. She whipped her legs off of Henry and knelt on the couch, taking her husband’s face in her hands. “Remember when you said you’d support anything that made me as happy as working with Shelby?”
“Yes,” Henry said cautiously, “I remember.”
“Then dust off your camera, Henry Rhodes. There’s a model-to-be in need of an eye like yours.”
TWENTY
The photos were everything Camellia had hoped for. Creating a makeshift studio in the garage, using old bed sheets and found construction materials for backdrops, along with a few shots in the woods behind the house and in neighboring fields, Henry had created magical portraits that emphasized Shelby’s unique beauty and transformative ability. Camellia had played a major role as well, applying Shelby’s makeup and working her hair into updos, playful braids, and long, lovely waves. She styled the girl in her own dresses, trousers, and blouses, utilizing Shelby’s bikini and youthful rompers for more skin-baring looks.
Shelby had been a real pro, never letting the camera see how cold she really was, as the frigid wind whipped her hair and tore at her exposed skin.
After nearly a full day of posing, Henry wrapped the shoot, and escorted the chilled women back into the house where he stoked the fire, ordered veggie pizzas, and downloaded the images to Camellia’s laptop.
The three poured over the photos as they ate, Henry narrowing down the pictures little by little until they were left with the final selections.
“You’re still amazing at this Henry,” Camellia noted, pulling a red pepper from her slice and chewing it delicately.
Shelby nodded in agreement. “I can’t believe you used to shoot covers for all the big fashion magazines,” she swooned.
“That feels like a lifetime ago,” Henry said, folding his pizza in half and taking a big bite.
“Do you ever regret leaving all the glamour for hospitals and sick people?” Shelby questioned.
Henry chuckled. “Honestly? No. While I recognized I was good at it, my heart wasn’t in it.”
“Well, I think you’re a nut job, but to each their own. At least that’s what my mama’s always telling me.”
“Speaking of your mother, are things better?” Camellia asked, dabbing the sides of her mouth with a paper napkin.
Shelby beamed. “Oh yes. I told her she could move to New York with me and she hugged me and cried and cried and cried.”
“That’s good news,” Camellia said, rising from her seat to clear the plates. “If she’s happy to hear that, just wait until she sees your photos.”
“She’s going to lose her mind!” Shelby jumped up to help. “So what’s next?”
“Next I’ll send the photo choices, along with your name, measurements, and my contact information to the printer, and in a couple of weeks you’ll have comp cards. We’ll also get an electronic version that we can email to designers and fashion and beauty editors. My website is ready, so I can promote you there, too.”
“Awesome!” Shelby grabbed a roll of tinfoil from the counter and wrapped the leftover pizza, storing it in the refrigerator. “Is it okay if I split?” she asked. “I told Justin I’d try to meet up with him tonight.”
“Sure,” Camellia said. “I’ll email you images to show your mom. Other than that, you get a little modeling break until your comp cards are in. It won’t last long, so enjoy it while you can.”
Thankfully, Camellia had the new house to keep her busy while waiting for the comp cards to arrive. She and Henry had a productive meeting with the architect, a competent, no-nonsense woman in her thirties, who drove in from Traverse City to present her plans.
The house was perfect: a four thousand-square-foot home with a two-story ceiling in the spacious living room and two sets of French doors leading to a screened-in porch that ran the length of the house. The gourmet kitchen featured a sizable island, a small sitting area with a stone fireplace, and a cozy breakfast nook. A grand master suite was located on the first floor past the library, complete with a sunken tub in the modern bathroom and a walk-in closet that rivaled the one she had in New York. A private dining room, an office, a laundry room, and a powder room completed the first floor. Upstairs were three more bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a loft overlooking the living room.
“I left a lot of open space in the master bedroom so you can comfortably hold a crib, changing table, and one of those glider chairs when you’re ready for babies,” she said, matter-of-fact, a
s if she were in on plans that included more than the construction of the house.
Camellia eyed Henry, who appeared incredibly focused on the blueprints. “Uh, thanks,” she muttered.
“If you’re happy, I’ll just need you to fill out some paperwork,” she said, pulling a file folder from a worn briefcase. “I’ll file the plans with the city, and once we have the permits, we can break ground.”
“When do you expect the house to be completed?” Henry asked.
“As long as we stay on schedule, I would think you should be in by the end of September.”
Camellia made a mental note to check the schedule for New York Fashion Week, which also took place in September. If things went as planned, she would need to be there to triumphantly watch Shelby walk in her first major shows.
When the comp cards arrived at her door via FedEx, Camellia was astounded to realize two weeks had passed so quickly. She had spent the time sifting through samples: siding and brick, shingles and windows, doors and wood floors, carpeting and lighting. She had already made many decisions for the house – Henry wisely leaving the complex design project in her capable hands – but there were still dozens to go, from the oversized stone tiles for the master bathroom to the white marble for the island in the kitchen. It was all consuming.
So when the strapping FedEx driver interrupted her wavering over the powder room sink to hand over her parcel, she welcomed the distraction. She sliced open the box, peeled back the flaps, and whooped joyously. Pulling on her boots and grabbing her fur, she grabbed a stack of cards out of the box, tucked them into a large envelope, and dashed to town, fervent to share with Shelby.
By the time she got within sight of the diner, Camellia was winded, but it was colliding with Shelby’s mom outside the diner that took her breath away.
The Makeover Page 12