Butterfly Summer. Arlene James

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      Watching the transformation through the lenses of his cameras proved to be a supremely satisfying exercise, and he found his enthusiasm mounting with contemplation of the finished product. He’d wanted to see Heather take some pride in her appearance for the past six months, which was just about the length of time he’d been with Nashville Living.

      Jobs didn’t usually last this long for Ethan. He liked to keep moving. That was part of the reason he’d chosen a career in photography. He could take his pick of assignments, moving on whenever the mood struck. He didn’t have the foggiest idea why he’d stuck around Davis Landing this long.

      Even coupled with the shabbier neighborhood of Hickory Mills by a pair of bridges spanning the Cumberland River, the graceful old community couldn’t have comprised more than thirty or forty thousand people. Although Nashville was “just around the bend,” as the locals stated it, living was pretty slow and easy in Davis Landing. Many nights Ethan did nothing more than park in front of the tube, but he figured this experience was worth at least six months of cooling his heels in Tennessee.

      From day one he’d wondered why this Hamilton daughter had chosen to hide her gentle beauty beneath boring hair and baggy flounced prints, allowing her delicate features to fade into the background. Her sisters had definitely learned to flaunt their looks. Well, okay, the little flirt Melissa flaunted, almost desperately so; Amy, on the other hand, projected, wearing her self-confidence like a mantle.

      As attractive as each was in her own way, though, Ethan saw that Heather was the real beauty of the family. She just didn’t seem to realize it.

      He couldn’t remember ever seeing her wear so much as a touch of lipstick, and while her medium brown hair was sleek and healthy looking, she never seemed to do anything with it. Letting it hang straight from that excruciatingly precise center part just made her slender face look longer and more narrow than it really was. He was liking the shaggy bangs and long, tapered layers that were taking shape now much better.

      While Fox painted highlights into Heather’s newly cut hair, Sheryl started trying foundation colors against her skin and Gayla commandeered her impossibly narrow feet, trying shoes on them until she found a size that would work, at least for the purposes of the photo shoot. Next Gayla laid out an array of clothing and accessories, while Sheryl polished Heather’s nails and Fox stuffed all those folded strips of tin foil beneath the soft hood of a portable hair dryer in order to speed the processing of the color. All the while, the makeover team discussed makeup, hairstyles and clothes.

      Their limited selections—after all, they’d come prepared for a different model—dictated some of their choices. Ellen dictated others—until she received a call on her cell phone and stepped out into the hallway to take it. Knowing what shots they’d tentatively chosen, Ethan felt justified in making a few suggestions in her absence.

      “That clingy red job would look great against that midnight blue light on stage.”

      Sheryl held a cherry red lipstick next to Heather’s creamy ivory skin. “Works for me.” She looked up at Fox for his verdict.

      “We’re not going orange, so the red ought to do.”

      “Oh, I—I don’t wear red well,” Heather objected. “It just sort of overpowers me.”

      Sheryl lifted a pierced eyebrow, declaring, “Well, sugar, you’re going to overpower it today.”

      Ethan managed to hide his grin behind the camera, saying, “What about those skinny black jeans and that little turquoise leather jacket with the red boots? We could park her on a bale of hay.”

      “The boots are too big,” Gayla said somberly.

      “She doesn’t have to dance in them,” Ethan pointed out. “She just has to keep them on long enough to get her picture taken. It’d be a great theme shot.”

      “Please God, don’t let them say the cowboy hat,” Heather muttered, which had Ethan chuckling.

      “Are we doing exteriors?” Sheryl wanted to know.

      Ethan dropped the camera that he held in his hands. “We talked about it, but I’m not sure. I’ll go ask Ellen.”

      He stepped out into the hall, only to find it empty. That wasn’t like Ellen. Usually she wanted to personally oversee every stroke of the mascara wand and click of the shutter. Shrugging, he ducked back into the dressing room.

      “Guess we play this one by ear.”

      Sheryl gave him a disgusted look. “Are we doing exterior shots or not?”

      Ethan glanced at a pair of white cuffed shorts and a filmy, lace-edged top that Gayla was holding up and figured, Why not?

      “Yeah. Yeah, we are.” He took one more look at that slinky red dress and made another decision. “Normally we’d start with the casual exterior shots, move into the foyer and then finish up on stage with that red number, but with our time running out, we’re going to have to reverse that. Can you handle it?”

      Sheryl dove into her makeup kit. “I’ll use a neutral brown shadow and cream lipstick so it wipes off easy.”

      “How much longer?” Ethan asked, checking his watch.

      Fox glanced at his timer. “Give us twenty-five minutes.”

      “And not a minute more,” Ethan warned. “I’m going to get set up.”

      He grabbed a pair of tripods, a reflector and a small electric fan before taking off for the auditorium at a dead run. His light meter was in his pocket. Thank goodness the Opry had state-of-the-art lighting.

      He was still playing with the set when Sheryl ran onto stage. Flinging out an arm she cried, “Ta-da!”

      Ethan looked around in time to see Fox and Gayla hauling Heather out of the wings and into the light. For a long minute all he could do was stare and hope his mouth wasn’t hanging open.

      The long strapless gown fit as though it had been handmade for her. The organza train of the slender skirt pooled gracefully around stiletto heels that he knew were too big but nevertheless elongated the slim leg revealed by a side slit. Crystals graced her delicate throat and wrist and dangled from her dainty earlobes, working in concert with the gleaming hair piled on top of her head and wisping about her face to call attention to the graceful length of her neck. Rich auburn highlights and sable eye shadow had turned her light-brown eyes into enormous amber orbs, while vivid red lipstick plumped and defined a lush mouth beneath that pert, classical nose.

      Right at the base of her neck, almost at her collarbone, was a small pinkish brown mark that she kept covering almost absently with her hand. A rose tattoo? he wondered, but no, Heather was not the sort to have that done. Strolling closer, he saw that it was a birthmark, irregular in shape, completely unique. Utterly fascinating.

      He’d known she was pretty, suspected that she could be beautiful in a soft, delicate fashion. He’d had no idea that she could be stunning, breathtaking even.

      “Talk about hiding your light under a bushel!”

      He didn’t realize he’d said it aloud until Heather gusted a nervous laugh.

      “That’s what my mom always says,” she admitted shyly, hunching her shoulders СКАЧАТЬ