A Broken Kind of Beautiful (7 page)

His aunt knew exactly what words to use to distill his rising doubt. “Do I need to find hair and makeup people?”

“I’ve got it all arranged, honey. You just need to worry about the vision.”

Right, the vision. Something on which he used to thrive. But it had
been almost two years, and the only vision he’d explored during that time was helping Sara acclimate to her new normal. Now, all of a sudden, he needed to adopt Joan’s vision. Well, what if he couldn’t? Perhaps, in his attempt to bury his passion, he’d lost his gift. There was a very real possibility that Davis wasn’t good anymore.

“I’m convinced this is going to be brilliant. Remember, Sunday morning you’re to meet Candace for the private tour of the plantation, and if you could get me the storyboard by Tuesday, that would be great.”

The waitress reappeared, holding three plates of food. She set them down one by one. Joan picked up her fork and stabbed some greens. “Until then, it looks like there’s only one thing for you to do.”

He cleared his throat. “What’s that?”

“Get out that camera and practice.”

Davis sat in the middle of his living room, surrounded by the items he’d brought up from his basement storage closet. He pulled his Mamiya 645 from its case and grazed the digital back with his fingers. He’d bought the camera as a gift to himself, right before the
Vogue
photo shoot. He’d only used it that one time. He set it down and reached for the Nikon D2X—the cool weight familiar in his hands. How many fashion shows had he shot with that camera? He pulled the strap over his head and toyed with the zoom.

Leaving the camera dangling around his neck, he scooted himself around to examine the other odds and ends surrounding him. Firewire cable. Various attachable lenses. The Broncolor Impact and different-sized lighting stands. A minitripod, gaffer tape, elastic bands, polarizers to fit his lenses. Davis had worried he wouldn’t remember what everything was or how to use it all. He worried that two years might be too long. He ran his hand over the silky surface of a diffusion screen.

He’d worried for nothing.

Letting out a deep breath, he repacked the small items inside his gadget box, then folded up the light stands and umbrellas and slid them carefully into the carrying case. He put everything away until all that remained was the Nikon hanging around his neck—fully charged, black and smooth, resting against his chest. He walked to his sliding patio door and stepped out onto the third-story balcony.

His apartment complex overlooked Bay View Golf Course to the right, nature trails to the left, and a creek that divided them. In the distance, the sun dipped closer to the horizon, throwing sparkles over the creek and outlining a heron in pinks and oranges. Davis brought the camera to his eye and peered through the viewfinder. He pressed the shutter. His heart did a funny sort of pirouette as the camera captured the image.

He inhaled the humid evening air. How many times had his father taken him hiking or mountain climbing when they lived in Telluride? How many times had they walked mountain trails, searching for the right moment to capture God’s creation? They’d seen so many wonders on those walks—elk, mountain goats, a bright-purple flower growing up from a patch of snow. A million and one sunsets and sunrises, all captured and cataloged in his memory.

Dad used to say that God gift-wrapped His creation for the world. But in the hustle and bustle of day-to-day living, people didn’t stop to unwrap the gift.

“That’s why it’s up to you to keep your eyes open, Davis. All the time, keep those eyes open. Search for those moments.”
Dad wasn’t exceptionally talented with the camera. His passion for the craft stood out more than his mastery, which is why he worked maintenance. Making a living off photography had never been an option for his father.

But Davis? He was different.

“God gave you a special eye for His beauty. You see things the rest of us don’t,”
Dad would tell him.
“It’s an important gift. So you keep those eyes open, son. You capture His beauty, and then you share it with the world. Because this world’s hurting, Davis. They’re lost and dying and searching for something special. God wants you to help them see it.”

Davis’s throat tightened at the memories.
I failed, Dad
.

He hadn’t captured God’s beauty. He’d captured the world’s. Instead of sharing grace and truth, he publicized sensuality and lust. He hadn’t just buried his gift in the sand; he’d made it into an idol. He’d used it for his own glory and, in the process, caused irrevocable damage. He dropped his chin to his chest.

Help me find a way back, Lord. Show me how to become that kid again, the one in the woods who took pictures for You
.

The prayer felt hopeless. He wasn’t a little kid. He was a man. A man who’d made mistakes—not accidents, but choices. Willful choices. The kind that proved how unfit he was to do anything with photography but mess up.

8

Marilyn’s mind refused to settle. She spent the night turning over in her giant bed, catching the faint yet jarring scent of James’s expensive cologne on his pillow, staring at the clock until a restless sleep eventually caught and released her much too quickly. One minute the clock read 1:27 and the next it read 4:32, only she didn’t feel as though she’d fallen asleep at all. She forced herself to stay in bed until 4:58, then gave up altogether.

By a quarter past seven, she had prepared the guest apartment that she and James had added over their garage three years ago—changing sheets, vacuuming the floor, scrubbing an already spotless bathroom, even sanitizing the refrigerator in the kitchenette. She’d taken her morning speed walk with Nancy, a friend from book club. She’d read from her Bible, spent time in prayer, eaten breakfast, balanced her checkbook, and showered.

Sara wasn’t even awake yet.

Now Marilyn sat in the middle of her bed with Georgia, her white Pomeranian, in her lap, a conglomeration of photographs and magazine cutouts that she’d collected throughout the years spread in front of her. Marilyn picked up a glossy four by six and brushed her thumb over Ivy’s skinny legs, jeans rolled halfway up her shins as she sat in a pedi chair and looked down at her feet soaking in the foot bath. It was her first weekend visit, when God let loose His holy shout and tipped Marilyn’s world on its axis. It was a visit that never would have happened if not for her morbid curiosity.

But what woman wouldn’t have been curious?

Discovering her husband of fourteen years not only had a mistress but a child with that mistress? A cruel twist of fate. One that had her questioning the God she worshiped with an increasing sense of devotion over the years. What woman in that situation wouldn’t want to at least see the child?
No matter how much James resisted, no matter how much her parents cautioned, Marilyn could not let it go. Her husband had a daughter. She could forgive him his infidelity, as hard as that was to do, but she could not forgive him for so easily dismissing his flesh and blood. So she insisted with an insistence that frayed their tenuous marriage—the first time she’d ever really insisted upon anything—and miraculously she got her way.

Ivy came. James hid in his office. And Marilyn fell in love.

Sixteen years had passed between then and now, yet she could still remember the way her stomach felt as she led Ivy up the stairs into one of the guest bedrooms. She could remember the uncertainty of Ivy’s movements, the way her large eyes seemed to observe and absorb everything. She was so shy, so quiet as Marilyn helped her unpack the clothes and toothbrush from her Cinderella backpack.

“I promise I’m not a wicked stepmother.” A nervous laugh followed Marilyn’s words, one that sounded much too loud in the silence. She hadn’t expected such overwhelming feelings. Was still processing them, in fact. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Have you ever gotten a pedicure?”

Ivy looked at the deep-rouge nail polish on her toenails, chipped and worn, and shook her head. Marilyn wondered if Ivy painted them herself or if Ivy’s mother had—Renee, the other woman.

Marilyn scratched at a blemish on the bedpost. “Would you like to get one?”

Ivy nodded.

So that’s what they did.

Ivy picked out a bubblegum-pink polish, and the Vietnamese pedicurist even glued gemstones on her big toenails in the shape of a heart. She didn’t say much beyond “Yes, please” and “No, thank you,” but it didn’t matter. The way she smiled down at her feet, spreading and wiggling her toes as the gemstones caught the light, filled Marilyn with nonsensical joy. Perhaps there was grace to be found in this mess after all.

When they arrived home, their Gullah maid had the entire house smelling like jambalaya, and James sat out in the great room watching a baseball game. As soon as he saw them, his relaxed posture went rigid. He shut off the television and stood.

“James,” Marilyn said, stopping him before he could make his exit, “look at Ivy’s toenails. Aren’t they pretty?”

James ran a finger beneath his collar. “They look nice.”

Had he taken the time to look at his daughter’s face, he would have seen the blush spreading across her cheeks. He would have seen the way she leaned toward him like a flower hungry for the sun.

But he didn’t look.

As Ivy watched him disappear into his office, her hopeful expression melting away, a nearly irrepressible urge came over Marilyn. She wanted to gather Ivy into her arms and hug away the hurt. But that might make her uncomfortable, and Marilyn didn’t want to make Ivy uncomfortable. So instead she said, “His work keeps him very busy.”

At the time, it was her subtle attempt to assure Ivy that it wasn’t her; it was James. He was the problem. Now, with sixteen years of wisdom in her stead, she heard the words for what they were—a weak excuse. Words she wished she could take back.

A soft knock sounded on her door, pulling her from the reverie. Georgia lifted her head off Marilyn’s knee and let out a yip. Marilyn quickly swept the photographs into a pile and placed them back inside a cherry wood box meant for recipes.

The housekeeper stuck her head inside. “Good morning, Marilyn.”

“Good morning, Annie.”

“The guest apartment looks mighty clean.”

“I may have tidied up a bit.”

Annie smiled knowingly. “Would you like me to bring some flowers up?”

Marilyn closed the lid to the box and scooted to the edge of the bed.
“That’s okay. I have some time before I have to leave for the boutique. I can put something together.”

She went out to the garden and gathered a bouquet of rhododendrons. They weren’t indigenous to the South. They required more tending and care than the others. But Marilyn grew them anyway. She had for fourteen years—ever since she found out they were Ivy’s favorite.

Davis twisted off the outside water valve and rolled up the hose. The ladies’ bathroom had a leaky pipe under the right-side sink that needed tightening, and after that, he’d check out the oak tree jutting over the parking lot. Pastor Voss suspected a lightning strike last week and worried that some of the branches had snapped loose. Davis looped his arm through the rolled hose, hoisted it onto his shoulder, made his way to the church’s storage shed, and told himself he wasn’t stalling. If a tree limb crushed somebody’s car during tomorrow’s service, he’d never forgive himself.