The Makeover (11 page)

SIXTEEN

That weekend, Henry drove Camellia to Parson’s Lake, a ten-minute drive east of town. While the scenery along the way was just as woodsy and rural as the rest of Markleeville, upon reaching the lake, the real estate changed dramatically. The dwellings nearest to town were still small and shack-like, however, the houses bordering the far side of the lake were new and grand, with private docks and impressive multi-level decks. Camellia’s heart swelled.

Henry stopped the car about halfway along the west side of the lake, pulling into the driveway of a dilapidated wooden structure on a large, flat parcel of land.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’d much rather live in our cottage in downtown Markleeville than that rundown shanty, even on such a beautiful lake,” Camellia noted, frowning at the asphalt roof that was starting to cave in.

“Thankfully, you won’t have to do either. In less than nine months, we can have this shack knocked down and a gorgeous four bedroom, three bath home standing in its place.”

“I can barely believe it.”

“Come on.” Henry shut off the car, and the pair trudged through the snow around the back of the structure. The view was breathtaking, even on such an overcast day: the expansive water partially frozen and Zen-like, a gaggle of geese in flight overhead. The backdrop of fine homes was proof that civilized life was possible high up in Michigan’s mitten.

“I don’t get it,” Camellia said. “All these amazing homes. How come I never run into these people in town?”

“Because a number of them are summer homes,” Henry reminded. “Just wait. Once the weather warms up, it’s going to be a different world here.”

“Hmm.” Camellia wasn’t as worried as she once was to find people more like her in Markleeville. She had Shelby now. She had purpose. That was all she needed at the moment. That and the promise of a new home with Henry.

The following week, Shelby was ready for the next steps in her walk: adding music and getting some elevation. That Saturday night, after closing time at the diner, Camellia and Shelby stood on top of the counter, Rihanna’s “Don’t Stop the Music” blaring from the old radio. Only the counter lights were turned on, illuminating the makeshift runway. Dressed in her uniform of skinny denim and slouchy t-shirt, Shelby was also sporting four-inch Louboutin pumps on loan from Camellia.

“Models fall off runways,” Camellia spoke over Rihanna’s sexy whine. “Your job is to get so comfortable at this height, that a couple feet off the ground is child’s play to you.”

Shelby nodded but looked unsure. “What if I fall?”

“You won’t. Watch your feet the first couple of times. Count your steps. Know where you are the entire time and you won’t fall.”

“Okay.” Shelby moved slowly, as uncomfortable with the counter height as she was with her heel height. “Guess I need to give my flat boots a rest,” she called out, teetering along at a slow pace.

Camellia watched her student’s unsteady progress. “It’s all about getting comfortable in a new situation. You may feel out of your element at first, but eventually, if you keep working at it, you find your stride.”

Shelby kept at it for the next hour, each time down the counter becoming more natural and less scary. And then, in the middle of Estelle’s “American Boy”, Shelby did find her stride. With chin raised and shoulders back, she marched along the counter, with just the right amount of sway in her hips, hitting the end with a confident pose before pivoting and strutting back to Camellia, who flung her arms around Shelby in approval. A knock on the diner window pulled them from their celebration, and they turned to find a tall boy with messy chestnut-brown hair waving timidly at them.

“Friend of yours?” Camellia asked, noticing the blush on Shelby’s cheeks.

“Justin,” she whispered, unable to take her eyes off the boy.

Camellia stepped back and crossed her arms. “I think we’re done here. Why don’t you take off?”

Shelby bit her bottom lip. “Are you sure?” Her voice was hopeful.

“Yep,” Camellia replied, helping Shelby out of her shoes so she could climb down from the counter. “I’ll see you next week for photo posing. Oh wait.” She reached into the pocket of her blazer and pulled out a thin stack of cards. “My new business cards,” she said, handing them to Shelby. “Just on the off chance you run into anyone even half as stunning as you.”

Shelby smiled and shoved the cards deep into the pocket of her jeans. She pulled on her boots and grabbed her jacket and shoulder bag, digging around to locate the diner keys. She shut off the counter light and opened the door for Camellia, locking it behind them. Before Camellia could say another word, Shelby had already reached the boy, his hands lightly grazing her elbows, their smiles broad.
They’re sweet
, Camellia thought, remembering the look of young love. She hoped the boy would understand when Shelby relocated to New York. Infatuation was adorable at eighteen, but it couldn’t hold a candle to the life of an in-demand model.

SEVENTEEN

“Can I steal you away from your star pupil for an evening? We’ve been invited to a dinner party.” Henry said, rolling on top of Camellia and pinning her arms above her head.

“Dinner party?” Camellia said, intrigued. “I’m listening.”

Henry kissed her along her neck, pausing at her ear, his hot breath making her squirm. “At the home of our radiology group’s director.” He added, “On the lake.”

“With real refined people?” Camelli
a teased, kissing Henry full on the mouth.

“But, of course, my love. Refinement is the main course, with a slice of civility for dessert.” He let go of her arms and then led one south to his unzipped trousers. “It’s tomorrow night at seven,” he said, his voice husky.

Camellia pushed Henry off of her and sat up in bed. “Tomorrow night? Henry, have you seen my hair?” Her once glossy bob was now hanging lifeless below her shoulders, her dark roots taking up a significant portion of the top of her head.

“So go to the salon,” Henry replied matter-of-fact. “There’s one right in town. I’m sure they’ll make you good as new.” He pulled her on top of him. “Meanwhile, tonight, I’ll be making you good as new in a different way.”

“You are a cocky thing, aren’t you?” she cooed, succumbing to her husband’s touch. She supposed it was about time she patronized more of Markleeville’s businesses. Not everything could be as bad as the diner’s weak coffee.

At ten a.m. the following morning, Camellia stood in front of the town’s only beauty salon, regrettably named Do or Dye. For a moment, she considered taking her business to the barber shop next door, which was literally called The Barber Shop Next Door, but then decided the only thing barbers would know to do with foil was wrap a sandwich, so into Do or Dye she went.

A twenty-something girl stationed at the desk looked up at Camellia, her hair’s high-contrast mix of platinum blonde and black stopping Camellia in her tracks. “Do you have an appointment?” the girl asked, her tone bored.

Camellia glanced around the salon. A frail, elderly woman with tightly wound, blue-gray hair occupied one of six chairs, her hairdresser, clad in tapered jeans and a polo shirt, conversing with her loudly. Camellia was wondering if the old lady’s hair was at the before or after stage, when the hairdresser stepped behind her client and removed the brown cape from around her neck. “Oh God,” Camellia said, not intentionally meaning to make her dread public.

“Well hi there! Would you like a haircut today?” A raspy voice startled Camellia, and she turned to see a chubby woman of about thirty-five with thick, dark hair and a fringe of bangs. She held out her hand to Camellia. “I’m Deb, the owner.”

Camellia took a step back. “Um, no, actually,” she said, her voice wavering. “I think I’m in the wrong place. Sorry.” She fled to the diner, nearly colliding with Shelby at the door.

“Where are you off to in such a rush?” Shelby said brightly.

“Thank God you’re here,” Camellia said, taking Shelby by the arm. “I need your help.”

After a quick trip to the pharmacy, they were back at Camellia’s house, gathered at the kitchen counter with a box of at-home hair coloring. “Why do you trust me over someone who went to school for this?” Shelby questioned, tearing open the box and unfolding a large direction sheet.

“You had to see them. You would have understood,” Camellia said, shuddering as she recalled the experience.

Shelby slipped on the plastic gloves that were included in the box. “See who? Deb? She’s been doing my hair since I was thirteen.”

“Really?” Camellia promenaded around Shelby for a closer inspection of her hair. “Okay, but you don’t get your hair colored, do you?”

“No, but I have thought about it. Wouldn’t I look great with copper-colored hair?”

“No.” Camellia put a dark towel around her shoulders and sat on a high chair beside the peninsula. “You were born with perfect coloring. Don’t change a thing.”

“Ah, thanks!” Shelby expertly poured the contents of a tube into a half-filled bottle, put a finger over the tiny opening, and shook until the contents were blended.

“How do you know what you’re doing?”

Shelby carried the container over to Camellia and began carefully squeezing the contents onto her roots and rubbing it in gently with her index finger. “I’ve been coloring my mom’s hair forever. Then last month, she decided not to do it anymore. I guess she’s finally accepted the gray,” she said, working quickly. “Now that I think about it, I might be better at this than Deb. But don’t tell her I said that.”

Camellia appreciated that Shelby treated her warmly, rather than with a distance and respect that a mentor of her caliber usually received. Most girls who had interacted with Camellia had been either starstruck, terribly intimidated, or both. While Shelby was certainly a fan of
Flair
, and very aware of Camellia’s significance in the fashion world, her demeanor was always welcoming and downright friendly. Camellia was grateful for that, considering that Shelby was the closest interpretation she had of a friend.

Once Shelby had the coloring worked through Camellia’s hair, she set the oven timer and discarded the used bottles in the trash. “Twenty minutes and you’ll be a new woman,” she said.

“I don’t know about new, but hopefully improved,” Camellia mused, stepping down from the chair to put on a pot of coffee. “Tell me about your mom,” she said suddenly.

The question elicited a big smile from Shelby. “She’s amazing,” Shelby said, taking a seat on the other side of the peninsula. “It’s been just the two of us since I was a baby, and she’s always been there for me.”

“Since you were a baby?”

“Yeah, my dad – Richie – died in a hunting accident just before my first birthday.” Camellia looked horrified, causing Shelby to shake her head. “No, he wasn’t shot with a rifle or anything gruesome like that. He fell from a tree.”

“Hunting from a tree?”

“He was in a tree stand, waiting for deer. My mama said one of his buddies admitted he had been drinking all afternoon, so he probably lost his footing. Broke his neck in the fall.”

“That’s awful.” Camellia set out cups, sugar, and milk, trying to imagine a childhood without a parent. While her parents never understood her, at least they were always there to take care of her.

“I guess so. But I wasn’t aware, you know? And, with my mama, I never felt like I was missing something.”

“Have you told her about modeling?”

“Of course,” Shelby said, emphatically. “I tell her everything.”

“And what does she think?”

Shelby thought for a second, her brow furrowed. “Well, she hasn’t said much about it, actually. She’s been so busy getting the diner ready to sell.”

“She’s selling the diner?” The coffeemaker beeped, signaling the end of the brew cycle, and Camellia fetched it, pouring the hot liquid into both of their cups.

Shelby nodded. “Yes. She and my daddy opened the diner right after they got married. She says she’s been at it long enough.”

Camellia sipped her coffee deep in thought. “It’s funny how things work out, isn’t it? Just when your mom is selling the diner, you end up with an exciting new endeavor to pursue.”

“I guess you’re right.”

Before long, the oven timer was dinging, pulling them from their conversation. “Time to rinse!” Shelby exclaimed, taking a quick slurp from her cup before slipping the plastic gloves back on her hands.

After Camellia was rinsed, conditioned, and rinsed again, Shelby towel-dried her mentor’s hair before the women marched upstairs to check out the results in the bathroom mirror.

“You look great as a brunette,” Shelby noted, as Camellia examined Shelby’s work. “But why did you switch from the red? It was your signature.”

“I didn’t think I could manage a realistic red from an at-home kit,” Camellia explained, retrieving the hair dryer from under the sink. “Besides, this is more like my natural color. I had forgotten what I used to look like.”

Shelby grinned and checked her phone. “If it’s okay, I’d better get going. I have a date with Justin in about an hour.”

“Of course. What are you two doing today?” Camellia followed Shelby back down the stairs,
Shelby grabbing her down jacket and the Valentino bag from the coat rack.

“Taking a drive to Cadillac to see a movie. Maybe pizza, too
. How about you?”

“I’ll be searching my closet for something to wear to a dinner party at the lake tonight.”

“Oh, hanging out with The Snobs, huh?”

Camellia chuckled. “The Snobs?”

“That’s what we call the lake people,” Shelby explained, zipping her jacket. “The ones who live there year-round, anyway. They don’t like us town people. Always looking at us up and down like we’ve got the plague.”

Camellia felt her cheeks flush, suddenly ashamed of reacting in that very way to both Lisa and Deb. “I’m sure they’re not all snobs,” she suggested, a mix of hope and defensiveness evident in her voice.

“Oh yes, all of them. You’ll see for yourself tonight.”

Camellia gave Shelby a hug and opened the door for her, waving as the young beauty bounded down the front steps. She decided the news of her future move to the lake could wait for another day.