The Makeover (13 page)

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 w
hipped 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, as 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.

“Sharene!” Camellia exclaimed, steadying her footing. “Fantastic timing. I have Shelby’s comp cards and she looks amaz–“

“Leave,” Sharene hissed, causing Camellia to reel back. “Take those ridiculous cards and your fancy lifestyle back to New York and stay away from my daughter.”

With jaw dropped, Camellia searched Sharene’s drawn face for an explanation but all she found was loathing. “Sharene, I don’t understand. I thought you and Shelby were going to move to New York together. The timing of selling the diner is so perfect.”

“Is it?” Sharene’s lips curled into a snarl. “You are so consumed with what you want, you never stop to see the affect your actions are having on everyone else.”

Camellia was horrified. “Excuse me? What are you talking about?”

“I keep close tabs on my daughter. I know where she goes on dates and I know what magazines she reads. You singlehandedly destroyed
Flair
with your tunnel vision. It was all about you – to hell with the employees counting on a paycheck. You were going to do what you wanted to do, no matter the consequences. But not with my daughter.”

Camellia took a deep breath, steadying both her anger and the whirlwind of dialog playing out in her head. “You misunderstand me,” she said, having regained her composure. “I sincerely value your daughter. I would never hurt her.”

“You already have.”

“How?”

“By making her believe she has a future outside Markleeville.”

“She
does
. Why are you so eager to keep her here?”

Sharlene’s distorted face softened, turning downward like a bloodhound. “Because I need her more than you do.” She opened the diner door and motioned Camellia inside.

Half an hour later, Camellia emerged from the diner, her eyes rimmed red. The dim gray light of the evening sky filtered downtown Markleeville, making it look as lonely as it felt. She stumbled along the sidewalk, not concerned with direction or the cold wind biting at her hands and face.

“Camellia?” The sound of her name pulled Camellia from her daze. She glanced around and saw Lisa standing in the doorway of her shop, waving her over, her expression one of concern. Camellia met her eyes and started to cry. “Hold on honey, I’m coming for you,” Lisa called out, scurrying across the street. Upon reaching Camellia, Lisa put an arm around her shoulder and led her back to the store. “It’s far too cold for man or beast out here today,” she said. “A perfect occasion to dip into my brandy stash.”

The store was empty, save for Deb, the owner of Do or Dye. Camellia recalled how she had practically run for her life from Deb’s salon, making her cry harder.

“Sweetie, what is it?” Lisa asked, sitting Camellia in a chair next to the dressing room and disappearing into the back, reemerging in seconds with a brandy bottle and paper cups.

“I’m an awful person,” Camellia sobbed into her hands. “An awful person with no life.”

Lisa and Deb exchanged looks. “I think we’re going to need more than a half-full bottle of brandy,” Deb declared.

“We need Doc’s,” Lisa affirmed.

“And how.”

The women grabbed Camellia’s hands and pulled her to her feet. “I don’t need a doctor,” she insisted, as the tears continued to run down her face, cutting paths through her foundation.

“This one you do,” Lisa assured, pulling Camellia out the back door and loading her into a red pickup truck. She climbed into the driver’s seat, Deb jumped in on the other side, and Lisa took off, her tires spitting gravel in their wake. One stop down the interstate, they landed at Doc’s Roadhouse.

Once the ladies had vodka in their glasses, and Deb convinced the bartender to leave the rest of the bottle on their table, Camellia started talking.

“I thought I had it all figured out,” she said, frowning at her glass. “Shelby was my way back in. My redemption. She was going to take the modeling world by storm, and as the one who discovered her and molded her, I would be welcomed back
into the society that had once shunned me.”

“Why would you want to go back to them?” Lisa questioned, dipping into the bowl of salted peanu
ts. “They sound like a bunch of rat bastards.”

Camellia cracked a smile. “They really are. Most of them, anyway.”

“So why do you care?” Deb asked gruffly.

“I don’t know,” Camellia admitted, sipping her drink. “It doesn’t matter now. Shelby won’t be going to New York anytime soon. Sharene has breast cancer.”

Lisa and Deb gasped. “Oh that poor woman,” Deb said, shaking her head. “She’s had it so tough, losing her husband so young, and having to raise a daughter by herself while running that diner day in and day out. How’s Shelby taking the news?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure she knows. Sharene confronted me outside the diner, telling me I was taking her daughter from her. I don’t think she was planning on announcing it.” Camellia wiped at her nose with the bar napkin. “I didn’t know,” she whispered. “I really didn’t know.”

Lisa patted Camellia’s hand. “Of course you didn’t. How could you have? Fear makes us do crazy things, honey. From yelling at a perfectly nice stranger to putting all our hopes and dreams into one girl’s modeling career.”

Camellia stared at her drink. It was true. She had put her entire career in the hands of an eighteen-year-old girl. “I don’t know what to do now,” she admitted.

“You can be a friend to Shelby,” Deb suggested in a kind manner. “She doesn’t have many friends.”

Camellia looked up at the women, stunned by this news. “Really? She’s so friendly.”

Lisa spit a piece of ice back into her glass. “You know how girls can be: gorgeous child, standing taller than everyone in her class, not a mean bone in her perfectly proportioned body.”

“They shut her out.”

Deb grabbed the bottle and refilled their glasses. “Like a stray cat.”

“Which explains why she’s so tight with her mom,” Lisa continued. “Sharene was her only companion for years.”

“And now?” Camellia asked.

“She’s been dating Justin for a couple of years,” Lisa said. “He’s a good kid. Runs the family farm.”

“And then she met you,” Deb said, waving her glass at Camellia. “Never seen her happier.”

Camellia’s heart lightened at that. Until now, she hadn’t considered that Shelby had become more to her than a client. But she had. She felt at ease around the girl, even able to let her guard down, to some extent, anyway. Shelby Jenkins may have been an unlikely friend – a young, small-town girl with no life experience – but she had become a friend just the same. And that friendship had been key in helping her adjust to Markleeville.

A thought stirred in Camellia and she glanced up at the two women, who were starting to look a little fuzzy through her buzz. “I’ve been kind of a shithead to you both. Why are you being so nice to me?”

Deb let out a whoop and slapped the table. “Sweetie, you were kind of a shithead, but Lisa and I don’t operate by holding grudges. This is a small town. We have to stick together.”

“Besides,” Lisa added, throwing back the rest of her drink. “We know what you’ve been through. That would turn any of us into shitheads; at least temporarily.”