Butterfly Summer
Arlene James
THE GOSSIP GURU has some shocking news: devout Wallace Hamilton, head of rival newspaper the Davis Landing Dispatch, is not Jeremy Hamilton's father! Word is, his wife was already pregnant when they wed and now that Jeremy has learned the truth, he's quit. Who'll run the company while Wallace is in the hospital? In more Hamilton news, quiet Heather has had a makeover - who knew she was so stunning?Maybe photographer Ethan Danes, who seems to have taken an interest in Heather now that she's started this butterfly summer.
He’d known she was pretty, suspected that Heather 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!” Ethan didn’t realize he’d said it aloud until Heather gusted out a nervous laugh.
“That’s what my mom always says,” she admitted shyly.
“Listen up, boss lady. When I tell you to walk, I want long, fluid strides. Walk forward. Look up. Stop. Half turn.”
Heather had been around enough photo shoots to know the drill, so he wasn’t worried. Click after click, he shot two rolls in rapid succession, moving from one camera to another.
“Ladies and gentleman,” he muttered to himself, “a star is born.”
DAVIS LANDING:
Nothing is stronger than a family’s love
ARLENE JAMES
says, “Camp meetings, mission work and the church where my parents and grandparents were prominent members permeate my Oklahoma childhood memories. It was a golden time, which sustains me yet. However, only as a young, widowed mother did I truly begin growing in my personal relationship with the Lord. Through adversity, He blessed me in countless ways, one of which is a second marriage so loving and romantic, it still feels like courtship!”
The author of over sixty novels, Arlene James now resides outside of Dallas, Texas, with her husband. Arlene says, “The rewards of motherhood have indeed been extraordinary for me. Yet I’ve looked forward to this new stage of my life.” Her need to write is greater than ever, a fact that frankly amazes her, as she’s been at it since the eighth grade!
Butterfly Summer
Arlene James
To Kathryn Springer, Irene Hannon, Valerie Hansen, Patricia Davids and Lenora Worth, a great group with whom to work. Your creativity, dedication and cooperation are much appreciated.
God bless, Arlene.
Bless the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless His holy name. Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all His benefits: Who pardons all your iniquities, Who heals all your diseases.
—Psalms 103:1–3
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Epilogue
Letter to Reader
Questions for Discussion
Prologue
Heather stuck her nose into the elaborate bouquet and inhaled deeply, but not even the beauty of the flowers or their heady aroma could dispel the anesthetic odor of a hospital, however well-appointed the room. Decorated in jewel tones with dark cherry furnishings, the spacious suite where her father had taken up residence and endured test after test had become a place of tension and worry for her and the remainder of the Hamilton family.
She closed her eyes and sent a silent prayer heavenward. Gracious Lord God, please don’t let it be serious.
She had uttered or thought the words so often over these past few difficult days that they had become a private litany, and still she could not quite fathom the idea that Wallace Hamilton might actually be seriously ill.
Tall and urbanely handsome, with his thick silver hair, dark eyes and long, patrician face, he had always seemed larger than life. At fifty-nine, Wallace was still a force to be reckoned with, not only within the Hamilton family but also within the publishing world, at least that part of it centered here in Tennessee.
Now his expensive, expertly tailored suits had given way to silk pajamas and his lean, fit frame had begun to appear gaunt. Yet Heather could not believe that he wouldn’t soon rise, button on one of his famously pristine white shirts, knot his silk tie and stride off to once again control Hamilton Media, the family company that he’d built into a small empire from the weekly newspaper established by his grandfather.
Her mother, Nora, entered the sitting room from the bedchamber beyond, pulling the heavy door closed behind her. Petite and elegant, Nora looked more like Heather’s sister than her mother, despite the silver threading the shoulder-length gold of her hair and the new shadows around her enormous hazel eyes.
While Heather herself looked older than her twenty-seven years, her mother could easily pass for forty rather than fifty-five. Heather accepted without question the fact that she had not inherited her mother’s pale beauty. It was more important to her that she take after her mother in other ways, because there was no one in the world whom she admired more than Nora Hamilton.
Her mother might appear tiny and elfin, but she possessed a backbone of steel and a fiercely protective nature, which any mother of six required. She routinely placed herself between the world and her family, shielding them all with prayer, showering them with love and guiding them with pragmatic wisdom. She could not, however, protect them from illness. Only God, in His infinite mercy, could do that.
Today they would learn whether Wallace had been spared the worst or if God would allow the specter of death to hover over him.
Nora folded her arms and looked around the room at her grown children, hugging herself tight. “The doctors are with your father now. He wanted to hear the news alone. They’ll be out to speak to us next.”
“It’s going to be all right, Mom,” Amy, Heather’s older sister, said from the sofa.
Melissa, the youngest, promptly rose from her seat on the arm of the sofa and shoved her hand into the pocket of her frayed jeans, asking, “Anyone want a cola?”
“You just finished a cola,” Timothy, the second-oldest brother, pointed out, pushing away from the wall and bringing his hands to his hips.
Tim was the Hamilton most like Wallace. As vice president of Hamilton Media, he had little time or patience for anything that took him away from the business except family. Unfortunately, he seemed to resent that their oldest brother, Jeremy, who had a more mellow disposition, had been handed the reins of the business when Wallace had entered the hospital. It didn’t help that they’d recently uncovered an embezzlement scheme by one of their most trusted employees, who also happened to be a good friend of Jeremy’s.
“Yeah, well, I’m having another,” Melissa retorted, striding rapidly from the room, ostensibly headed for the vending machine down the hall.
Heather suspected that she just couldn’t bear the pressure any longer. Melissa resembled Amy in looks, both having inherited their blond hair and enormous, doelike eyes from their mother. But unlike Amy, who at thirty was senior managing editor of the family-owned Nashville Living magazine, twenty-three-year-old Melissa was something of a wild child.
Christopher, Heather’s twin brother, rose to his full six-foot height and crossed the room to their mother, whom he enfolded in his muscular embrace. With his dark, wavy hair and burly build, he couldn’t have looked less like Heather if he’d tried, especially when wearing his policeman’s uniform. Something about that dark-blue suit of clothes, with its gun belt and tools, added consequence to his already impressive stature, especially when he was standing next to their petite mother.
“Amy’s right,” Chris told Nora. “No matter what the doctors have to say, everything’s going to work out for the best.”
Nora nodded. “God takes care of His own.”
“No doubt about it.”
The door opened at Nora’s back. She and Christopher stepped aside to allow the doctors into the room. One of them, an older man with thinning steel gray hair, Heather had never seen before. He had to be the specialist Luke Strickland had called in from Nashville. Dr. Strickland himself was well-known to them. In his midthirties, with dark hair and eyes, the tall, handsome, charismatic physician had quickly won the respect and trust of the entire family.
It was Dr. Strickland who swept his gaze over the family. “I’ve just spoken with Wallace, explained our diagnosis and outlined our treatment options.”
Heather glanced at Amy, a knot of dread coiling tight in her stomach.
“How bad is it?” Tim demanded, but Jeremy stepped forward, forestalling any reply.
“Hold on a minute, Luke.” At a lean six feet and two inches, Jeremy was the tallest of the three Hamilton brothers. He had the same dark, wavy hair as the other two, but instead of brown eyes, his were a vibrant, piercing blue. The eldest at thirty-five, his calm, confident manner and quiet, evenhanded leadership had made him a favorite at Hamilton Media. Yet he and Tim seemed eternally at odds. “Melissa needs to hear this, too. Give me a minute to get her in here.”
Tim rolled his eyes, obviously impatient with the delay. Fortunately, Melissa walked into the room just then. She took in the heavy atmosphere and threw out one hip, a soft-drink bottle clutched in one hand.
“Are we having a wake or what?”
“Melissa!” Tim scolded.
Melissa immediately colored. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Jeremy tossed Tim a look and laid a hand on Melissa’s forearm, effectively quelling both before nodding at Dr. Strickland.
The younger doctor folded his hands and spread his feet slightly, balancing his weight. “I want you all to understand that the treatment options for your father’s condition have greatly improved in the last few years.”
Nora closed her eyes at that foreboding announcement. Jeremy immediately crossed the room to stand beside her and Christopher. Amy rose from the sofa, the fitted jacket of her stylish suit pulling taut across her slender shoulders as she folded her arms protectively. Heather tucked her hair behind her ears and hid her trembling hands in the voluminous folds of her full skirt.
Please, God, she prayed. Please. Oh, please.
“How bad is it?” Jeremy asked softly.
Luke Strickland swept the room with his dark, compassionate gaze before nodding to the other doctor. The specialist took one small step forward, lifted his chin and changed all their lives.
“Your father has leukemia.”
Chapter One
The door into the corridor opened and Dr. Luke Strickland strode through it, bristling with purpose. In the weeks since Wallace’s diagnosis, Heather had come to greatly appreciate the good doctor’s utter devotion to his profession and his deft bedside manner. She couldn’t help thinking that the Hamiltons and the Davis Landing Community General Medical Center were blessed to have him, despite the fact that he again wore that carefully blank expression which she had come to dread.
“Is everyone here?” he asked without preamble.
Timothy stopped his pacing long enough to frown. “All but one—as usual.” Tossing out his hands, he demanded of no one in particular, “Where is Melissa?”
“You didn’t seriously expect her to show up, did you?” Jeremy asked mildly.
Tim fixed his brother with his intense brown gaze and lifted an eyebrow imperiously. “Today, considering what’s at stake, yes.”
The pair were often at odds, but these days they just couldn’t seem to keep from butting heads, whether over Hamilton Media or the family itself, and Heather quickly moved to intervene in her own mild-mannered fashion.
“I called her cell before I came up in the elevator. No answer. I don’t think she’s coming.”
“Well, that’s just great,” Tim grumbled, folding his arms.
“It’s probably for the best, actually,” Heather offered quietly. She glanced at her twin, Chris, expecting and receiving his silent support. “You know Melissa doesn’t do hospitals well.”
In truth, Melissa had been edgy and distant ever since their father’s diagnosis. More often than not, she seemed to try to escape her problems rather than face them head on, and that appeared to be the case today. That was an issue that would have to be addressed at another time, though. Heather decided that she would have a private talk with her baby sister as soon as the opportunity presented itself.
“I suggest we just get on with it,” Amy said pragmatically.
Her senior by three years, Amy was also Heather’s boss at the magazine. Unlike Tim, though, Heather didn’t mind yielding authority to an older sibling. Amy was everything that Heather herself was not, a high achiever, self-assured, even forceful, not to mention well-groomed, stylish, graceful. In many ways, she was Timothy’s female equivalent, except that she had been blessed with their mother’s beauty and was blond and blue-eyed, whereas Tim was dark like their father.
Heather, on the other hand, was just…Heather. Mousy, meek and quiet, stuck in the middle, always living too much inside her own head and content to be there.
It had always been that way. Even in high school, Heather had been the sister who’d disappeared into the woodwork, while Amy had been elected homecoming queen and most popular. Heather had persecuted herself with envy back in those days. Eventually, however, she’d come to accept that God had a different role for her.
As a result she’d managed to avoid jealous feelings for their beautiful blond, but troubled, baby sister. The others considered Melissa overly dramatic and rebellious, which she could be, but Heather sensed a deep well of pain in her, especially lately. Then again, their father’s illness had shaken them all.
Dr. Strickland led the way from the sitting area into the bedroom of the hospital suite, with Jeremy, Tim and Amy following in that order. Heather and Chris crowded in behind them. Their mother stood at their ailing father’s bedside, looking decades younger than her husband of thirty-five years, which just pointed out how very ill he was. Heather went straight to Nora’s side and squeezed her hand.
During the weeks of her father’s hospitalization, Heather had grown even closer to her mother. She supposed it was natural since she and Nora were often the only ones rattling around the house these days, especially after Vera Mae, their housekeeper and cook of many years, went home for the evening. The longer Wallace was ill, the more Melissa seemed to stay away. The other four Hamilton siblings had moved out years ago, keeping apartments and penthouses around town.
Nora momentarily laid her head on Heather’s shoulder in a gesture of affection, then lifted her cheeks to receive supportive kisses from her other children. She slid a look around the room.
“Melissa?”
Heather gave her head a slight shake, feeling her long brown hair ruffle against her shoulders.
“Did you call the house?” Nora asked.
“She wasn’t there when I left, so I called her cell instead,” Heather said. “No answer.”
Nora sighed and smiled wanly at Dr. Strickland, gripping her husband’s hand. “Go ahead, Luke. What do the latest tests say?”
“Have we beaten it?” Wallace demanded, cutting straight to the heart of the matter.
His silver hair had thinned over the past weeks and would soon begin to come out in clumps if they had to continue the chemotherapy.
To Heather’s dismay, Luke Strickland shook his head.
“I’m sorry. The leukemia has not responded to treatment.”
Nora gasped, and Heather closed her eyes. Standing behind them, Chris lifted protective hands, resting one upon her shoulder and the other upon their mother’s.
As a police officer, Chris alone had not gone into the family business, finding nothing at either Nashville Living magazine or its sister publication, the Davis Landing Dispatch newspaper, to spark his interest. Tall and dark like his brothers and just as intelligent, Chris was somehow more physical than either of them. He was also devout in his faith, though his work schedule made regular church attendance more difficult for him than for Jeremy, whom Heather could always count upon to join her and their mother for services.
It was Amy who asked the pertinent question, “What can we do, doctor?”
“The next step is the bone marrow transplant, isn’t it?” Jeremy said.
The doctor nodded. “Yes. In fact, it’s our only other option at this point.”
“Then what are we waiting for?” Tim demanded impatiently. “I assume that the sooner it’s done the better.”
“That’s true,” Dr. Strickland agreed, his gaze moving purposefully around the room before coming to rest on Wallace himself. “Unfortunately, none of you is a perfect match.”
Heather covered her mouth with a trembling hand as Nora swayed before abruptly stiffening her spine.
“What does that mean?” Amy asked quietly.
“That we have to go to the national database for a suitable donor,” the doctor explained.
“How long will that take?” Tim wanted to know.
Dr. Strickland shook his head. “That’s impossible to say. We’ll match him as quickly as possible, though.”
“People wait years for transplants,” Amy murmured, frowning.
“That’s true,” the doctor informed her, “but your father’s condition is sufficiently grave to put him at the top of the list. I have to warn you, though, that if we don’t find that perfect match soon, we may have to go with our second choice and hope for the best. Time is our enemy here.”
“But we do have some time, don’t we?” Nora asked with obvious desperation.
“Some. We’re not beat yet, and while we’re looking for that perfect donor we’ll keep him comfortable and support him with appropriate treatments.”
“Meaning more needles, I suppose,” Wallace groused.
Unruffled, the doctor smiled compassionately. “As if a little thing like a needle ever intimidated you.”
Wallace humphed. “Entirely beside the point. No pun intended.”
“We’re going to beat this,” Nora declared insistently, ignoring her husband’s weak attempt to inject some normalcy into a nightmarish situation.
“Goes without saying,” Wallace retorted, waving his free hand dismissively, but Heather noted that his knuckles were white where they gripped her mother’s fingers.
“Mom’s right,” Heather said softly. “We’ll just keep praying and trusting God. He knows how much we need you, Daddy.”
“Thank you, dear. Now, if that’s all, doctor, there are more important matters to consider at the moment.”
Heather bit back a groan, knowing what was coming, just as did everyone else in the room, including Nora. Well or ill, Wallace would always be about Hamilton Media. Heather took comfort in knowing that nothing had changed in that regard. Nora, whose primary concern would always be the well-being of her family, obviously did not.
“Wallace, I forbid you to worry about business at a time like this.”
He sent her an affectionate, amused glance. “Might as well forbid me to die, sugar, which, by the way, is something else I have no intention of doing anytime soon.”
Tammy Franklin entered the room just then through a second door that opened onto the corridor. Busily efficient, the petite, pretty nurse checked the bedside monitors and the IV line at the patient’s wrist, her blue eyes flicking intently from equipment to patient. Wallace ignored her, fastening his dark gaze on his eldest child.
“Jeremy, I want to know why you haven’t signed that contract with the new accounting firm.”
Jeremy squared his shoulders and calmly replied, “Because I don’t believe it’s in the best interest of the company. Why pay to have done what we already do so well ourselves?”
“Well?” Tim echoed disbelievingly. “How can you say that?”
The whole family knew that Curtis Resnick, a trusted employee, had betrayed both the company and the family—and Jeremy, in particular—by embezzling thousands of dollars.
“We have adequate oversights in place now,” Jeremy insisted.
“Nevertheless, doing our own accounting is what allowed the problem to develop in the first place,” Wallace stated sharply.
“What makes you think an outside accounting firm will be any more honest than our own employees?” Jeremy countered. “The people left in that department are faithful and loyal. They had no part in what happened. They deserve to keep their jobs.”
“Jeremy’s right,” Chris put in. “It’s not fair to punish a whole department for one person’s malfeasance.”
“You have no say in this matter!” Wallace snapped. “Since you opt to put yourself in danger every day rather than take your place in the company—worrying your mother sick in the process, I might add—you have no right to comment.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Dad,” Chris said carefully. “Nevertheless, I agree with Jeremy.”
“You would,” Tim muttered.
“Meaning what exactly, Timothy?” Jeremy asked, sounding genuinely perplexed. “That he takes his faith too seriously for your comfort?”
“Please, boys, that’s enough,” Nora pleaded. “Now is not the time. Your father is too ill for this.”
“I am not too ill to look after the welfare of the company!” Wallace insisted. “My father and grandfather devoted their lives to Hamilton Media, and I simply will not allow a momentary physical weakness to harm it in any way!”
“Please, Daddy,” Heather interjected softly. “If you can trust God with your health, surely you can trust Him and your sons to take care of the company for a while.”
Wallace grimaced shamefacedly. “You’re right, you’re right. It’s just that…” He passed a hand across his forehead, and Nora followed it with one of her own. “I feel so helpless, stuck here in this bed.”
“All the more reason you should rest and let us take care of things,” Tim said.
“Good advice,” the doctor agreed.
“Have a little faith, Dad,” Jeremy put in. “We won’t let you down.”
“Not that faith is an adequate substitute for hard work and dedication,” Tim muttered, and Heather inwardly winced.
Jeremy immediately bristled. “Are you implying that I’m not dedicated, that I don’t work hard enough?”
Tim had the grace to look abashed. “I didn’t say that.”
“You might as well have, so let me remind you, little brother, that I hold the reins at Hamilton Media now.”
“Then do what you should,” Tim demanded. “Bite the bullet and sign that accounting contract!”
“It’s my decision, Tim, and I’m not bound by your opinions.”
“I have a right to my opinions!”
“Please!” Nora interjected sternly. “Now is not the time.”
“We’re all too upset at the moment for this discussion,” Amy interjected reasonably.
“Confound it, this is important!” Wallace bellowed, turning red in the face.
“That’s it,” Dr. Strickland interrupted, placing a quelling hand on Wallace’s chest. “Take it outside, if you please. And you…” He wagged an admonishing finger at the patient. “Calm down. You need to rest.”
Amy stepped up to the bed and bent to press a kiss to Wallace’s forehead.
“At least try to follow the doctor’s orders,” she urged, a wry smile curling her pretty mouth.
“And don’t worry,” Jeremy said. “Everything’s going to be fine.”
Wallace nodded curtly, his jaw working.
“I’ll walk you out,” Nurse Franklin said politely but firmly, herding them all toward the door.
Chris was the first to move toward it, saying, “I’m picking up a little overtime tonight, so I’ll see you tomorrow, Dad.”
“Call if you need anything, Mom,” Amy said, following on Christopher’s heels.
“Yes, of course, sweetheart,” Nora murmured. Then she abruptly lifted a hand, stopping everyone in their tracks. “If you talk to your sister,” she dictated firmly, “go easy on her. Melissa is still very young, you know.”
Tim huffed but didn’t argue. Chris traded looks with Heather and went out. Amy nodded, smiled and, with a final wistful glance at their father, followed Christopher.
Jeremy hugged Nora, whispering, “I know you’ll take care of him. Just be sure to take care of yourself, too.”
“Don’t worry about me,” she returned, cupping his cheek with one hand.
Heather squeezed her mother’s delicate shoulder and kissed her father, while Tim stood glowering at the foot of their father’s bed.
“It may be his right to make the decision,” Tim said to Wallace, “but we both know that signing that contract is best for the business, and I don’t intend to let him forget it.”
Wallace slowly blinked his eyes in acknowledgment but said nothing until Timothy had left the room. Heather moved to follow him, hearing her father murmur what sounded like, “Maybe Jeremy shouldn’t have the right.”
Nora gasped, and Heather immediately halted. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Wallace shook his head, but then he blurted, “It’s still my company! Jeremy’s only in charge temporarily, Nora.” Frowning, he muttered, “And maybe I made a mistake with that.”
Obviously shaken, Nora whispered, “Wallace, what are you saying? Jeremy’s the eldest, and just because he does things differently than you, doesn’t mean he isn’t capable.”
“I know, I know,” he mumbled, his great energy and strength of will abruptly waning. “It’s just that knocking on death’s door makes you rethink some things.” His head fell back against the pillow, and Dr. Strickland reached for his pulse.
“I really must insist that you rest now. Nora, that goes for you, too.”
With a last tender kiss, Nora turned from the bedside and ushered her middle daughter into the sitting room, pulling the door closed behind her.
“Oh, Heather,” she whispered. “He’s so weak.”
“In body, perhaps, but not in spirit.”
Nora smiled wryly. “True.”
“Dad isn’t really having second thoughts about Jeremy taking over the company, is he?”
Evading her gaze, Nora turned away. “Your father knows that Jeremy deserves to be president, but in Wallace’s mind I suppose he’ll always be the CEO of Hamilton Media.”
Even had it been characteristic of Heather to press, concern for her mother would not have allowed it just then. Yet something about the way her father had looked and sounded had disturbed her as much as it obviously had Nora.
“I’m sure you’re right,” she murmured, trying to believe that it wasn’t more than that.
“Your father’s so very ill,” Nora whispered. “I’m afraid he’s not thinking clearly.”
Heather reached out and gathered her delicate mother into a warm hug. “It’s going to be all right, Mom. One way or another, it’s going to be all right.”
“It has to be,” she said fervently, her eyes closed tight. “I’m trying so hard to trust God to heal him.” She pulled back far enough to give Heather a reassuring smile. “We have to keep holding on. Now is not the time to relinquish our faith.”
“We’ll keep praying,” Heather promised, “and we’ll keep trusting God, no matter what happens. Now, let me take you home.”
Nora stepped away then. “No, no. I want to stay close by.” She gestured toward the sofa. “I’ll lie down here for a while. Besides, you need to get back to work, and my car’s in the parking lot.”
Heather knew that her mother was right. The office couldn’t seem to get along without her for more than an hour or two. Still, after such devastating news, it was difficult to leave her parents here on their own. It just seemed to be one thing after another lately.
“If you’re sure.”
“Absolutely,” Nora said, stiffening her spine. “I’ll see you at home later.” She kissed Heather’s cheek. “I’m so glad that you and Melissa are there. I couldn’t bear coming home to that big old house all alone.”
Heather smiled. She knew that few twenty-seven-year-olds still lived at home with Mom and Dad, but there was plenty of room and the time had never felt right to leave. She’d almost done it after college when her boyfriend of two years had proposed marriage, but that would have meant not just leaving her parents’ home but moving away from Davis Landing and Tennessee for Florida, where he’d had a job waiting in the aerospace industry. She’d known that wasn’t right for her.
Now, six years later, she seemed stuck, but as much as she prayed about it, she couldn’t convince herself that it was time to strike out on her own. This, obviously, was the life that God meant for her. If the very worst happened and her father died, her mother would need her more than ever. No, now was not the time to be thinking about moving out.
Nora smiled indulgently. “You go on, darling. Don’t worry about me. Or anything else.”
“That goes for you, too,” Heather said, moving away. “Get some rest.”
“I’ll try. Tell Vera Mae not to hold dinner for me, will you?”
Heather stopped. “Mom.”
“Please don’t say it. I’ll eat here, with your father, and be home later. Besides, the pastor is coming this evening, and I don’t want to miss him.”
Heather sighed. She understood Nora’s need to spend as many waking moments at Wallace’s side as possible, but these past weeks had taken a toll on her, too. She had started to look brittle and fragile. Still, convincing Nora Hamilton not to give her utmost to her family was easier said than done. In the end, Heather left her mother just as Nora wished.
She knew that staying busy would help keep her own mind off her father’s health. Nevertheless, once she was alone in her car in the hospital parking lot, with the air conditioner humming against the mid-June heat, Heather took the time to formulate a cogent and purposeful prayer, one that included family unity during this difficult time.
Her family truly loved one another, but Wallace’s illness had upset everyone and exacerbated their differences, especially those between Jeremy and Tim. It didn’t help that this crisis had come just after Curtis Resnick’s embezzlement had been uncovered.
Heather agreed with Jeremy’s decision not to prosecute Curtis and to demand restitution instead. Tim, however, did not. Amy claimed not to care so long as the money was recouped. Chris had taken no position, and only spelled out the likely consequences of prosecuting Resnick when asked to do so by Jeremy. Thankfully, Wallace had left the decision to his eldest son, who seemed determined to be generous as well as fair. After all, he and Curtis had been very good friends at one time.
Whatever opinion any of them held, however, no one wanted to be dealing with the aftermath of embezzlement while Wallace was fighting for his life. It was added stress that none of them needed just now. Yet, they’d get through it.
They were Hamiltons, and Hamiltons might bend, but they didn’t break. If Heather hadn’t learned anything else from her father, she’d learned that much. It was one more reason why going on without him was almost unthinkable at this point.
“Oh, Lord,” she prayed aloud, “I don’t know what Your purpose is in all this, but I do know that You have one. I just hope that when all is said and done, it includes healing my father and bringing our family closer together. I won’t ask for things to be the way they were before. We’ll never be the same after this, but we can be better. Isn’t that what You always want for us, Lord, to be more like You? Use this, then, toward that end.”
She went on with her prayer, fervently seeking God’s will and claiming His mercy. Afterward, as always, she felt better, strong enough to face whatever awaited her at the office.
As features editor of the magazine, she was always dealing with some crisis, stepping in to settle differences and adjust priorities, choosing projects, making sure all the i’s were dotted and the t’s crossed—whatever it took to get each feature and column brought in under deadline. She just never dreamed that today of all days she would become the feature.
Chapter Two
Heather walked into the stately three-story brown brick building on the corner of Main Street and Mill Road in the very center of the city and smiled at the elderly pair sitting behind the reception counter in the small lobby.
The Gordons had been with Hamilton Media since the days when the Davis Landing Dispatch had been a weekly, rather than a daily, newspaper. Since then they had each “retired” from one position to another, finally winding up as self-proclaimed “gatekeepers.”
Stooped and gray, they resembled nothing so much as someone’s great-grandparents, which they were. They were also sweetly formidable, and as such had earned the nickname “The Gargoyles.” It was virtually impossible for an outsider to get past either one of them and into the building without an appointment, let alone into the offices of the newspaper on the ground floor, those of the magazine on the second or those of the corporate center on the third.
Without missing a beat, Mr. Gordon hopped up from his stool and swiftly crossed the polished marble floor to the elevator, punching the up button, so that the door stood open and waiting when Heather strode into it, her flowered skirt belling out as she turned on the toes of her sensible pumps. Mrs. Gordon, meanwhile, was already on the phone, alerting whoever had inquired about her return that Heather was once again in the building.
As the old-fashioned elevator, sumptuously appointed in dark paneling and gleaming brass, rose laboriously toward the second floor, Heather took a moment to straighten the square oversize collar that all but obliterated the fitted bodice of her dress, which was short-sleeved in deference to the weather.
As the door slid open once more, Heather greeted the secretary to the head of advertising, who shoved a clipboard and pen at her as she stepped out of the elevator.
“The lifestyle column has to be cut,” she stated unceremoniously, “and they’re holding print until you okay it.”
“What’s the problem?”
“A larger than normal advertisement.”
Heather sighed inwardly. Carl Platt, the author of that particular column, would be screaming.
“Which advertiser?” Heather asked, glancing swiftly over the reedit as she moved past the receptionist’s desk and into the warren of cubicles that made up the magazine offices.
A popular Nashville restaurant that was both a regular and valued advertiser was named. Heather didn’t like cutting short one of their most popular features, but she knew too well on which side the Hamilton bread was buttered to kick up a fuss, not that she would have anyway. She added her initials to those of her sister Amy’s, endorsing the change, and passed the clipboard back to the twentysomething secretary, who promptly disappeared.
True to form, Carl Platt, whom Heather thought of as a rotund prima donna in a bow tie, pounced the moment she turned the corner. She nodded distractedly as he ranted.
“I know, I know,” she murmured sympathetically, tsking at the injustices Carl Platt heatedly recounted. “I’ll tell Amy as soon as I see her.” For all the good that would do.
Amy made decisions based on the overall needs of the publication and its parent company, but Heather didn’t bother pointing that out to Platt.
No sooner had she mollified him than another clipboard appeared beneath her nose. This one involved a title font change.
Heather liked the looks of the original, but it appeared to be impossible to center on the page. The proposed substitute was more uniform in the space required for each letter.
She added an exclamation mark for balance and kept the original font. Then she spent several minutes perusing a paragraph in an article that she was going to edit in its entirety at a later date anyway, before finally reaching her assistant’s desk.
In her forties, with teenage children and a husband crippled by a rare form of arthritis, Brenda was efficient, reliable, professional and not at all shy about voicing her opinions.
“Ellen’s in a panic. Like that’s anything new,” Brenda announced, handing over half a dozen phone messages. “Honestly, someone ought to give our beauty editor a personality makeover.”
Heather smiled without comment. Ellen Manning was something of a character. Physically stunning with long, perfectly styled ash blond hair, meticulous makeup, vibrant blue eyes and fingernails like manicured talons, Ellen approached her job as if beauty and fashion were the be-all and end-all of human existence. Consequently she was very good at it, which was reason enough so far as Heather was concerned to put up with her high-handed, overbearing methods and short fuse.
Holding up three of the messages in one hand, Heather commented in surprise, “These are from Ethan Danes.”
Ethan was the staff photographer currently working with Ellen on a photo shoot at the Grand Ole Opry in Nashville. Tall, dark and breathtaking, Ethan was the new office heartthrob—and for good reason. He had a quick, million-watt smile and a smooth, masculine charm that oozed from his pores.
“Yeah, I guess Ellen’s meltdown is justified this time,” Brenda conceded. “To hear Ethan tell it, we may not have a Makeover Maven feature this month.”
Frowning, Heather pushed through the door into her small office. Not much wider than the single window at its end, the room had just enough space for a file cabinet, a desk, a table wedged into one corner, an extra chair and the small potted plant perched on the windowsill. A large dry-erase board took up the whole of the wall behind her desk, leaving the wall opposite it for a series of framed covers and family photos. Only the ceiling fan, circling lazily overhead, kept the tiny room from becoming a stifling closet in the sultry June heat.
Heather reached immediately for her desk phone and dialed Ethan’s cell phone number. He answered on the first ring.
“Crisis central, this is the shutterbug speaking.”
“Ethan, what on earth is going on down there?”
“Well, let’s see. The makeover candidate is a no-show.”
“Again?”
“Yeah, this time she’s the one with the flu. Guess she got it from her kid. Anyway, the Opry says we can’t reschedule. Again.”
“Hasn’t Ellen explained the circumstances?”
“Let’s just say that Ellen is making enemies and influencing no one,” Ethan quipped. “Meanwhile, the window is closing. You’d better get down here and apply some of that patented Heather healing balm before we’re permanently barred from the most popular venue in town.”
Heather healing balm, was it? She tamped down a spurt of pride and made a quick decision. Well, she’d wanted to stay busy today.
“I’m on my way.”
“Come around to the side. I’ll be there to let you in.”
After hanging up, she headed back the way she’d come.
“If anyone needs me,” she said, breezing past Brenda’s desk, “tell them to ring my cell.”
“Better turn it on then,” Brenda called as Heather hurried away, mentally smacking herself in the forehead. Of course she’d turned off the phone while she was the hospital, and of course she’d forgotten to turn it back on again.
She dug in her bag on the way to the elevator and had the thing operational by the time she started her descent. It was ringing before she reached the street, and kept ringing for almost the entire next hour as she drove her deep blue Saab into Nashville and the Opryland complex.
After parking in the surprisingly crowded back lot, she made her way toward the side of the performance hall. To her surprise, Ethan was waiting for her outside the building, one scuffed brown loafer, worn sans sock, propping open a heavy metal door.
Tall and lean with that thick, black-brown hair falling rakishly across his brow, he wore not one but two cameras dangling around his neck on nylon straps. A third hung from his belt, a disreputable strip of cracked brown leather slung low around his lean hips.
As was often the case, he needed a shave. Yet even in comfy jeans and a snug black T-shirt worn beneath an open chambray shirt with the cuffs rolled back and the tail hanging out, he looked more like a model than a photographer. Dark almost to the point of black, his eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief as he smiled a stark white welcome at her, displaying killer dimples that cut long grooves in the square-jawed rectangle of his face.
“You’d better get in there,” he told her with a jerk of his head. “Ellen’s been snarling and howling since we got here. I’m surprised they haven’t tossed us out already.”
Heather glanced at her simple, utilitarian wristwatch as she moved past him into the shadowed interior of the building. “They can’t toss us. We’ve still got nearly three hours.”
“Fat lot of good that’s going to do us if we can’t find a makeover candidate and get her here ASAP,” Ethan said, following swiftly behind her.
“We’ll find one. We have to. We’ve already spent a small fortune on this shoot.”
“Not to mention the makeup artist, hairdresser and wardrobe shopper cooling their heels backstage,” Ethan added drily. “End of the hall and up the steps.”
Heather moved in the direction that he indicated, listening to the quick patter of their footsteps and the gentle clunking of his cameras as they bumped together. The half flight of stairs was surprisingly dark and narrow, which no doubt prompted Ethan to stay close and place a hand on her shoulder.
“Left,” he prompted at the top of the steps.
Heather quickly found herself in a back hallway onto which a number of dressing rooms opened. The strident sound of Ellen’s voice pulled her forward from there.
“What is it about this situation that you don’t understand?”
“Not a thing,” came a calm, masculine reply. “What you don’t seem to understand is that I need these premises vacated by 2:00 p.m.”
“I have a deadline!” Ellen shrieked. “I’ve got to have those photos!”
Heather walked into the room and straight into the conversation, her right hand extended.
“How do you do? I’m Heather Hamilton, features editor of Nashville Living.”
The poor fellow looked so relieved that Heather knew Ellen had seriously overstepped the bounds of civility. Unfortunately, the public relations manager didn’t have much to offer her.
“I’m sorry, we just don’t have another slot available within your time frame,” he said.
Heather laid a hand on his arm and walked him out into the hall and away from Ellen’s agitated mumbling, not to mention the avid interest of the makeup artist, hairdresser and wardrobe girl. As she squeezed past Ethan he grinned, though what he could find to grin about in this situation she couldn’t imagine. Then, at the last possible moment, he winked.
Heather felt color rise in her cheeks. As she took her leave of the public relations manager, she kept wondering what that wink meant. Surely Ethan wasn’t flirting with her. The instant she was free, Heather zipped back into the dressing room.
“Now what do we do?” Ellen demanded, folding her arms across the silky middle of the lilac-colored twin set that she wore with a short, straight off-white skirt and sharp-toed high-heeled mules.
“We’ve got to get another makeover candidate in here right now,” Heather stated emphatically.
Ellen threw up her pale lilac fingertips, speaking so forcefully that tendrils of her long golden hair shook free of its sophisticated up-sweep. “Don’t you think I’ve tried that? I’ve called every homely female in Nashville!”
“There has to be someone,” Heather argued desperately.
“On such short notice?” Ellen began to pace, throwing out her hands in every direction as she spoke. “I don’t think so! I’ve called every name on my list. I’ve called women we haven’t even screened. I’ve called my neighbors, for pity’s sake!” She spun on one heel, and the instant that her gaze dropped onto Heather’s face, her blue gaze lit. “Wait a minute. You! You can do it! You’re our makeover candidate!” As Heather’s jaw dropped, Ellen clapped her hands together in a self-congratulatory manner.
“Me?” Heather squeaked, inwardly cringing. Okay, she was no beauty, but she wasn’t homely. Was she?
“Oh, honey,” drawled Sheryl, the makeup artist, one hand flopping out in Ellen’s direction. “You are brilliant. She so needs a makeover.” This from a female with orange spiked hair and multiple piercings.
Ellen turned to the balding, ponytailed hairdresser. “What do you think, Fox?”
He sauntered forward, comb in hand, to slide his stubby fingers through Heather’s hair. “Hmm. Well, if we have time for a coloring and Sheryl can pull off her end, I can hold up mine.”
“You’ll have to work at the same time,” Ellen decreed, turning to Gayla, the wardrobe mistress. “Can we make it happen?”
The cadaverous woman tapped a finger against her protruding front teeth speculatively.
“It won’t be what we planned. She’s smaller than the other one, but I’ve got a few size sixes we can use.”
“Six!” Heather protested. “I wear a ten.”
“That doesn’t mean you are a ten,” Gayla told her.
Ellen clapped her hands. “Okay, let’s get to work, everyone!”
Heather backed up a step. “Wait a minute! I haven’t—”
A pair of large, strong hands closed around her shoulders and literally spun her.
Suddenly she was looking up into the dangerously attractive face of Ethan Danes.
“This can work!” he told her, his dark eyes burning with unusual intensity. “Think about it.” He lifted one of his cameras. “I’ll take some unflattering photos.” He shrugged. “Trick of lighting, you’ll see.” He waved a hand, setting the scene like a movie director. “The genius squad here will do their thing. I’ll do what I do best.” He grinned. “The ‘after’ photos will be smashing. Trust me.” He stepped closer. “I know you try to play it down—the boss lady and all that—but you’re really very pretty. It can’t fail.”
Heather could feel her jaw descending again, but all she could think was that he’d called her pretty—and how very tall he was, taller than she had realized, at least a couple inches over six feet. That made him almost a foot taller than her. Well, ten inches anyway, which meant that the top of her head would reach, oh, say that finely sculpted lower lip of his. Realizing that she was staring, she jerked her gaze away—and found herself swept summarily behind a dressing screen.
“Wait!” Ethan exclaimed, snapping on harsh florescent lights overhead. He appeared behind the screen, clicking away with the camera attached to his belt. Tugging and pushing, he moved her into the position that he wanted, then crouched and aimed the camera at her. “Tuck your chin.”
“What? L-like this?” She tilted her head down until it seemed to her that he was looking straight up her nostrils, and that’s precisely when he took the photos.
“Okay. That’ll do.”
Ethan disappeared with another wink. Gayla stepped up again and stripped Heather to her skin with a few swift movements. After hustling her into undergarments, Gayla handed her a simple cotton robe. As Heather shrugged it on and belted it, Gayla shook out the flowered dress that Heather considered her favorite summer outfit for the office. Holding it out at arm’s length, Gayla dropped the dress on a chair in the corner.
“Say goodbye to the 1980s and get ready to meet the new century.” With that she pulled Heather from behind the screen and pushed her into the tall chair stationed in front of a narrow counter and lighted mirror.
While Sheryl slapped gunk on her face and wiped it off again, muttering that if she wasn’t going to wear foundation she ought to at least use sunscreen, Fox began spritzing her hair with water, then sectioning and cutting it. Heather cringed and bit her lip, hoping she’d have hair left when the stylist was done.
Then Sheryl attacked her with a pair of tweezers. When her eyebrows had been shaped to the makeup artist’s apparently exacting standards, Heather’s hair was tossed forward into her face.
She could only pray that they weren’t all teetering on the edge of catastrophe. How mortifying would it be if, after all this, her “after” photos weren’t good enough to print?
Ethan captured shot after shot, bobbing and weaving to avoid the hands that plucked, swabbed, rubbed, combed, buffed, squeezed, folded and painted the new Heather over the old.
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 and shifting nervously.
Fox, who was busy trying to tweak the froth on top of her head into perfection, scolded her. “Keep still or I’ll be putting this up again!”
Ethan glowered at him. Didn’t the jerk realize who he was talking to? This wasn’t any plain Jane off the street. This was Heather, a Hamilton and, as it happened, the boss.
“Get out of my shot, Fox,” he ordered, turning his attention to the camera fixed to the nearest tripod. “Now listen up, boss lady. I want you to do exactly as I say. When I tell you to walk, I want you to put one foot directly in front of the other. Long, fluid strides. And keep your hands down unless I tell you otherwise. Okay?”
Heather nodded. She’d been around photo shoots often enough to know the drill, so he wasn’t worried. He set the shutter speed and palmed the switch.
“Walk forward. Look up. Way up. Stop. Half turn. Look at me!”
Click after click, he shot two rolls in rapid succession, moving from one camera to the other, directing her actions and catching the poses that took away his breath.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he muttered to himself, “a star is born.”
He couldn’t have been happier for her. He liked women too much not to relish seeing such a sweet-natured one as Heather Hamilton come into her own in such spectacular fashion. She was never going to be the same after this. She couldn’t possibly be.
She could scrub off the makeup and give back the clothes, but once she saw the before and after photos, she could never again believe herself to be the insipid, mousy sister that she’d pretended to be. She’d have to acknowledge what a beauty she truly was.
She still probably wouldn’t give him the time of day, though.
It was a depressing thought, but of all the single women in the office, Heather alone had never exhibited so much as a passing interest in Ethan. In fact, despite Melissa’s blatantly flirtatious manner, Ethan figured that he was not considered good enough for a Hamilton.
As an army brat whose parents had fought their way from posting to posting and finally to a divorce, he hadn’t expected anything else, which was all the more reason to take satisfaction in being part of Heather’s transformation, so far as he was concerned. No matter where he went after this, he suspected he’d have a hard time finding more enjoyable work or greater satisfaction in it.
Chapter Three
“It’s not like Ellen to take off from a shoot without a word,” Heather said, sliding her sunglasses into place and looking out across the parking lot. “I hope she’s okay.”
“Ellen’s the sort who can take care of herself,” Ethan observed. “But you’re right. She usually micromanages every detail of a shoot. Have you tried her cell?”
“No answer.”
He shrugged unconcernedly. “Well, then I guess I have to beg a ride. Hope you’ve got room for my gear.”
“No problem.”
“I knew I should have brought my car,” he muttered.
It was company policy for employees on the same assignment to share a vehicle. Why compensate two for mileage when one car could take them both where they needed to go? Apparently Ellen had insisted on driving her car for some reason. Fox, Sheryl and Gayla had already departed, but all of them were freelancers and none lived in Davis Landing anyway.
Heather helped Ethan drag his considerable gear to her car, still feeling a little embarrassed by the whole makeover thing. Once she’d finally gotten a look at herself in a mirror, she’d been wearing her own dress again, so only her head looked as if it belonged to somebody else. She wasn’t quite certain that it didn’t. The effect had been startling, to be sure.
The dress itself suddenly seemed too large, and she wondered why she’d taken to wearing the wrong size. She didn’t think she’d lost more than ten pounds since college and that had pretty much been due to a natural change of eating habits as she’d gotten older. Somehow she hadn’t adapted as she ought to have.
The hair was the biggest difference, though it had not, as she’d feared, all been chopped off. In fact, the back layer was only three or four inches shorter than before, and oddly enough, the other layers—which graduated from her shoulders to the bottoms of her ears, the tops of her cheekbones and mideye before finally ending with short, feathery bangs—actually made it seem as if she had more hair rather than less. The color was what surprised her most, however.
It had never occurred to her that she might make an attractive redhead. Yet, the auburn tones looked perfectly natural. Fox claimed that was due to the painting technique that he had used, resulting in the “expert integration” of her natural mousy brown with the richer reds.
The makeup seemed heavy-handed to her, and Heather wished she’d had time to remove, or at least lighten, it before they’d had to vacate the premises. She had no intention of recreating this look on a daily basis, of course. It wasn’t as if she was going to have her picture shot every day, after all, let alone published! Nevertheless, it wouldn’t hurt to buy a new lipstick and maybe even some eye shadow.
After seeing how she could look with a little—all right, a lot—of effort she was a little embarrassed by how lazy she’d become with her appearance. It had been a long time since she’d bothered with makeup or even plucking her eyebrows.
In some ways, the results of the makeover had shocked her, and yet she couldn’t deny the pleasure that she felt at realizing she wasn’t quite as hopeless as she’d imagined, especially when those dimples of Ethan’s cut grooves in his cheeks every time he looked at her.
They had almost reached her car when Ethan asked, “So, was it as bad as you feared it would be?”
She glanced up at him, her arms full of tripod and folded reflector. “Let’s just say it was strange being on the other side of the camera.”
“In case you’re wondering, Fox isn’t usually that rude to models.”
Heather sent him a slightly amused look. “I realized that, and in case you’re wondering, I didn’t see any reason to object. I was a reluctant subject at best, and sometimes as boss it’s more important to bring the shoot in under deadline than throw your weight around.” When he stopped dead in his tracks, she had to stop, too, and turn to face him. “What? You don’t agree?”
He blinked as if seeing something he hadn’t seen before. “I guess I just never thought of it that way. I mean, throwing around their weight is what bosses do. Usually. Which is why I’ve always preferred to be a lowly wiseacre.”
She sent him a skeptical look. They both knew he enjoyed a reputation as a first-rate photographer.
“I just prefer to make sure that the job gets done when it’s supposed to get done,” she told him. “And I don’t think of you as a wiseacre.”
“No?”
She gave her head a slight shake and hitched the tripod higher in her arms.
“I think of you as an artist with a well-developed sense of humor.”
“I like your version best,” he told her. Grinning widely, he repositioned his own burdens and started forward again. “Any chance we’re getting close to your car?”
“The blue Saab on the right up there.” She followed him, feeling the heat rise in steamy waves from the pavement.
“Aero,” he said, naming the model of her car. “Sweet. I’d like to tool around town in a racy little Saab, but I have to drive an SUV because I have so much gear to haul. Not all of our sites are as well lit as this one, you know.”
She placed her load on the ground and opened the hatch back, saying, “My brothers all voted for the SUV or the wagon, but my sisters thought I ought to get the convertible.”
He shook his head and started loading his gear. “Naw, this is you, I think. Quality, high-performance but sensible.”
She laughed because those were exactly her own thoughts on the matter. He straightened abruptly, almost as if she’d taken a sudden swing at him.
“What?”
“I’m just still getting used to the new you,” he said, grinning again. “This new look is going to cause some waves back at the office. You mark my words.”
A hand rose to touch her hair self-consciously. She could only hope that she didn’t look as strange as she felt.
Ducking her head, she hurried around to slide behind the driver’s wheel, leaving Ethan to carefully stow away his gear. She dug her phone out of her purse, deciding that it might be a good time to check in with her parents, and dialed the hospital.
Nora told her that, owing to the severity of her father’s condition, the doctors were urging Wallace to consider transferring to the hospital in Nashville right away, but he wanted to remain close to the family—and the business—as long as possible. Once they started preparing Wallace for the bone marrow transplant, however, he would be in sterile seclusion, his immune system so compromised that the slightest infection could kill him.
Heather ended the call and bowed her head, the phone still clutched in her hands.
Oh, Lord, I just keep coming to You with this, but he’s so very ill and You are a God of miraculous power. Please heal my father. Please let us find that perfect bone marrow donor, and please help my mom and all the rest of us through this.
The passenger door opened and Ethan dropped down into the seat. Heather sat up a little straighter, stashing her phone in a convenient recess in the dash.
“Something wrong?”
Surprised that he could so easily read her mood, she let a second or two pass before saying, “I just talked to my mom at the hospital.”
“How is your dad doing?”
Heather sighed and started the car to get the air conditioner going. “His condition is serious enough to keep me on my knees, I can tell you.”
Ethan cocked his head. “On your knees? Is that a Tennesseeism I’m not familiar with yet?”
She stared at him, thinking that the meaning would surely click in place for him momentarily, but then she realized that his confusion was entirely genuine. Faith was such a part of Heather’s life that she sometimes forgot that it held little or no place in the lives of others.
“I just meant that I’ve been spending a lot of time in prayer over this,” she explained gently.
The light finally dawned. “Ah. Well, that makes perfect sense. For you.”
“But not for you?”
He shrugged. “I guess I just don’t know much about that sort of thing.”
“But surely you’ve been to church.”
“Couple times, you know, for weddings and such.”
How sad, Heather thought, but she smiled and said, “Maybe you’d like to visit my church sometime? Northside Community. It’s across the river in Hickory Mills. I really love it there. Quite a few singles our age attend.”
“I don’t know about that ‘our age’ thing,” he teased. “I figure I’m a good bit older than you.”
She let the church issue drop and backed the car out of the space, saying, “I don’t believe that. I’m twenty-seven, by the way. Called your bluff, didn’t I?”
Grinning as wide as his face, he nodded. “You sure did, but I win anyway. I’m thirty-two.”
“Five years is nothing,” she said flippantly. “At least, that’s what my baby sister always claims.”
He laughed at that, and conversation maintained a lighthearted tone from there on out.
She noted that he seemed at ease with her behind the wheel, which fit with his laid-back attitude. As a result, she didn’t feel as uncomfortable as she might have with him in the passenger seat. Tim, Amy and her dad, for instance, always made her nervous when they rode with her, but Chris, Jeremy and her mom never did. Neither did Lissa, but for an entirely different reason. She’d been hauling Melissa around since she’d first received her license, just as her older siblings had done for her.
Heather wondered again what her baby sister had gotten up to and when she was going to put in an appearance. As much as Melissa tried to avoid the unpleasant aspects of life, she would never forgive herself if she was off gallivanting around when something happened to their dad.
It was useless to worry about her, though, or even to be angry with her. Melissa would just bat those big, doelike eyes, flash a cheeky grin and throw her arms around your neck in a hug of such exuberance and affection that you’d forgive her anything.
When they reached the office, Heather dropped off Ethan and his equipment at his midsize SUV in the graveled lot across the street, Mill Road, where Hamilton Media employees parked. Then she drove around and took her assigned space at the front of the building on Main. By the time she’d gotten out of the car and reached the curb, Ethan had jogged up next to her, having stowed everything in his customized SUV, except for the trio of cameras, which he carried by the straps in one hand.
They walked along the sidewalk to the revolving door at the front of the Hamilton Building. Ethan started it moving, then stepped back to let Heather go first. On the drive up from Nashville, she’d almost forgotten her changed looks, but as she stepped into the lobby, Mr. Gordon rose to his feet and lifted a stalling hand.
“Do you have an appointment, Mi—” The question died on his lips as Heather drew closer. He tilted his head, looking like a quizzical owl behind his overlarge glasses. “Miss Heather?”
She fingered her new hairstyle self-consciously and kept going. “I, um, had to step in as the makeover subject.”
Both of the Gordons were staring at her open-mouthed as she punched the elevator button for herself. Fortunately, the door slid open immediately.
Ethan quickly joined her. He waggled an eyebrow at the Gordons as the door slid closed on them, then dropped a knowing look on Heather.
“Waves,” he whispered, rolling his free hand in an up-and-down motion. “Huge, crashing waves.”
Whether that was good or bad, Heather still couldn’t say, but she fortified herself with a deep breath as the elevator drew to a halt. When the door slid open, Ethan stepped out first. Heather, in fact, was seriously considering going right back down and taking herself home to a hot shower, hoping it would be her old self who emerged from the steam.
She never got the chance.
Ethan reached inside the elevator, took her by the arm and insistently tugged her out into the reception area. Then he just stood there, clasping his cameras behind his back while the receptionist smiled in greeting, glanced at Heather, dismissed her, did a quick double take and dropped the pen in her hand.
“Waves,” he said again quietly, taking Heather by the arm once more and swinging her around, propelling her in the direction of her office. “Great big rolling waves.”
He made a sound like a wave crashing against the seashore. Heather couldn’t suppress a smile, even as she cringed at the attention she was bound to receive from everyone she met today.
The receptionist must have gotten on the phone at once, because people began popping up out of their cubicles. As she passed her coworkers, Heather heard various comments, most of them sotto voce.
“Whoa.”
“Wow!”
“I’ve gotta get my hair done.”
Even, “That can’t be who I think it is.”
Ethan grinned as if all the attention was for him.
When they reached Brenda’s desk, Heather’s usually loquacious assistant slowly rose from her chair. Jaw dropping as she confirmed for herself that it was Heather standing before her, Brenda bobbled the water bottle from which she’d been drinking, splattering her blouse before she got it back under control.
Ethan announced in a ringing tone, “Heather had to substitute for the makeover candidate, and I think it might well be our best one so far.” Heather gulped, still uncertain whether to be pleased or embarrassed.
Amy was walking by just then, a clipboard and pen in hand. Hearing Heather’s name, she paused. Her eyes went wide as she took in the change that had come over her sister.
“Did I hear you say that Heather was this month’s makeover subject?” she asked Ethan.
“See for yourself.”
Amy let the clipboard drop, declaring, “Ellen’s outdone herself!”
“Uh, actually,” Heather muttered, “Ellen wasn’t there. I— I thought she might’ve come back here.”
Amy shook her head, eyes still wide, and muttered absently, “I was just looking for her. Nobody’s seen her.”
“Oh. Well, she’ll probably be in later,” Heather surmised uncomfortably. “I’d like her to know that we at least got the shoot finished before our time ran out.”
“I’d like her to know that the shots are spectacular,” Ethan put in, lifting the trio of cameras that he still carried. “And I’ll soon have the pictures to prove it.” With that he slanted Heather an I-told-you-so look and sauntered away.
“Will you look at you?” Amy declared. “You’re gorgeous!”
Heather glanced at Brenda and then back to her sister. “You really think so?”
They both exclaimed, “Yes!”
“Except for that dress,” Amy qualified apologetically.
Heather looked down at herself with a grimace. “It’s too big, isn’t it?”
Amy nodded. “Too big. Too out of style. Too frumpy. I love your hair!” She started as if an idea had just come to her. “Let’s go shopping later. Engel’s has their summer stuff on deep discount.”
“And it’s still out of my league,” Brenda complained, dropping back into her chair. “But the new you deserves a shopping spree.” To Heather’s amazement, she actually teared up. “I can’t get over how different you look!”
“Oh, Bren! It’s all right. I haven’t changed inside, you know.”
“I know,” Brenda wailed, sniffing. “But now you’re as lovely on the outside as you are inside!”
Heather laughed and looked to her elegant, sophisticated, beauty queen sister.
“Okay,” she said. “Shopping it is. In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess.”
Amy did a little victory dance and went on her way. That pretty much summed up how Heather was feeling at the moment.
It was just too bad that the person who had set this in motion wasn’t here to see the results of her handiwork.
Heather straightened the seams of the tiered chiffon skirt before pulling on the white knit top, then slid her feet into thong sandals with tiny heels. As inexplicably nervous as the day before, she slowly turned to face the full-length mirror on her closet door.
Surprisingly, the flowered, coral-hued chiffon that ruffled about her knees looked just as trim and fashionable as it had in the dressing room of Engel’s department store. Moreover, the simple scoop-necked top set off the skirt perfectly, and she didn’t even mind that it exposed her birthmark.
Tentatively skimming her fingers over the irregularly shaped spot, she remembered how intently Ethan had focused on it yesterday. He’d murmured something about it being shaped like a rose as he’d positioned her to get the best shot of it. Funny, she’d never thought of it like that, but now that he’d mentioned it, she was seeing the mark in a whole new way. She was seeing everything about her appearance in a whole new way, from the top of her newly styled head to the tips of her toes in their flirty coral sandals.
She stepped closer to the mirror. As her image filled up more of the space, the spring green walls, ivory lace and French Provincial furnishings of her roomy bedchamber receded. Heather focused on her face, trying to find fault with the subtle cosmetics that she had applied earlier.
She hadn’t forgotten how it was done, after all, and she couldn’t deny that she was pleased with the result. Touching her fingertips to the mirror, she half expected to feel them against her cheekbone. It was as if she were really seeing herself for the first time in a long, long while.
Suddenly ashamed, she bowed her head, telling God how sorry she was for thinking that He’d shortchanged her in the looks department when all along the problem had been her own laziness and perhaps a misplaced sense of modesty, as well. Not to mention an unwillingness to compete with her sisters. She shook her head at that, marveling that she could have been so silly.
Maybe she wasn’t a raving beauty, but the resemblance between herself and her sisters was stronger than she’d realized. Even more surprising was how much she looked like her beautiful mother, especially around the eyes. Their coloring was different, of course. Heather’s hair and eyes were a medium brown, or rather a rich chestnut with fiery highlights now, while Nora was blond and hazel-eyed. Nora’s mouth was a little wider, her face more classically oval and her frame even more petite, but Heather was suddenly liking her more angular, slightly sharper features now that the subtle cosmetics and the new hairstyle had softened them a bit.
“I’ll make the most of what You’ve given me from now on, Lord, I promise,” she whispered. “And please be with Dad and Mom today. I know You can heal him, Father, and I know You will. Amen.”
Nodding confidently at her smiling image, she went out to meet the day. Her feet fairly skipped along the landing and down both flights of the sweeping central staircase to the large foyer below, her heels clicking daintily on the polished hardwood floor. She gathered her handbag and briefcase from the antique wardrobe that stood against the parlor wall.
Actually, there were two parlors, the front parlor, which contained her grandmother’s grand piano and a very good collection of antiques, and the family room, where the marble fireplace furnished the focal point for comfortable, overstuffed couches and chairs. The interior wall shared by the two rooms contained a pair of wide pocket doors that could be opened to make one enormous room for entertaining, making the library at the back of the house the most private of the public rooms.
The dining areas on the opposite side of the foyer from the living area had once enjoyed a similar arrangement, but with the kitchen—complete with butler’s pantry and laundry room—rather than the library, beyond. Now, however, the formal and informal dining spaces had been combined into one large room with an enormous table handmade to accommodate six children and company.
All of the bedrooms, six in total, were on the second and third floors. Two others had been sacrificed to private baths and larger closets, changes her great-grandfather probably could not have even envisioned when he’d bought and renovated the elegant old redbrick Greek Revival–style house on the very outer edge of north Davis Landing.
There were larger, grander houses in the area, frankly, but not a single Hamilton would have traded this grand old place, with its expansive grounds, for any one of them.
Rather than exit via the front door with its heavy leaded glass inset, Heather turned and quickly made her way down the central hall and out the back to the terraced patio, where her mother habitually took her morning tea, weather permitting. Nora sat there now in one of the heavy, wrought-iron chairs, the morning paper spread out over a glass-topped table and fluttering unheeded in the breeze that sang softly in the tops of the trees. Clad in silk pajamas and a matching robe, she stared unseeingly across the property.
Heather dropped a hand upon her mother’s shoulder, feeling the frail bones keenly. Nora turned up a distracted smile, then twisted around in her chair as she got a good look at her middle daughter.
“Just look at you! How I wish your father could see you this morning.”
Heather bent forward to kiss her mother’s cheek. “I’ll go by the hospital later, give him a preview of this month’s Makeover Maven feature.”
“It would do his heart good, I’m sure,” Nora told her. “It has mine. Goodness, you look so young all of a sudden.”
“Not so dowdy, you mean,” Heather retorted, wrinkling her nose.
“Funny what a haircut and a new wardrobe can do,” Nora mused, “or maybe I’m just feeling old this morning.” She sighed and made an effort to smile.
Heather put down her bags and wrapped her arms around her mother’s slender shoulders. “It’s going to be all right, Mom. I just know it.”
Nora nodded. “I’ve been thinking about the hundred-and-third Psalm.” It was one of Nora’s favorites, and Heather knew it by heart.
“‘Bless the Lord, O my soul,’” she quoted softly. “‘And all that is within me, bless His holy name.’”
“‘Who pardons all your iniquities, Who heals all your diseases,’” Nora whispered, patting Heather’s arm. She looked up suddenly. “I don’t suppose your sister came in during the night, did she?”
Heather shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“You don’t think Melissa’s in some kind of trouble this time, do you?”
“I think she just can’t bear to see Dad in that hospital bed.”
Nora’s gaze drifted away again. “I don’t blame her for that.”
“Neither do I,” Heather agreed gently.
“Get on with you, darling. I’ll see you later at the hospital.”
Sensing that Nora needed solitude at the moment, Heather left her to her contemplation and hurried to her car, parked beneath the sheltered passage that ran between the main house and the old carriage house.
The morning had a golden cast to it that Heather could attribute only to God’s goodness.
Chapter Four
Heather smiled at the Gordons, who gave her a thumbs-up and silent applause as she strode toward the elevator. Dropping a silly curtsy as the elevator door rolled closed, she felt ridiculously pleased and oddly happy.
How strange that it should be so now, when her father was so desperately ill.
Yet wasn’t that the Lord’s way, to bring joy in the midst of woe? Even a small joy was doubly welcome when cares were so heavy.
Suddenly Heather remembered the verse between the ones she and her mother had quoted earlier that morning.
Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget none of His benefits.
She felt a decided zing pervade her steps as she strolled toward her office. It was early yet, so the receptionist was not at her desk. Heather could hear a few voices in muted conversation but saw no one as she made her way through the warren of cubicles.
To her surprise, Ethan Danes sat perched on one corner of Brenda’s desk. Clad in khakis and a dark brown T-shirt, he was studying a print, the top one of a stack that he held in his hands.
“Good morning,” she said brightly, aware of a shiver of excitement. Or was it trepidation?
Ethan looked up, a smile at the ready. That smile stilled, then gradually grew as he took in this latest version of the “new” Heather.
“Well,” he said, placing the photos on the desk, “I thought I’d picked my final shot.”
“Oh?” She craned her neck, trying to look past him to get a peek at the photo he hoped would close the piece.
He folded his arms. “The butterfly has not only broken out of her cocoon, she’s spread her wings, I see.”
Heather inclined her head, laughing. She couldn’t help it. Who wouldn’t be pleased with such a statement from the best-looking man around?
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
He winked at her. “And so you should.” Dropping his hands to the edge of the desk, he shifted around, crossing his ankles. “I think I’m finally seeing the real Heather, and that’s the ‘after’ photo I’d most like to see on the printed page.”
Heather tried not to let that please her too much.
“And what does Ellen have to say about it?”
“I wouldn’t know. Haven’t seen her. Haven’t heard from her. Haven’t been able to reach her. That’s why I brought these straight to you.”
Heather frowned at that. “I wonder what’s going on with her? Oh, well. I get the final say anyway.”
Nodding, Ethan got to his feet and swept up the stack of photos, which he held out to Heather.
“I’ve marked my picks, for what that’s worth. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Will do. And thanks for going the extra mile with this yesterday. If not for you, we’d have had no feature this month.”
“That’s what you pay me for. Besides, you’re the one who saved the day.”
Setting aside her bags, she took the photos into her hands, then found that she didn’t have quite enough courage to go through them with him standing there.
As if he knew it, he gave his head a little jerk, humming a bit as he moved away. “Mmm-mmm. The guys are going to beat a path to your door now. You know that, don’t you?”
Stunned, Heather just stood there stupidly and watched him walk away, the photos clutched in her hands. After he’d disappeared from sight, she absently looked down, staring at the woman in the photo. Chic and feminine with shining amber eyes and a secretive smile, this was not the image of an old maid.
Old maid. When had she decided that she was an old maid?
Heather blinked, trying to see in this woman’s face the acceptance that she would never marry. It was not there.
How had she come to believe that God didn’t intend for her to marry and know the love of a mate? Was that assumption another product of her own laziness and hesitance?
Shocked at herself, Heather stopped to carefully consider her future. She wasn’t even thirty. She had lots of time left to find the love of her life.
Something warm and bright and sharp unfurled inside her, something she hadn’t let herself feel in years, something very like longing. Or was it hope? Had the longing always been there, but she’d only now started to hope again?
It had been aeons since she’d had a real boyfriend—since college.
Oh, she’d been on dates, but it would be nice to actually be asked out instead of always being “fixed up” by some well-meaning friend or family member.
Maybe, just maybe, some guy would notice her now.
Ethan had.
Of course, it wouldn’t be Ethan who would ask her out. That went without saying.
It wouldn’t even be anyone like Ethan.
If it happened.
If.
But why not? The possibility was there.
She smiled.
And forget none of His benefits.
Small joys.
Heather ran her gaze down the list of articles on bone marrow transplant displayed on the computer screen. Even the titles were confusing, but she was determined to learn as much about the process as she could, if only to make her prayers more specific.
She opened an article on protocols and preparations for transplant, but before she could read the first paragraph, Brenda strode into her office through the open door.
“Have you checked your e-mail recently, like in the last ten minutes?”
Heather shook her head. “No, I’ve got something going right now.”
“Well, you’d better take a look,” Brenda insisted, folding her arms. “I just got copied on a message from Ellen to Amy.”
Heather quickly minimized the window and pulled up another, murmuring, “It’s about time.”
“Actually,” Brenda retorted drily, “it’s about a lack of time.”
“What?”
But Brenda didn’t bother to answer. She didn’t have to. The message was short and—okay, sweet would have been a stretch.
“Ellen’s resigned!” Heather exclaimed.
“Effective immediately. No notice, no explanation, nada,” Brenda confirmed, folding her arms. “Can’t say I’m sorry to see her go, but how on earth are we supposed to replace her in time for this issue’s deadline?”
“Oh, no,” Heather groaned, collapsing back in her chair. “The Makeover Maven feature.”
She realized what had to happen, and she really wasn’t happy about it.
“I don’t suppose you want to try your hand at writing a beauty column?” she asked Brenda hopefully.
“Sure,” Brenda said blithely. “You take care of the layout on the entertainment feature, and I’ll write this month’s makeover story.”
Heather made a face. “Right. My lack of expertise—not to mention patience—with the layout software is why you’re here.”
“So I guess you’ll be writing the makeover story, unless you think maybe Ethan…”
“Ethan’s a photographer,” Heather said, “an excellent photographer, but he’s no writer.”
“Better use a pseudonym,” Brenda counseled wryly, turning to leave, “unless you intend to do this every month.”
“No way,” Heather declared.
Surely they could find a beauty editor before the next column had to be written.
Brenda sauntered back out to her desk, leaving Heather to deal with this latest catastrophe.
Reluctantly Heather reached for the folder containing the photos that Ethan had brought her that morning. She’d thumbed through them before, cringing at the earliest of them, marveling at the latter ones and critically studying the in-betweens for illustrative interest.
As usual, Ethan’s instincts were right on target. His picks were also her picks. Unfortunately, like all photographers did, he’d chosen too many, so it was up to her to narrow the choices down to no more than half a dozen, some of which would be severely cropped or shrunk in order to fit the entire piece on two and a half pages. She’d do that after she’d written the article.
After a couple of false starts, she decided that the smartest way to begin was to simply state that this month’s makeover subject was none other than the features editor. She tried to take the same approach that Ellen had used in the past, describing the candidate and her lifestyle, then detailing the changes that were made.
It was tough going. She didn’t really like writing about herself, even in the third person, and tended to get bogged down in the details.
At one point she realized that she was spending too much time on the hair. The wardrobe was a problem, too, since none of it had really been chosen for her. Then she got sidetracked describing the venue.
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