The Makeover (12 page)

EIGHTEEN

Camellia emerged from the car, teetering in her Jimmy Choo stiletto booties up the icy pathway of an imposing contemporary house belonging to David Farling, director of Diagnostic Radiology Services. Her heart was beating with the intensity of a hip-hop bass line. Finally, after two months in Markleeville, she was coming face-to-face with women of her standing. She tightened the leather belt on her black mink coat as Henry pressed the bell.

They were received by a bald man in his sixties, clad in a brown sweater, brown trousers, and brown socks. “Finally, we get to meet the wife,” he said, reaching out a hand to Camellia. “Cecilia, right?”

“Camellia, actually.” She shook his hand firmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“David is not only the director of the practice, he’s also responsible for hiring me,” Henry exp
lained, helping Camellia out of her coat.

“Well, we sure have a lot to thank you for, don’t we?”

Only Henry appeared to pick up on Camellia’s sugary sarcasm, and he gave her a quick pinch on her backside in response.

“I know how to pick ‘em,” David said, patting Henry on the back. “Let me call my wife over. She’s been waiting to meet you.”

“Oh,” Camellia said, pleased. “Okay–“

“Geri!” David bellowed, turning toward the crowd to summon his wife.

“You did say these were refined people, right?” Camellia whispered in Henry’s ear.

“I had to get you here some way,” he joked.

Coming towards them was a thin woman with long features and a short bob with bangs in the manner of Anna Wintour, clad in a St. John pantsuit. Camellia could recognize a St. John woman anywhere: sophisticated and timeless, and often loyally dressed head-to-toe in the knitwear label.

Geri held out an equally long hand, not a hint of a smile to be found on her face. “How do you do,” she said matter-of-fact. “Excuse my husband’s lack of tact,” she added, as if apologizing for David was her norm de rigueur.

“That’s quite all right,” Camellia offered, wondering if Geri was embarrassed or just cold by nature.

“Champagne is being passed, otherwise there’s a bartender stationed at the far end of the living room. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a popover crisis in the kitchen that I must attend to.” Geri’s whip of a figure pivoted and gracefully hurried away, leaving Camellia behind with her mouth hanging open.

“Well then,” David said, slapping Henry on the back again, “How about that booze?” He shuffled away without waiting for a response.

Camellia stepped into the living room with Henry right behind her. The space was spectacular, with unfussy cream sofas and chairs set off by striped pillows and rich woods; the impressive floor-to-ceiling windows allowing a breathtaking view of the lake. Small groups of guests stood in tight circles, closing off their low-key conversations from each other.

In New York, Camellia used to walk into parties such as this, expecting every circle to immediately widen in welcome of her presence, which they did. Manicured hands would wave her over, hoping to be the first she acknowledged. The most difficult decisions of her evening had been where to start and how long to linger before moving on to the next cluster of guests.

Here, however, the mood was very different. No one seemed to notice she was in the room, even though she stood out from the affluent crowd. While the women were obviously clothed in expensive labels, their uninspired manner of dressing – predominately in black and rigorously matched – left Camellia’s modern mixed prints looking as if she hadn’t received the memo on proper lakefront party attire.

Henry snatched two glasses of champagne from a waiter passing by, handing one to Camellia. “Come on, let me make some introductions.” He took her hand and led her to the closest group, nodding at a man in a black polo and matching trousers. “Stephan,” Henry called out, letting go of Camellia’s hand to shake his. “This is my wife Camellia.”

“Good to meet you,” Stephan said, stepping back just enough to let Henry and Camellia squeeze into the circle. Stephan’s attention turned back to the conversation in progress, which Camellia quickly picked up was regarding a new Chief of Staff at Mercy Hospital, who was trying to change much of the protocol after a week on the job. She observed as all the men chatted easily, apparently all radiologists, as the women stood beside their husbands, politely nodding and sipping their champagne.
What is this, Stepford?
Camellia thought, wondering if the wives did anything other than keep house and press their husbands’ clothing.

As the evening progressed, Henry moved Camellia from circle to circle, where she caught a couple of doctors’ names, listened to medical conversations that were mostly over her head, and attempted with little luck not to appear bored. Two hours into the party, she slipped away from a conversation about pharmaceutical reps and wandered over to the bar for something stronger.

“Can I get a whiskey?” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as desperate as she felt.

A woman in a simple black dress with a strand of pearls at her neck appeared next to her. “Gin and tonic,” she said forcefully, apparently not concerned with waiting her turn.

Though Camellia didn’t like the woman’s gruff behavior, she was her only opportunity so far for a one-on-one conversation. She took the rocks glass from the bartender and turned to face the woman. “I’m Camellia,” she said, holding out her hand. “My husband Henry started with the practice in early January.”

The woman eyed her warily and offered a limp hand in return. “Cassandra Ward,” she said coolly, turning back to watch the bartender make her drink. “I hear you’re living in town. What’s
that
like?”

“Small,” Camellia admitted, sipping her whiskey.

“I imagine so,” Cassandra said, gingerly taking the finished gin and tonic from the bartender and eyeing it just as warily. “Have a good evening,” she said, not particularly addressing either Camellia or the bartender, and walked away.

After three grueling hours, Camellia flashed Henry her take-me-home-now look and walked to the foyer for her coat, leaving Henry to bid their hosts farewell. She couldn’t take another strained minute. He practically carried her back to the car, knowing full well what Camellia looked like when she was about to combust, and obviously not wanting that to occur within earshot of his colleagues. He drove as quickly as the icy roads would allow, as an enraged Camellia dramatically recounted their first party at the lake.

“Am I missing something? I mean seriously, what don’t I know about these women? Henry, they’re so mean!” She switched off the heat, feeling feverish. “I kept wondering: Am I doing something insulting? Was I supposed to remove my shoes? Do I match the description of a serial child killer? What was it? What had I done to make these women shut me out upon introduction?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know,” Henry said. “While I don’t know any of the wives, I can tell you that the guys in my group are all pretty decent human beings.”

“And what’s with all the doctors being men and all the women being, well, the
little women
? It’s like I stepped back in time in there.”

“Kind of Stepford-like, wasn’t it?” Henry conceded.

“That’s what I thought!” Camellia reached up and began pulling out hairpins, releasing her hair from the messy bun she had created for the evening. “Honestly Henry, if I wanted to be treated this way, I would have gladly stayed in New York.”

“Maybe they’re intimidated by you.”

“Intimidated by an out-of-work editor with a contact list full of high-profile celebrities who wouldn’t call her back if her hair was on fire?”

“No, intimidated by what you built; what you’ve accomplished. And, of course, how freaking gorgeous you are.”

Camellia had to smile. Henry always had her back. “They obviously know something about me. That one evil thing, Cassandra Ward, was fully aware we were living in town. Which apparently, in their set, is frowned upon.”

“I can understand that,” Henry said, turning into their driveway, which suddenly felt like a haven to Camellia. “After all, we do have easy access to the best big-girl panties around.”

NINETEEN

Shelby’s mood wasn’t right when she arrived at Camellia’s house the following week to practice posing for photos. Instead of her customary jovial greeting, she barely managed a terse smile as she pushed passed Camellia and dropped into the oversized living room chair.

Camellia bit her lip, studying her pupil for a minute, and then perched on the arm of the sofa. “What’s on your mind?” she asked in a gentle voice.

“I’m not really sure,” Shelby said weakly.

“Boy trouble?”

Shelby shook her head. “No, things are fine with Justin.” She looked up at Camellia, her eyes holding all her sorrow. “It’s my mom.”

“Your mom?”

“Yeah. She was clearly not happy that I was coming to your house today.”

Camellia cocked her head to the side. “Did she say why?”

“No. That’s the thing.” Shelby shifted in the chair, tucking a long leg under her. “We had breakfast and folded laundry and we talked like we normally do. Then I told her all about New York, and she got really quiet. And really cold.” Her eyes welled with tears. “Camellia, she’s never been like that with me before. Never.”

“I’m sorry.” Camellia leaned back and grabbed a compact camera from the coffee table. “Maybe she’s just worried,” she suggested, turning on the camera and quickly capturing Shelby’s misery.

“Delete that,” Shelby said, wiping a rogue tear. She sniffed then wiped at her nose, too. “Why would she be worried? You’re a prominent editor, not some skanky old man trying to photograph me naked.”

“Was,” Camellia noted, sliding onto the floor to snap more photos from a lower angle. “Moms worry, Shelby, and you’re her only child
to
worry about. You have an exciting life ahead of you in New York. That can be a very tough scenario for a mom to take, especially if she’s feeling left behind.”

Shelby popped up and slapped her thighs. “That’s it. She thinks I’m abandoning her. That I’m going to run off to New York and forget all about her.” She shook her head and smiled as if enjoying a private joke. “She’s so silly.”

Camellia continued taking pictures of Shelby’s seemingly endless expressions, which was now transforming from a smug smile into something resembling a trance.

“Are you lost in thought?” Camellia asked from behind the camera.

Shelby snapped out of it and giggled, curling her lithe body around the arm of the chair. “There’s no reason she couldn’t move to New York with me, is there?”

Camellia lowered the camera, considering the question. “No, there really isn’t, as long as she’s willing. She
is
selling the diner, so there wouldn’t be much tying her down here.”

“Exactly!”
Shelby bounded to her feet in one graceful move. “Do you mind if I go tell her the good news?”

“Do you mind getting through your primer on posing first?” Camellia asked authoritatively. “You’re not going to be sought after as a model if you don’t know what you’re doing. Or if you can’t focus.”

Shelby obeyed, gingerly settling back into the chair. “Got it, Boss Lady. Where do we begin?”

Camellia turned the camera around for Shelby to see, scrolling through the photos she just took. “You photograph beautifully. There’s no question. What’s really important in these pictures is your expression. Do you see how believable you are?”

Pulling the camera closer, Shelby studied the photos. She nodded. “Sure. When I’m happy, I look happy. When I’m sad, I look sad.”

“That’s right.” Camellia set the camera on the floor beside her. “It’s easy to show what you’re feeling. But what if a photographer wants you to appear happily in love, when in reality your boyfriend has just broken your heart?”

“That would be tough.”

“Or, you just landed a fabulous apartment, are booked for work all month, and you can’t stop smiling about it, and then you’re asked to appear sullen and on the edge of tears. How do you find that expression and then convince the person viewing the picture that it’s real?”

Shelby shrugged her shoulders. “Acting classes?”

“No. It’s quite simple, actually. You find a memory that matches the expression you need to give,
and you live in that memory as you’re posing.”

“What if I don’t have a memory that matches?” Shelby questioned. “What if I’ve never been in love and have no idea what my face would look like if I were in love?”

“Then you imagine it. Whether it’s from a love scene in a movie that affected you or it’s from what you imagine it would feel like to be completely consumed by love, you go to that place and sink into it, and it will show on your face.” Camellia rolled onto her knees, grabbed the camera, and held it to her face. “Okay, now let’s see how well you listen to me.”

Camellia spent the next month coaching Shelby, from how to follow a photographer’s direction and what to expect at a go-see to putting together a portfolio and the ins and outs of living and working in New York. Once she was certain Shelby was ready for the next step, Camellia went in search of a photographer to create Shelby’s comp card.

What she really wanted was to fly out Sylvia Steiner to photograph Shelby. Sylvia was a pro and had worked with nearly every supermodel in the business. She had also been responsible for photographing more than a dozen
Flair
covers. They had always worked so well together, and Camellia knew Sylvia would most certainly be up for the trip, especially it meant not only getting paid well but also having a hand in introducing the hottest new model to New York’s fashion sect.

But Camellia couldn’t do it. She couldn’t risk bringing Sylvia to Markleeville – to have her witness the way she had been living for the last three months. If the lake house had been built, that would have been different. She pictured a stunning Hamptons-esque home with a glorious sailboat docked in back and a groomed-and-ready supermodel in the making, gracefully reclining in a vintage Eames chair positioned next to a roaring fire with a view of the lake. Now that was a scene in which Camellia would have happily welcomed any guest. But country furniture in a cramped cottage with a ghastly wood-burning stove? Sylvia, who conveniently always had a camera in hand, would have sent those images in a New York minute to every editor she knew. Sylvia Steiner may have once been something of a friend, but few could pass up sharing such a juicy discovery about Camellia Rhodes.

Instead, Camellia turned to a reputable online site that served as a source for models, photographers, and stylists to showcase their work, searchable by geographic location. In less than fifteen minutes she had found a photographer in Traverse City with a decent ability for capturing people.

She was in the middle of typing up an introductory email when Henry bounded through the door, holding daffodils wrapped in paper. Camellia was delighted. “Daffodil season,” she said, accepting the flowers from her husband. “Spring must be around the corner.”

He kissed her on the head. “Let’s hope so, my dear. I am sick of snow.” Removing his wet boots, Henry hung his jacket on the coat rack and then tended to the fire, which was only glowing embers. “Honey, you’ve got to keep this fire going during the day.”

“I hate that thing.”

“Yes, but if you put a log on from time to time, you wouldn’t have to wear two sweaters and a scarf in the house.”

“Luckily layering is in,” she said, as her fingers resumed clicking along the keyboard. “Besides, we’ll have a new house soon with a fireplace that operates via remote control. Now
that
I’ll learn to use.”

Henry closed the door of the wood stove and sat beside Camellia on the sofa. “That reminds me, the architect wants to come by this week to go over the plans.”

Camellia’s stopped typing. “They’re done?”

“Yep. And the old shack has been demolished, too. I’ve been told we are going to be very pleased with the plans. It’s a Cape Cod with edge. What do you think of that description?”

“I think it sounds truly fabulous.” Camellia set her laptop on the coffee table, too excited about the house to concentrate on the letter. “Oh Henry,” she said, throwing her legs over her husband’s lap, “this feels like the start of us becoming us again.”

“We’ve always been us, Camellia,” he said, holding onto her legs. “Through our highest and lowest points, we’re the one thing that has remained constant. A new house will be nice, but it’s nothing compared to what we have in each other.”

“Henry.” Camellia was beyond touched. She was also aware just how right he was. They had been through extraordinarily shitty times. And their marriage had never faltered. Even during the past six years at
Flair
as she transformed from merely confident and opinionated into a cold know-it-all. She was crazy lucky to have found him at that fateful photo shoot for
Elle
.
The rising-star photographer and the outspoken junior fashion editor
, she thought, grinning. It had the makings of a teen romance novel. Maybe once Shelby was well on her way to supermodel status, Camellia would try her hand at penning the story.

And then an even better idea popped into Camellia’s head. She whipped her legs off of Henry and knelt on the couch, taking her husband’s face in her hands. “Remember when you said you’d support anything that made me as happy as working with Shelby?”

“Yes,” Henry said cautiously, “I remember.”

“Then dust off your camera, Henry Rhodes. There’s a model-to-be in need of an eye like yours.”