Butterfly Summer. Arlene James
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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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