Butterfly Summer. Arlene James
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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.