Butterfly Summer. Arlene James

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!”