A Broken Kind of Beautiful (11 page)

“Aren’t you already into this?”

“I want to see your work.”

“I don’t have anything to show you.”

“How does a photographer not have anything to show?”

“I don’t have anything to show because I’m not a photographer. At least not anymore. I haven’t taken pictures for almost two years.”

“This keeps getting better.”

A black truck on monster wheels rolled down Peterson Street. The leathery-faced man behind the steering wheel smiled and waved at Davis, then turned his beast into the car wash. The mosquito came back. Ivy batted her hand around her hair. “If you haven’t taken a picture in almost two years, why in the world would Marilyn give you the job?”

“Because. When Marilyn gets an idea in her head, nobody can stop her. Not even me.”

She pressed her fingertips into her temples. “I can’t do this.”

“Why not?”

“It would be fashion suicide.” Modeling Marilyn’s wedding dresses for her handsome but surely unqualified nephew? a guy who freely admitted to not being a photographer? Did Bruce know about this? She shook her head. No, of course he didn’t know. Otherwise he never would have sent her to do something so amateurish.

“Look, Ivy. I know what you’re thinking.” He ran two broad hands down his face and looked at the sky. “You’re thinking I don’t know what I’m doing. But trust me, I was a good photographer.”

“Not good enough to make it in New York City.”

“I was making it fine.”

“Tell me what ‘fine’ means to you.” Because a couple of test shoots with no-name models and some random pictures in a beginner’s portfolio was not her definition of the word.

“Fine enough to make a living. Fine enough for my photos to make it into some magazines and on the cover of one.”

“Which magazines—
Fishing Weekly
?”

“Vogue.”

Her eyes widened. “I’m sorry. For a second there I thought you said
Vogue
.”

“You heard correctly.”

“I don’t believe you.”

A teenager on a scooter whizzed past, zipping through street puddles that splashed water against Ivy’s shoes. She stepped closer to the garage. So did Davis. “Why would I lie?”

“Why would you leave?” If his stuff had made the cover of a magazine like
Vogue
, then only a lunatic would leave. He’d crested the peak from wannabe into stardom. Who would run away the minute all their dreams came true? “And why haven’t I ever heard of you?”

“Do you know the name of every fashion photographer in the industry?”

“The good ones.”

“I was just starting to make a name for myself when I left, so there’s no reason why you would have heard of me. And anyway, it was almost two years ago, which means I’m nothing but a vague memory. If that.”

“I don’t get it. You went to NYC to be a photographer?”

“Yes.”

“That was a dream of yours or something?”

“At the time, yes.”

“You started to get your foot in the door?”
Vogue
was a tad more than in the door. More like in the door, up the stairs, and into the master bedroom. “And then you left.”

“Correct.”

“Why?”

He took a deep breath, like he’d need all the oxygen he could get in order to do the story justice, but before he could say anything, Jordan Ludd trotted out of the garage, a set of keys dangling from his finger. “The transmission’s shot.”

Davis’s face fell. “Seriously?”

“ ’Fraid so.” Jordan held out the keys. “It’ll take us a couple days to round up the parts and get it fixed for you, if that’s what you want to do.”

“I’m not buying a new car, so I guess that’s my only option.”

“In the meantime, you can use one of the spare cars we’ve got here.” He pointed toward a blue Mazda in the parking lot. Rust had eaten through half its bumper, and a large dent had taken care of the rest. “Just be easy on her.”

Davis fished his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. “What do I owe you?”

“We’ll square up after your Cherokee’s fixed.” Jordan screwed up his face, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t get it out. “How’s, uh … How’s, um …” His half-formed question surrendered to the humidity and fell at his feet. He shuffled his shoes as if wiping the words off his laces.

“She’s fine.”

Ivy’s ears perked. She could only assume
she
was Sara.

Jordan bobbed his head, or more like his entire upper half. “That’s good.”

Davis took the keys.

Jordan mumbled his good-bye and returned to the garage. Ivy let out a low whistle, stuck her hands into the back pockets of her shorts, and leaned
back on her heels. “Aren’t people who hang crosses from their rearview mirrors supposed to be forgiving or something?”

“He’s not the one who needs forgiving.”

Odd comment, but she had more important questions that needed answering. “Where were we? Oh, right. You were about to explain why you left.”

He sighed. “I needed to get away from all the chaos. Somewhere where I could think.”

“That’s why you left—to think?”

“You’re a model, Ivy. You’re in the industry. It’s an intoxicating world. You know how easy it is to lose yourself.”

No, she didn’t. She had no idea. How could she lose herself when there’d been nothing of herself to lose? “Most people take a vacation to think. They don’t uproot and leave altogether.”

“I didn’t like the man I’d become.”

“And who was that?”

“Let’s just say I lost myself to the point of ugliness, and then something happened and God closed the door and brought me back here.”

Oh, goodness gracious, God brought him back?
“So God told you to stop photography, but now He’s telling you to jump back in? to start taking pictures again?”

He lifted his shoulder. “I don’t know.”

She was opening old wounds, pressing too hard. She could tell by his face. She didn’t want to, but she couldn’t help herself. She needed to know why she should stay. Why she should trust her career to a man who hadn’t taken a professional picture in almost seven hundred thirty days. “Can I ask you one more question?”

“Sure.”

“If you don’t like the man you became in New York City, what makes you think you’ll be any different here?”

Davis didn’t answer her question.

11

“Marilyn, I can’t stay here.” The words came out dry. As she stood in front of the looming home, staring up at two stories of brick and elongated windows, prickly emotions stirred beneath the surface.

At the age of eight, Ivy started staying in the cavernous home for one month out of every summer, fascinated at first by the vaulted ceilings, wide-set staircase, a butler’s pantry, and the courtyard and marsh out back. It was so much different than her mother’s downtown condo in Chicago, which had been chic and hip, but nothing at all compared to this. Ivy had gone like an obedient dog, her stomach hurting over what to wear or what to say should her father speak to her. Turned out, she worried for nothing. James hardly said a word.

“Sure you can.” Marilyn took hold of Ivy’s suitcase and walked toward the home. “We added a guest apartment a few years ago.”

Ivy took off after her, ready to yank away her suitcase and call for that yellow cab again. She wasn’t going in that house. This time she had a choice. “Marilyn.”

She stopped in front of the porch and turned around, weariness and residual grief stretching her features. “Please, Ivy. I’d love for you to stay. This house is too big for two people.”

“Two people?”

“Sara lives here. She’s excited to see you again.” Marilyn fiddled with the small cross on her necklace. Ivy frowned. She was seeing a lot of those lately. “She didn’t get the chance to speak with you at the funeral.”

Sweet of Sara, but they hadn’t known each other very well as kids and were nothing but strangers now. Ivy looked over her shoulder, toward the
place where Davis’s loaner car had been moments ago, and wrinkled her nose at the sulfuric scent in the air. It came from the marsh out back. She’d never gotten used to it as a kid. “If I’m going to be here in Greenbrier, I’ll need my own space.”

“The guest apartment is its own space. Here, come with me and I’ll show you.” She lifted the carry-on suitcase by its handle and carried it across the lawn to the side of the garage. Ivy followed, her heels punching skinny holes into the ground.

Marilyn pointed at a white wooden staircase leading to the story above the three-car garage. “See? You won’t even have to come into the house if you don’t want. Although I hope you will. We have to discuss the campaign at some point, and I’m having that dinner party for Mom and Dad tonight. You’re welcome to join us.”

A laugh gurgled inside Ivy’s chest but got stuck somewhere in her throat. She doubted Marilyn’s parents felt the same way.

“I’d hate for you to stay in a hotel room while you’re here.” Marilyn bumped her suitcase up the stairs and opened the door. “We’re just two blocks west of the beach and a block south of the country club. You can’t beat the location.”

Humidity pressed against the back of Ivy’s neck. She wiped beads of sweat from her hairline when something itchy stung her forearm. She smacked at the spot. A mosquito splattered against her skin. She followed Marilyn up the stairs, but only to escape the heat. And the bugs. She expected a cavernous room and walls that echoed with memories, but when she stepped inside, that’s not what she got.

Cool air clashed against her skin. An inviting four-poster bed covered in a white comforter beckoned from the opposite side of the room, which opened into a quaint kitchenette, a spacious bathroom, and a walk-in closet. White carpet covered the floor, and straight ahead, on top of a mirrored dresser, a bouquet of pink rhododendrons burst from a glass vase like an
explosion of fireworks, their bright color magnified by the whiteness of the room. Rhododendrons were Ivy’s favorite, but surely Marilyn didn’t remember such an insignificant detail like that.

“You used to like flowers when you were younger. They aren’t much, but I wanted you to know how appreciative I am that you’re doing this.” She deposited the suitcase near the door and twisted her fingers together. “I know this can’t be easy.”

Ivy bit her lip.

“I changed the sheets this morning and cleaned out the refrigerator, in case you wanted to use it.”

“What happened to Bernice?” Good old Bernice, a Gullah woman who cooked and cleaned and washed Ivy’s clothes when she came for her summer visits. She’d felt like Ivy’s only friend, and she spoke with an accent so thick it could hardly be considered English. Seemed strange for Marilyn to do the cleaning with her around.

“She moved to Atlanta a while ago. Annie’s our housekeeper now.” Marilyn twisted her fingers some more. “Well, I’ll let you get settled. Dinner’s at six if you’d like to join us.”

And that was that. Somehow, Ivy was staying.

As soon as Marilyn left, Ivy brought the flowers into the bathroom, removed them from the vase, dumped the water down the drain, and gathered the stems together with one hand and pulled out her hair band with the other. She wrapped the band around the stems and hung the flowers upside down near one of the windows, then got to work unpacking her stuff.

When she reached the bottom of her suitcase, she pulled out a snow globe. The only one she’d packed. The glass sphere felt cool and heavy in her hands. As she turned it in a circle, snowflakes fluttered and swirled around the Eiffel Tower. Ivy remembered the first time she saw the famous landmark. Raymond had taken her there. He’d wined and dined her, then brought her to a fancy hotel. It had been her first fling. The first time a man
looked her in the eyes and told her he loved her. The first time she experienced the euphoric high that came with being pursued.

She had been fourteen years old.

Ivy sank onto the bed and stared at the flowers. In a couple of days, the sun would dry them. They would be nothing more than beautiful dead petals.

Ivy opened the door that led to the rest of the house. She had to find Marilyn and tell her no, thanks. They could talk about the details of the campaign tomorrow morning. An anniversary celebration was a bit much, especially one for Marshall and Eleanor. Marilyn might kid herself into thinking they wanted to see her, but Ivy knew better.