A Broken Kind of Beautiful (15 page)

“Oh. A photographer. I didn’t know.” Her cheeks turned as red as his own felt. She stood there for an awkward moment, looking at the pair of them like she was waiting for someone to explain how her friend Trudy could have misled her so. When it became apparent that neither had an explanation to offer, she leaned back on the heels of her flip-flops. “Well, I hope you two enjoy the weather today.”

“We will.”

She nodded absently and headed toward the marina.

Davis watched her go. “Interesting little rumor. I wonder how it got started.”

Ivy shrugged. “Small towns.”

Right, except Greenbrier wasn’t that small.

Marilyn hung the dress in the back room, where it would wait until the photo shoot, and ran her hands down the silky fabric. Ivy was finally back in Greenbrier, yet somehow the chasm between them felt wider than ever.

Lord, how much more does my heart have to bleed?

Marilyn headed back into the boutique. Her God was not cruel. She knew that in her head, but sometimes she couldn’t stop the uncensored thoughts of her heart. No matter how hard she tried to squash them into oblivion with prayer and confession and obedience, the most she could manage was obscurity. They’d spent ten years lurking in the background, and now Ivy’s return had them creeping out of shadow. Surely God would not give her this love simply for the pain of it … right? That squeak of a word made Marilyn stop and squeeze her eyes shut.

I don’t want to have these thoughts. Please make them go away
.

When she opened her eyes, she found herself facing the large frame mounted on the wall behind the front desk—a picture of her and James on their wedding day. She’d caught Ivy staring at it earlier. The look on her face had brought back a memory so crystal and clear it might have been yesterday instead of twelve years. Ivy’s fifth summer visit. Each year she came, something more had died in her eyes—a piece of the little girl she should have been, and with the death came a distance Marilyn didn’t know how to bridge.

The final day before Ivy would return to Chicago, Marilyn had invited her to go shopping at the mall, since all of Ivy’s clothes seemed one size too small. Even her shoes. But Ivy declined, so Marilyn had gone on her own, guessing at Ivy’s taste, and when she returned, she found Ivy sitting in the center of her bed, looking through a photo album.

“What do you have there?” Marilyn asked from the doorway.

Ivy hid the album behind her back.

Maybe Marilyn shouldn’t have pressed, maybe she should have given Ivy the clothes and let it be, but the reaction left her curious. She stepped inside the room she’d decorated in pink and lace, set the shopping bags next to the dresser, and sat on the edge of the bed.

Slowly, Ivy brought out the white photo book.

It was Marilyn’s wedding album, although she had no idea where Ivy had found it. Marilyn ran her hand over the leather and opened to a page with a photo of James, his hand wrapped around her waist as the two of them stood in front of a five-tiered wedding cake, smiling as though they’d never stop. She flipped another page, to a picture of her and James kissing on the dance floor.

“I hate him.”

Startled, Marilyn looked up.

Ivy stared back at her, her bottom lip quivering even as she lifted her chin, as if waiting to be scolded. But Marilyn would never, because in truth, sometimes she hated him too. “Ivy …”

“I hate him.” A single tear slipped down her cheek. “And I hate you.” Before Marilyn could respond, Ivy scrambled off the bed and hurried out of the room.

She did not speak again that visit.

The harder Marilyn pushed Ivy to unload all that burdened her, the further she retreated into her cave and the worse the feeling in Marilyn’s gut grew. After Ivy left, she tried calling Renee, but the line was disconnected. It wasn’t until the Department of Children and Family Services removed Ivy from Renee’s custody that Marilyn understood the full extent of Ivy’s heartbreak. But by then, the shy eight-year-old girl who had first entered her heart and home was gone.

Marilyn blinked away the regret and the memories until the framed photograph of her and James came back into focus. She stared at the younger version of herself, amazed that she could have been so naive. That young
woman had been filled with so much hope for the future. That young woman had known nothing of a barren womb or an unfaithful husband. That young woman had no idea that this was what her life would become.

I will redeem …

The whispered words rose out of the darkness. Marilyn clung to them with ferocity.

14

Ivy held the phone against her ear, her leg jiggling as she waited for some elaboration. There had to be more to the message. In the mirror’s reflection, the makeup artist removed glass containers of foundation from a cheap-looking alligator purse and fielded Marilyn’s questions. Ivy jabbed the power button, as if the sharpness of the motion might scrape away the too-short voice mail. Not from Bruce, who hadn’t returned her phone call, but from one of Bruce’s assistants.

“No jobs. Stay put. Finish your work for Marilyn.”

Only finishing her work for Marilyn involved staying in Greenbrier, and after a couple of weeks, she already needed to get away. From the house and the pictures of James. From Davis and his yo-yo act. From the whispers and stares whenever she walked down the strip. Nobody knew her story in New York. When she walked down the overcrowded streets, she wasn’t the illegitimate child. She was a woman who turned heads. Sure, people whispered, but they whispered things like “Do you think she’s a model?” or “Did you see her legs?” Not “Such a sad way to come into this world.”

Ivy threw her leg jiggle into double time and pressed the 3 on her keypad. Speed dial for Annalise. If she couldn’t get away, maybe a venting session would make her feel better. After the third ring, she got shuffled to voice mail. Didn’t anybody answer their phone anymore? She tossed her cell onto the makeshift vanity.

“Mad at your phone?” The hairdresser’s bracelets clanked together as she unwound a thick strand of Ivy’s hair from a roller. The woman’s jewelry had to weigh more than the woman herself. Rings on every finger. Bracelets dangling from skinny wrists. Nose ring. Eyebrow ring. Earrings. And not
just studs, but great dangling pieces of silver that stretched her earlobes like pulled taffy.

Ivy forced her leg to stop. “Something like that.”

The drone of conversation grated. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. So the makeup artist carried her makeup in a tacky ripoff. So the hairstylist’s jewelry weighed more than a baby elephant. As long they did their job, it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was pouring her mounting frustration, and yes, her fear, into the photo shoot. Harness the energy. That’s what Annalise taught her. The insecurity, the excitement, the nerves. Roll it all into a battery and let it power her with an energy the camera couldn’t ignore.

Never mind Davis’s bizarre behavior. Never mind NYU’s rejection. Never mind her agent’s neglect or her twenty-fifth birthday just over two months away. She’d make this her best photo shoot ever. She’d take pictures Bruce and nobody else could ignore.

Ivy opened her eyes.

Jewelry Lady removed the final roller and attacked her hair—pulling, tugging, and covering it in hairspray. A man had taken up residence in the chair next to her, examining his profile in the mirror as the makeup artist pounced on his face. High cheekbones, a prominent jaw, and eyes the color of midnight that smoldered beneath dark eyebrows—the kind that looked natural but were really waxed. Textbook gorgeous. So this must be her groom.

“Are you my wife?” He spoke with a faint accent.

Ivy stuck out her hand. “Only if you approve.”

He leaned over the seat, uncaring of Purse Lady’s work, and kissed her knuckles. “My name’s Stefano. But most people call me Stefan.”

“Are you from Italy?”

“Benissimo, bella!
You recognize my accent. And here I thought I was getting better at hiding it.”

“I have sensitive ears. How long have you been in the States?”

“Four years last week. So what do you think of my country?”

“Magnifico.”

One side of Stefano’s mouth curled. “We will have a happy life together then, no?”

Ivy returned his smile. They’d get along just fine.

Jewelry Lady finished. The freelance fashion stylist hired by
Southern Brides
led Ivy behind a private screen and went to work—dressing her, pinning in the veil, clasping the pearl necklace, straightening every crease, every wrinkle, until the dress hugged her body in all the right places, then returned Ivy to the mirror so Purse Lady could finish her makeup. Stefano was gone. Probably getting dressed.

When all was complete, Ivy stood staring at her reflection. The dress. The birdcage veil framing her face. Three-string pearls wrapped around her neck. Lipstick that matched the blood-red roses in her hand. The diamond ring glittering on her finger. Flawless. Perfect. Without fault. Like a bride who deserved to wear white.

Only Ivy knew the truth.

Focus
. Davis only had three more hours to finish the shoot, and so far he didn’t have one picture he wanted to use in the editorial. He clicked three shots. Stefan stared at Ivy like a piece of meat. Davis didn’t know what he disliked more—Stefan’s unoriginality or his hungry stare. This editorial was supposed to be about the first joyous step in a long-lasting journey. An honest story about a woman in love on her wedding day. A story he could take pride in when finished.

But something wasn’t working.

The something was Stefan. He didn’t fit the vision of a faithful husband who cherished his new bride. Davis didn’t believe it, and these pictures had
to be believable. He snapped another picture and looked at the image on his screen. He couldn’t ask for a replacement now. It was too late. Stefan was his groom. Ivy, his bride.

Lord, help me focus. Help me direct. Help me capture the beauty of a wedding day
.

He stepped away from the camera and pulled at his jaw. His stylist for the day jumped in and fussed over Ivy’s and Stefan’s clothes—dabbing away sweat, redoing makeup, straightening and readjusting. Davis looked behind him, toward his sister. She wore sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat and used her hands while she talked to Marilyn. He needed these pictures to be brilliant. Not for his sake. But for Sara’s. Because a portion of every dress sale Marilyn made would go to that new art program for the visually impaired, and beautiful pictures would bring buyers.

His stylist gave him a thumbs-up and stepped back. Jeff, an old friend who knew a thing or two about photography, moved a light diffuser in front of the window to soften the sunlight seeping through the glass. Davis looked through his viewfinder and frowned. He wanted to capture love, not lust. He looked over the top of his camera.

“Stefano, I need you to look at Ivy like she holds your heart in her hands. Like you cherish the very air she breathes. Look past what’s on the outside. Look at her like you see something no one else can see.” He ducked behind his camera, his cheeks suddenly warm, and waved his hand at Jeff, who shifted the diffuser to the left. “Ivy, just keep doing what you’re doing.”