Читать книгу Butterfly Summer - Arlene James, Arlene James - Страница 13

Heather smiled at the Gordons, who gave her a thumbs-up and silent applause as she strode toward the elevator. Dropping a silly curtsy as the elevator door rolled closed, she felt ridiculously pleased and oddly happy.

How strange that it should be so now, when her father was so desperately ill.

Yet wasn’t that the Lord’s way, to bring joy in the midst of woe? Even a small joy was doubly welcome when cares were so heavy.

Suddenly Heather remembered the verse between the ones she and her mother had quoted earlier that morning.

Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget none of His benefits.

She felt a decided zing pervade her steps as she strolled toward her office. It was early yet, so the receptionist was not at her desk. Heather could hear a few voices in muted conversation but saw no one as she made her way through the warren of cubicles.

To her surprise, Ethan Danes sat perched on one corner of Brenda’s desk. Clad in khakis and a dark brown T-shirt, he was studying a print, the top one of a stack that he held in his hands.

“Good morning,” she said brightly, aware of a shiver of excitement. Or was it trepidation?

Ethan looked up, a smile at the ready. That smile stilled, then gradually grew as he took in this latest version of the “new” Heather.

“Well,” he said, placing the photos on the desk, “I thought I’d picked my final shot.”

“Oh?” She craned her neck, trying to look past him to get a peek at the photo he hoped would close the piece.

He folded his arms. “The butterfly has not only broken out of her cocoon, she’s spread her wings, I see.”

Heather inclined her head, laughing. She couldn’t help it. Who wouldn’t be pleased with such a statement from the best-looking man around?

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He winked at her. “And so you should.” Dropping his hands to the edge of the desk, he shifted around, crossing his ankles. “I think I’m finally seeing the real Heather, and that’s the ‘after’ photo I’d most like to see on the printed page.”

Heather tried not to let that please her too much.

“And what does Ellen have to say about it?”

“I wouldn’t know. Haven’t seen her. Haven’t heard from her. Haven’t been able to reach her. That’s why I brought these straight to you.”

Heather frowned at that. “I wonder what’s going on with her? Oh, well. I get the final say anyway.”

Nodding, Ethan got to his feet and swept up the stack of photos, which he held out to Heather.

“I’ve marked my picks, for what that’s worth. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Will do. And thanks for going the extra mile with this yesterday. If not for you, we’d have had no feature this month.”

“That’s what you pay me for. Besides, you’re the one who saved the day.”

Setting aside her bags, she took the photos into her hands, then found that she didn’t have quite enough courage to go through them with him standing there.

As if he knew it, he gave his head a little jerk, humming a bit as he moved away. “Mmm-mmm. The guys are going to beat a path to your door now. You know that, don’t you?”

Stunned, Heather just stood there stupidly and watched him walk away, the photos clutched in her hands. After he’d disappeared from sight, she absently looked down, staring at the woman in the photo. Chic and feminine with shining amber eyes and a secretive smile, this was not the image of an old maid.

Old maid. When had she decided that she was an old maid?

Heather blinked, trying to see in this woman’s face the acceptance that she would never marry. It was not there.

How had she come to believe that God didn’t intend for her to marry and know the love of a mate? Was that assumption another product of her own laziness and hesitance?

Shocked at herself, Heather stopped to carefully consider her future. She wasn’t even thirty. She had lots of time left to find the love of her life.

Something warm and bright and sharp unfurled inside her, something she hadn’t let herself feel in years, something very like longing. Or was it hope? Had the longing always been there, but she’d only now started to hope again?

It had been aeons since she’d had a real boyfriend—since college.

Oh, she’d been on dates, but it would be nice to actually be asked out instead of always being “fixed up” by some well-meaning friend or family member.

Maybe, just maybe, some guy would notice her now.

Ethan had.

Of 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.