After taking a minute to compose herself, she raised her gaze. To her surprise, she was met with smiles from both Libby and her grandmother.
“Please, go on,” Mrs. Brockhurst said, gesturing. “Genuine enthusiasm for one’s work is refreshing and should be treated as the gift it is.”
Encouraged, Jill steadied herself and continued. “The image you’re looking at now is one of a pair I shot that day. There’s another that I like even better. It’s on the next page. May I show you?”
“Yes, please do.”
Jill’s favorite shot from that warehouse was honestly breathtaking. She’d taken it at a perfect moment, the elusive golden hour that comes just before dusk, when sunlight melts into honey tones and everything is bathed in magic. And just like magic, those moments were fleeting and you had to be ready for them. On that day, Jill’s model had assumed the fading light meant they’d finished work for the day, so she’d relaxed her pose. In a completely unguarded moment, she’d buried her face in her bouquet, breathing in the scent of pink peonies, and the joy she’d experienced was reflected in her expression. Jill had been there to catch it.
“You can see here that I softened the brick hardscape by filling the space with delicate stephanotis flowers and a tumble of variegated ivy. I draped a sheer curtain panel across the broken window—see how the fabric billows in the breeze from the river? Do you see how the ivory material picks up the colors in the foliage and even the lighter shades of grout between the bricks? Here and here?” Jill pointed, then realized she’d been explaining amateur photography to one of the state’s greatest art patrons, exactly the thing she’d told herself she wouldn’t do. Her face flushed again as she drew her hand away from the print.
“You’ve quite an eye,” Mrs. Brockhurst commented.
“Thank you.” Jill’s heart thumped in response. She might just get this job after all, and what a prize that would be! What a coup for her budding career. “What I imagine for Libby is something similar. Her hair color would be striking against the warm brick, but instead of an afternoon shot, I’d like to set up early in the morning. The sun rising over the river will wash everything in shades of pink and would pick up her skin tone. Libby’s bridal portrait will be beautiful and completely original.”
Jill was encouraged by Mrs. Brockhurst’s thoughtful examination of the photograph. She followed the older woman’s gaze as it swept the image, and when she noticed that Mrs. Brockhurst lingered on the same elements that Jill liked, she took it as a good sign. What if Mrs. Brockhurst took an interest in Jill’s work? That might lead to other opportunities, and wouldn’t that be wonderful?
Then, to her horror, Jill realized that Mrs. Brockhurst had noticed the very thing that Jill had hoped she wouldn’t. A mistake. During the shoot, Jill had laid down old bedsheets to protect the bride’s white gown, but she’d misjudged the amount of dust and grime that had accumulated on the floor from years of disuse, and a simple cotton bedsheet hadn’t been nearly enough protection. If she’d gone back for something sturdier, she’d have missed the light—and her opportunity—so she’d decided to press on. After the shoot, there were a few smudges on the hem of the dress where it had dragged on the floor, and on the cuff of the sleeve where the model had placed her hand on the hardwood to steady herself. Blemishes in the otherwise perfect photograph were unprofessional. They were easy enough to digitally remove, but Jill hadn’t noticed that she’d included the wrong prints until this morning. By then, it was too late to fix them.
She cringed at the sight of Mrs. Brockhurst’s fingertip resting on the smudge.
The mistake.
“The dress is fine—the dry-cleaners got the dust off,” Jill offered, unnerved as she sensed Libby stiffening beside her.
Mrs. Brockhurst shifted her attention from the portfolio and lifted her gaze to Jill. “How much do you know about my granddaughter’s wedding?”
“Libby’s told me a little bit about it,” Jill answered, deliberately vague. Jill knew almost everything about the Brockhurst wedding. Everybody did. “I know both the ceremony and reception will be held in New York.”
“It’s more complicated than that, I’m afraid. I’ve allowed things to get quite out of hand. Libby is my only grandchild, you see. Regretfully, she bears the burden of family obligation. I’ve lost count of the number of guests we’ve invited, and truthfully, I’m not entirely sure that I know all of them.” The diamonds on her wedding set flashed in the sunlight as she swept her words from the air. She straightened, her blue eyes sharp. “Libby’s wedding gown has been in the Brockhurst family for more than one hundred years—has she mentioned that?”
“No, she hasn’t.”
“It’s been altered of course, temporarily, to fit Libby, but the gown is an heirloom. Five generations of Brockhurst women have been married in that dress and it cannot be replaced.”
“I’ll bring something more substantial than bedsheets this time, and of course I’ll pay for dry-cleaning afterward,” Jill blurted, even as she felt her opportunity slipping away.
“My dear, one does not ‘dry clean’ a dress this old,” Mrs. Brockhurst sighed. “I’m truly sorry but I’m afraid my answer is no.”
Libby shifted in her seat, prepared to object, but her grandmother quieted her with a single glance.
“You have quite an eye, you really do,” Mrs. Brockhurst continued, turning her attention back to Jill. “But it cannot start here. There’s too much at stake. I wish you well, Mrs. Goodman.”
“I understand.” Jill pushed herself to her feet. “Thank you for your time.”
Two
It was a short drive from the Brockhurst home to the shops
