She had exaggerated features and cheekbones that could slice butter, so he could certainly see the appeal for the ad. All of the models were Vogue quality, in keeping with the fashion flair of the campaign. He could shoot the hell out of this, and they’d get every penny they were paying for.
But would the results push one drop of bottled water?
He looked at the next eight-by-ten, barely aware that he was shaking his head.
“Monsieur DeMille,” Suzette said, “you do not like Johanna?”
“No, I like her fine, it’s just that…”
“We can pick a different model. We wanted to use her in the Monaco campaign, but you’ll recall we have six specific locations—beach, city, mountains, home, country, and village. All French settings, of course, and perhaps she would fit somewhere better.”
She belonged in Monaco, actually. But not in an ad for water.
Thinking, he walked to the wall of images and eyed the sketch, imagining the actual photo. Suddenly, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and thumbed through the last shots on his camera, stopping at the picture of Gussie drinking LaVie on the plane.
Now that would sell water. He felt that shot right down to his bones.
“Monsieur?”
“Hear me out,” he said slowly, turning to them. “How hard is it for a woman like that”—he pointed to the eight-by-ten glossy on the table—“to make a bottle of water look fashionable? Not difficult. That woman could make a Hefty bag look like a designer accessory.”
He got enough frowns to know that most of them didn’t know what a Hefty bag was. But not Suzette. Her eyes were narrowed and intent as she listened.
“I can give you the shots you want and make this campaign look like it got pulled out of the editorial pages of Vogue. I get that you’re trying to do that, and it makes sense, and I’m the right photographer for you. But…”
For a long second, no one breathed.
“I might have a better idea,” he finished. Slowly, he walked back to Suzette and handed her his phone. “Maybe something more like this.”
She stared at it for a second. “Excellent composition,” she said. He didn’t bother to say thank you. Composition was like breathing to him.
A man whose name Tom had forgotten looked over Suzette’s shoulder. “Yes, nice. But she’s not extraordinaire.”
Oh, but she is. “She looks like a real woman,” Tom replied. “Like a woman who buys water who thinks the water—not the photographer—can make her look extraordinary.” He pointed to the poster. “Women need to feel like they have a chance to look like that, you know.”
“Who is this model?” Suzette asked.
“She’s not a model, she’s my”—soon-to-be lover—“friend.” God, that wasn’t good enough for Gussie, but he let it go. “I brought her with me.”
“Oh?” Suzette looked interested. Then, suddenly, she spun around and looked at the others seated at the long table, spewing a string of French that was mostly unintelligible to him. He did get a few words, like “C’est incredible!” and “Une bonne idée!”
And it was an incredibly good idea. Ordinary women turned extraordinary by the water, and the shot.
Suzette passed his phone to another woman so she could look.
“Ecoutez.” She snapped her fingers to demand they listen, and then nodded to Tom, silently apologizing for all the French. “I adore this idea of Monsieur DeMille’s. We do not use famed supermodels. We use la femme ordinaire and make her look like a famed supermodel. There is no photographer more capable than this one to do that.”
The rumble of both dissension and agreement traveled around the table, along with his cell phone. Half of them loved the idea, half of them hated it. Arguments broke out in French, most of which he got the gist of because they were nothing if not vocal and emotional.
Suzette made an impassioned argument, mostly in French, so much of it wasn’t clear. What was clear was the fact that her opinion carried quite a bit of weight at the company, and a few of the fence-sitters joined her side. Enough that she won a majority.
“It is decided then. We will shoot tomorrow with your friend.”
“What?” How had he missed that? “No, no. She’s not a model—”
“Exactement! No models. Not a single one. The entire campaign will be regular women who are made into supermodels with the right accessories, including, of course, a bottle of LaVie!”
“I think that’s brilliant,” Tom admitted. “But—”
“Of course you do, monsieur! It was your idea!”
That cracked the whole room up, and while they laughed, Tom imagined how this would go over with Gussie. Not well.
“But we will find models or even off-the-street French women who can model for us,” he insisted. “Not my…Gussie.”
“Gussie?” Suzette asked, lifting her voice and her lips in a smile. “Perfection!”
No, she’s not. At least she didn’t think she was. “She’s actually a professional stylist,” he said, speaking slowly to make sure he got that across. “Maybe she could help in that department, but she doesn’t want to model.”
“Merely to test the concept, of course,” Suzette said, ignoring every word, as she did when she wanted to get her way. “If we agree it works, we will find women for the campaign who are not models.”
One of the men spouted off something in French, too fast for Tom to follow, but Suzette agreed excitedly. “Christophe brings up a very good point, monsieur. This will be a fantastic campaign for…what do you call it? Public relations. We will address the media with the opportunity and test real women for the job.”
“I like that,” Tom agreed. “But how much time will it take?”
“Not long, a week or so. It may stretch your time in France, but we will accommodate you until, non?”
How would Gussie—and Alex—feel about an extra week in France?
“But for tomorrow, you will bring your friend,” Suzette said. “And we will use her to test against the professional and make our final decision, weighing time and cost.”
“What if she doesn’t want to do it?”
“It’s a test!” She waved her hand as if anyone would love the opportunity. “You convince her. I’m sure you can.”
But he wasn’t sure of that at all.
* * *
“Why are you putting a hat on?” Alex stood outside Gussie’s room, stuffing a towel into a beach bag.
“’Cause we’re going to the beach with the neighbors.” Gussie had been relieved and happy when Anne Stone and her daughter, Lizzie, knocked on the door a few minutes earlier and invited them to join them for an afternoon on the Promenade. Gussie hadn’t slept enough to have the energy for sightseeing and really didn’t want to explore Nice without Tom, who seemed to know the city so well.
A day at the shore was exactly what she needed—along with a hat.
“I thought you weren’t going to, you know, cover up? I thought the whole idea of you coming to France without your wigs and stuff was to be free.”
“Alex, ninety percent of the women you’ll see at the beach will be wearing hats, I’m certain of that. Tops? I’m not so certain.”
Alex clutched her bright blue bikini top that covered very small preteen breasts. “I’m keeping mine on.”
“Good call, since your uncle would probably kill me if you decided to join the French in their toplessness.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going to scream American and stay dressed. My guess is Anne will do the same.” She adjusted the brim of her baseball cap, her ponytail pulled through the opening in the back. She tapped the hat where it covered her scar. “And ‘dressed’ includes protecting my delicate skin.”
Alex eyed her suspiciously. “That’s not why you’re wearing that hat,” she said.
“Well, why I’m wearing it is irrelevant. I’m wearing it.” Because she sure as hell didn’t want Anne staring at her scar or have one of her kids say, “Eww,” and poi
nt at it. Not that she hadn’t endured that before, but—
“What happened to the freecation?” Alex asked.
Gussie propped her hands on her hips and angled her head, hat and all. “Not to put too fine a point on it or anything, but exactly whose side are you on?”
“Are there sides?”
Good question. “Well, I have agreed, at your uncle’s urging, to try to see what life is like if I don’t cover my head with wigs and wear a lot of makeup and give in to”—insecurities—“my need to cover up. But I thought you and I were, you know, like…friends.”
“Aren’t you friends with him, too?”
Friends with benefits. Oh, would she have to explain that to Alex, too? “Let’s go. Anne’s waiting, and I’m sure her kids are anxious to get to the beach.”
Alex headed down the hall, with Gussie behind her doing a mental inventory of what she thought they might need. Sunscreen, towels, water, money—
She walked right into Alex, who’d stopped dead in her tracks. “I just figured something out,” Alex said. “It makes perfect sense.”
“What?”
She turned around, her brown eyes wide, as though she’d made a huge discovery. “He’s kind of, what’s the word, obsessed with the idea of freedom. Have you ever noticed?”
“I have noticed.” She managed to keep the sarcasm out of her voice, because how could you not be around Tom for any amount of time and not figure that out?
“And he wants you to feel that way,” Alex said.
Gussie nodded. “Yes, and I do feel free when my head’s not stuffed into a wig, but I don’t think they are the same kind of freedoms. He likes the ability to move around the world unencumbered, and I just want the wind in my hair.”
“So, Gussie.” She struggled for a minute with her thoughts, and Gussie had to rein in the desire to reach out to help her. “How can I possibly fit into his life?”
And she had no answer for that. “You might not fit, not the way you expect to.”
“Then what am I going to do?”
Of course she was terrified. Writhing with her own worry of what her life would look like without her mother.
Gussie touched Alex’s cheek. “You have to get used to being outside your comfort zone.”
Alex gave her a questioning look, which Gussie answered by reaching up to the brim of her hat. “And if you can do it, so can I.” She dragged her ponytail back through the opening in the back and stuffed the cap in her bag.
Alex’s smile was a little shaky. “Sometimes you really remind me of my mom,” she said quietly.
Gussie inhaled lightly, the compliment stealing her breath. “Because you win the arguments?”
“Because you totally get me.”
Something folded over Gussie’s heart, making it hurt a little. “That’s really sweet, Alex. I’m touched.”
“She was the most incredibly hopeful person,” Alex continued. “The glass wasn’t half full, it was half full of the best-tasting drink ever and nobody had ever had anything so delicious.”
Gussie laughed, getting a great image of Ruthie. “I’m not that optimistic.”
“But you’re, you know, positive. And he’s…” She rolled her eyes. “He couldn’t hate me any more if he tried.”
“Alex!” Gussie reached out. “He doesn’t hate you. He cares very much for you.”
“He doesn’t act like it.”
“He doesn’t know how to act,” Gussie said, the defense making her voice rise. “He’s totally in over his head with a twelve-year-old girl.”
“Well, good thing you’re here.”
She pulled Alex closer. “It sure is.”
“Are you ready?” A loud rap accompanied the young girl’s voice outside.
Gussie gave Alex a soft push toward the door. “Let’s go play with our new friends.” She leaned a little closer. “And don’t you dare tell me you don’t think Eddie is cute.”
Alex threw a look over her shoulder, her face deepening in color.
“Ha! Knew it.” Gussie tapped her back. “Your secret’s safe with me. But if I decide to put this hat on and you make a fuss, I might spill the beans.”
“You can wear the hat if you need to.” Alex opened the door to greet Anne, Eddie, and Lizzie, all decked out for the beach. The kids went ahead—well, the girls went ahead, as Alex was dragged off by a very enthusiastic Lizzie. Eddie followed a few steps behind, too cool to dart along with the girls, while Anne and Gussie brought up the rear, chatting as they made their way down the stairs into the vibrant streets of Nice.
There was noise and color, vendors and cars, cafés and boutiques, and so much sunshine that Gussie couldn’t help smiling as they trekked along side streets and worked their way to the massive crescent-shaped walkway that followed the beach from one end of the bay to the other.
Nearly three lanes of pedestrian traffic hummed along the Promenade des Anglais, a French-flavored boardwalk that Lizzie happily informed them had been named for the many English people who took their holiday in Nice for centuries.
They found empty chairs along the railing overlooking the beach, perfect for relaxing, sunning, and people watching. But that lasted about five minutes with the kids, who wanted to get on the sand—which was far rockier than any in Florida—and into the water.
Gussie and Anne settled in their high-back chairs with cold bottles of LaVie to keep an eye on the kids who headed to the shore. The companionship was instant and smooth, easing the sting of not seeing Ari or Willow after their many hours of working and hanging out together.
“Okay, so forgive me if I’m butting in where I shouldn’t,” Anne said a few minutes after they were alone. “But I’m not sure I quite understand this bit of a triangle. Alex is not your daughter, she’s that gentleman’s niece, but you are not his wife or girlfriend. Yet the three of you are on holiday together.” She tipped her sunglasses down and peered over the rim. “It’s quite confusing in a typical American way.”
Gussie laughed. “It’s an unconventional little gathering, I’ll give you that. I recently met Tom, and he had to come here on business. About a month ago, he was named Alex’s guardian when her mother passed away.”
Anne’s face fell in sorrow. “Oh, I’m so sorry. What a tragedy for her. Where’s her father?”
“It is a tragedy. I didn’t know her mother, but it seems they were very close. I have no idea about the father, but he appears to be entirely out of the picture since a long-ago divorce. Alex is wrecked, of course, so when the opportunity came up for her uncle to take this assignment, it seemed like a good way to give her a change of scenery and possibly lift her spirits.” She peered at the threesome, the dynamic of growing friendship between the two girls obvious even from a distance. Then the blond boy said something, and Alex laughed, picking up a shell or stone to throw it into the water. “I think it’s working,” she added. “It’s really nice to see her have fun with other kids.”
“I may have to kidnap her, then, because my two are about to kill each other, and they need a distraction and another person to be a referee. Lizzie, especially, is aching for her school chums this summer, so I’m happy to have you next door, but terribly sorry for little Alex.”
“The whole trip is all due to these people.” Gussie held up her bottle of LaVie, the green and blue label matching the sun and sky around them. “They are paying for everything.”
“Really? Jolly good of them.” Anne used her bottle to toast. “And what shall you be doing while you’re in Nice?”
“Maybe a little shopping for my wedding clients. I work as a stylist for my destination-wedding company back in Florida.”
“Oh, really?” Anne made a face. “Lots of bridezillas and way too much saccharine for my taste.”
Gussie acknowledged both with a nod. “The brides can be, you know, emotional. But for the most part, it’s fun. And I don’t mind the saccharine. Nothing like a supersweet wedding to renew your faith in romance.”
Anne cur
led her lip. “Nothing can renew my faith in romance after my divorce.”
“Oh, a bad one?”
“Bloody brutal would be more like it. Also, acrimonious, hateful, nasty, and expensive would be perfect descriptions. At least the expensive part is his problem, and I get to spend the summer in France.”
“Oh, I’m sorry about that. The kids seem to be handling it well.”
Anne sipped her water, studying the children in the distance. “Lizzie is strong and flexible, but Eddie has retreated so much. He’s moody and fluctuates between tears and swearing.”
“He is a thirteen-year-old boy, and I suppose the raging hormones are difficult enough.”
“Speaking of hormones, look.” She tipped her bottle toward the kids, and Gussie caught a moment of intense conversation between Eddie and Alex. “Sweet.”
“Says the woman who moments ago decried romance in any way, shape, or form.”
Anne hooted. “Touché, luv.” She pushed her sunglasses back over her curls, letting her eyes sparkle. “I like you, you know that?”
“And here I’ve been told the English are so reserved.” Gussie winked.
“Oh, I can keep my upper lip stiff when I have to, if that’s what you mean. But here in France? I like to pretend I’m a different person.”
“Funny, that’s kind of why I’m here, too.”
“Really? Well, let’s do this. Let’s keep our old selves at home, and you and I can be friends with the new selves. You can call me Annie and pretend I really know how to paint and that my husband leaving me for a twentysomthing woman he met on Twitter hasn’t turned me into a bitter, hissing crone. No, I’m carefree and happy.”
Gussie gave her a knuckle tap. “Carefree Annie you are.”
“And you?”
“I’m Gussie on any continent, but here, I’m going to be…natural. No pretenses, no hiding, no wishing I were”—Different. Better. Unscarred—“more comfortable in my own skin.”
“Your skin looks comfortable to me,” she shot back.
“You’re very sweet,” Gussie said. “And happy. And unjaded. And what else did you say you wanted to be?”