6. Grier
Grier
If Mom had given me more time, I would have showered.
Instead, she’d told me right as she was shoving a plate of cookies in my face.
I’d been hungry, and I had a weak spot for her cookies.
They were the best cookies, made with love, straight from Papa’s recipe that he’d perfected before I was even born.
Good thing for Mom that no one could smell me through those pictures. The barn clung to me, scents that I loved—sunshine, hay, animal fur—mixed with things that I’d grown nose blind to—sweat, dirt, manure.
A team of makeup artists and a photographer were already working when I walked in. They flew in for these sessions, sometimes bringing a few models of their own. Other times, if it was simple, everyday wear, Mila’s daughters Ireland and Israel modeled. Once her nieces, Gigi and Lili, had offered.
I’d seen the pictures. They were gorgeous.
Those pictures lasted on the site for two days before they were pulled, and Mom begged me to model for the reshoots.
No one ever gave me a solid answer as to why, but I had a feeling it had to do with Gigi and Lili’s dad and the amount of skin that was exposed.
Gian was a little over the top, borderline helicopter, even though his daughters had been well over eighteen at the time.
Fallon had even stepped in, because it had been so last minute and she’d been home.
This collection was not everyday wear. No jeans or tops or dresses. It was Mom’s new intimate line. Her items were exquisite, designed to make a woman feel beautiful and delicate without sacrificing comfort.
Pursuing modeling, following in my mother’s career path, had never been something I’d aspired to. From the time I was five, I knew all I wanted was to help animals. But I was my mother’s daughter and I had a natural talent in front of a camera, so if she needed my help, I did what I could.
But, I decided as I was rushed through makeup while the artist wrinkled her nose at my BO, it was going to start costing Mom more than a plate of cookies if she wanted future help.
“I’m warning you now, Mom,” I told her as I stood up and adjusted the panties I’d just pulled on. “Next time you need a favor that requires the world seeing my booty, it’s gonna cost you a new barn.”
“Okay,” she said absently, already making adjustments to the bra I was wearing.
“Not a small barn either.”
She stepped back, scanning me critically from head to toe. “When was the last time you had a pedicure?”
“Spring break, when Love was home from college,” I said with a shrug.
We’d gone to the salon at the mall an hour away.
It was a long drive, and I wished we had more options closer to home.
I was considering adding a little spa area to the recreation center.
Mani-pedis, facials, nothing too crazy. “I mean it, Mom. Next time, I expect a barn. I’m thinking ten thousand square feet, at least.”
“Sure, baby girl. Whatever you want.” She was still inspecting my feet. “Let’s do the closed-toed heels. Grier, have you even been moisturizing your feet? Your body is a temple. Cherish every beautiful part of it. That callus looks painful.”
“Meh, it’s fine,” I dismissed.
“OMG, is that a… It is! There’s a donkey outside on the street.” The makeup artist, Margo, half shrieked with delight. “I’ve never actually seen a donkey in real life.”
That was the exact right thing to make us instant friends. For the next hour, I talked about Waffles. By the time Mom was finally satisfied with the pictures, I’d expanded the conversation from my boy to many of the other babies back at the farm.
Changing my clothes, I tossed all the items I’d modeled into a WomanLand tote. That was the unspoken agreement I had with Mom. I wore it; it was mine. Not that she could have sold it to anyone else with how sweaty I’d been when I first arrived.
Except to the pervs who wanted to buy my worn underwear. Which my mother would never allow, but that hadn’t stopped creeps from asking.
Bag in hand, I hugged Mom, Aunt Vi, Mila, and River, who had also been at the shoot. That hadn’t taken as long as I’d expected. And bonus points for having made a new friend.
The photographer had left first. He was the silent type, only speaking when necessary. Which was exactly why Mom hired him more often than any other photographer. Greg was a genius behind a camera lens, though.
“Everly will have these on the website by Monday,” Mila told Mom. “All items will be on preorder from then through Friday. I’ll let you know what the numbers look like each night. But those were some killer shots. I’m kind of glad the original model backed out at the last minute.”
“My girl knows how to pose,” Mom said with that hint of pride and teeny-tiny bit of melancholy. She respected my choice not to follow in her footsteps, as she’d done with her mom, my Mama D. But her voice always held a note of something similar to longing that she couldn’t quite mask.
She’d introduced me to the modeling world when I was eight weeks old.
While she’d been pregnant with me, Mom had become a brand ambassador for a maternity clothing line that also included postpartum wear.
During one of the fashion shows, Mom had walked in their nursing bra and a pair of high-waisted panties that were meant to better support a post-birth belly.
When she’d walked out, she’d been breastfeeding me.
It hadn’t been planned, but Mom hadn’t traveled without me those first six months after I was born.
I’d gotten fussy from hunger, and Mom had decided not to wait.
It was a good call, because it showed the audience exactly how well the bra supported and offered access while mothers were nursing.
A picture of the moment was framed in my parents’ living room. My first catwalk, the first public picture of me after birth, our first Take Your Daughter to Work Day.
I hugged my mom. “Only because I learned from the best.”
She squeezed me back, not too tight, not too soft. I heard her slow inhale, the way she always did when Fallon or I hugged her first. How she held on until I was the one to pull back because I wasn’t sure she could let go first.
“Go, before Waffles starts committing crimes,” she said when I released her.
“Bye. Love you. Mean it!” I called, letting it encompass all the other women in the room.
Margo followed me out, wheeling her travel makeup case behind her. “What are my chances of getting to pet that donkey?”