Chapter 8
Nina
Ican’t believe it. I can’t believe I’m actually in a television production wardrobe department, sorting through costumes for upcoming challenges and dates for the heroes and heroines of the show.
I wouldn’t exactly say this is my childhood dream job.
My dream job would be to be the dressmaker for a beautiful lady going to a Regency-era ball.
Or for a medieval queen! Oh, gosh. The fabric.
The colors! In my dream job, there probably wouldn’t be so much flannel or .
. . banana hammocks? Oh, boy. I can already tell Uncle Aaron really isn’t going to love that date when it airs on live television . . .
But to be in a room absolutely stuffed full of hats and shoes and clothes—to see the sketches of costume plans for what looks like an upcoming masquerade ball .
. . wow. Weirdly, I’ve never given too much thought to what Heaven might look like, but I think it might be this room.
We’re only on the bottom floor of the Donner Lodge, in one of the conference rooms, so it’s not like I’ve even gone very far from the room I’ve been holed up in for most of my time in Green Valley.
But still. I’m here by myself, without Uncle Aaron or Aunt Hope or any of the kids.
I’m working on a job with costumes, not running errands or helping with chores.
I’d braced myself to be trapped this entire trip, and instead by some miracle, I’ve been set free—even if it’s only for a few weeks.
Somehow, Rae Ezra and Sienna Diaz pulled it off.
Somehow they convinced Uncle Aaron to let me work here.
I was so sure he would say no. I was waiting for him to come out with that familiar, reproachful look—the one that I’d think borderlines on disdain if I didn’t know he only holds me to such a high standard for my own good.
When it came down to it, though, Uncle Aaron didn’t say anything to me about it, good or bad.
I didn’t know what the final verdict was until the next morning when Lyle came to get Harmony for her photoshoot and motioned for me to follow after them with a wink.
“Come on, Thumbelina. You’re with me today. ”
And now I’m here, on a television set. Holding . . . a spray bottle?
“It’s full of glycerin and water,” Deja tells me as we make our way to the preshow photoshoot for the Mountain Men. “It’ll make them look sorta sweaty, but in a hot, manly way.”
Deja is one of the longtime stylists for the network, and she is beautiful.
She has dark skin and wavy hair that reaches to her shoulders.
With her dark eyes and incredible bone structure, she looks completely glamorous even without wearing any makeup.
Her clothes are nondescript dark colors, but they’re fitted well to her body, which gives her an elegant, timeless, Audrey Hepburn aesthetic.
My job today is to make sure the men stay glistening throughout the photoshoot.
I’m happy to do whatever the producers want me to as long as it gets me out of doing Bible study with my younger cousins upstairs.
Although admittedly, part of me hopes that at some point in working for the wardrobe department, I’ll move on to something more ambitious, but it is only my first day.
And I’m so thankful to be here! Honestly, what an experience.
I can’t wait to tell Helen and Matilda all about it.
When we reach the set (!), which has been prepared for the photoshoot with all the Mountain Men, the photographer and his assistants are finishing getting the lighting just right.
Most of the men are already dressed, although a few are still being adjusted by some of the other stylists.
The attention to detail is incredible, honestly.
The stylists take their time with each man, rolling a sleeve up, then back down partway, finding the exact right position on each Mountain Man’s forearm for maximum impact.
And I have to admit, I’m a little dazzled.
I’m not usually one to take so much note of people’s looks, but these men are almost a different species of handsome, they’re so tall and broad and chiseled.
Even though on its own, their handsomeness doesn’t do much for me in terms of “getting my engine revving,” as Matilda might say, on a purely aesthetic level, I can appreciate it.
I would love to make costumes for some of them.
Sleek-lined suits, maybe, specially tailored for their extra-tall frames . . .
“Glisten Girl!” one of the stylists calls out.
Oh! That’s me. Heart pounding, I hurry forward.
I want—need—to do a good job today. I need the stylists to want me to come back, and to learn my name so I don’t have to answer to “Glisten Girl” anymore.
I want Sienna and Rae to not regret making that phone call.
I want my uncle to have no reason to keep me back in the hotel suite.
“Neck, upper chest, arms,” the stylist, whose name I think is Amber, tells me seriously. “Don’t spray on the clothes. Or the face. We want them to look healthy and glowing, not damp and sweaty.”
I nod vigorously to show I understand. “Got it.”
I move up and down the row of men. They seem to hardly notice me, distracted by all the lights and busyness in the room. Which is absolutely fine by me. I don’t need any of these flannelled gods to pay me any mind. I wouldn’t know what to do with that kind of attention, anyway.
Judging by the bits and pieces of conversation floating around, it seems like most of the men have just arrived in Green Valley in the last day or so and are meeting each other for the first time.
Some of the men are local, but from what I gather, all come from places close to big mountain ranges—the Cascades, the Rockies, and so forth.
Most of the men are making small talk, and some have already fallen into an easy rhythm of teasing each other.
A few seem very quiet and withdrawn, and I can’t blame them much.
I’d absolutely whither under these many lights, a camera, so many people watching.
I smile to myself as I think of Harmony, off doing the Mountainettes photoshoot at a different location. (They want the heroes and heroines to meet for the first time on camera, naturally.) I bet wherever she is, she’s eating all of this up.
I’m so caught up in my task that at first I don’t really register his face.
That jaw. Those lips. He’s looking away from me, talking to the man next to him, wearing an easy smile.
My mind slows. I know him, I think, and my mind runs over the possibilities.
He’s older. His hair has grown out. But more than that, I never thought I’d be seeing him here of all places. Not in a million years.
Cass.
When the recognition finally clicks into place, I freeze.
At just that moment, as if he can sense the weight of my attention, his eyes slide over to me.
Away, then back again, snagging. I see him go through the same process, the same stutter as his mind tries to place me so far out of context from where he would have known me.
I see the wrinkle in his brow, the shock that shudders through his eyes.
Breathe, Nina, I tell myself. Something that usually comes so naturally now becomes an effort to accomplish.
My entire body feels like it’s locked up, frozen with shock.
My brain, too. But not my heart—it’s the only thing still functioning, albeit at higher-than-usual capacity as it pounds away in my chest. Two years.
It’s been sleeping for two years, and now, finally, it’s been woken up.
It’s probably only the briefest of moments that we stare at each other. It feels longer. Much, much longer. His lips part, like he’s going to say something.
No. I can’t let him. I don’t know why, exactly, but I know I can’t hear what he has to say.
It won’t be good, I’m sure, whatever it is.
He’ll ruin it, all of those memories we had together.
And I’ve treasured them for so long now.
Treasured him. He’s been the one bright spot I’ve carried with me all this time.
The dream I’ve nurtured quietly, gently; the one thing I’ve let myself keep just for me.
I can’t let anyone take that away, not even him.
So before he can speak, I turn and abruptly move on to the next man, gambling on the fact that Cass won’t call after me, make a scene. He doesn’t, but I can feel his eyes on me as I spritz the man next to him, then the man after that.
Oh my word. Oh my word. Oh my word.
Cass is here. Cass is here. I was so sure I’d never see him again, and now he’s here. He knows the real reason why I had to leave the postulancy. He knows, because he was there. And . . . participating.
“Are you okay?” Deja asks me when I rejoin her after I’ve finished glistenizing the long line of men. “You look sorta clammy. Did you spritz yourself?”
I try my best to smile, even though I think I may be sick. “Maybe by accident.”
But I know it’s not an accident, none of it is. I’m being punished. I did a bad thing a long time ago, and it’s only a matter of time before everyone finds out.