A Broken Kind of Beautiful Read Online Free PDF Page B

Well, great. How was he supposed to eat without a microwave? He checked the plug, his stomach snarling.
    “I know. I know. You’re hungry.”
    Davis turned in place, searching for something ovenproof, and found a flashing red light on his answering machine instead. He pushed the button and pulled open a skinny cupboard between his refrigerator and stove. Grandma Eleanor had helped him unpack his things when he moved in a couple of years ago. He had no idea where she’d put his baking sheets. Or if he even had any.
    “Hey, Davis, it’s your favorite aunt.”
    He paused his search at the sound of Marilyn’s voice. She sounded okay—definitely not upbeat, but not despondent either. Over the past week, whenever he stopped by for a visit, she’d seemed understandably adrift.
    “So I have something I’d like to run past you. It’s an idea I had a while ago, before …” Her words fell away. Over the past six months, she’d spent her time caring for James, helping him fight and then accept a sickness that descended and destroyed with the quickness and ferocity of a raging wildfire. “Anyway, I’ve decided I’m going to put together an advertising campaign—something to market my new line of wedding gowns.”
    He opened another cupboard and smiled. Aunt Marilyn thrived at her boutique. She was making quite a name for herself. Blushing brides all across the Lowcountry came to Something New to try on her dresses. A campaign sounded like the perfect distraction—something to occupy her time as she transitioned into the realities of widowhood.
    “Remember my friend Joan Calloway? She’s a fashion editor for Southern Brides magazine. She contacted me a few weeks ago, asking to do an editorial spread featuring my dresses. I couldn’t commit then, but now I can. She thinks they’re quirky and fresh.”
    He pulled out a plastic bowl and a misplaced corkscrew and reached into the back of the cupboard, his palm moving over empty space and the grain of unfinished wood, then caught something promising. Something that felt ovenproof. He brought it out. “Aha!”
    “Anyway, I was hoping you might consider being my photographer.”
    The smile slid from his face.
    “Now please don’t get mad, but I mentioned your name to Joan. She called me back a little while ago raving about you. Apparently, she looked up some of your work online.”
    Davis went to the sink and rinsed the dust from the ceramic dish.
    “She wants to meet with me tomorrow for dinner to go over the details of the photo shoot we’re going to do next week. I told her you probably wouldn’t be there. But, Davis”—she let out a long breath, a note ofdesperation in the sigh—“this is important and there isn’t any other photographer I want to work with. Or one I trust so implicitly. Besides, I think it could be a fun experience. Stop by and we can talk about it, okay?”
    A loud beep swallowed Marilyn’s farewell. Davis tore off a paper towel and wiped the dish dry, his mind no longer on the food.

    Sunlight dappled through the leaves of the large oak trees lining Marilyn’s street, speckling the colonial houses with pinkish gold. Davis caught sight of his aunt trimming the confederate jasmine climbing up her trellis as he pulled down her long drive and parked in front of the three-car garage. He didn’t want to disappoint his aunt, but there was no getting around it. He made a vow two years ago, and a fun experience, as Marilyn had called it, was not a strong enough reason to break it.
    Letting out a deep breath, Davis stepped outside into a heat that was already starting to swelter, despite the early hour. Usually the full brunt of summer’s wrath held out until July, but June was proving to be an exceptionally nasty piece of work. He shut his door.
    Marilyn set down her pruning shears and waved, her face barely visible beneath her floppy hat.
    Davis cut through the lawn and met her in front of the butterfly bushes. “Hard at work already?” He