She’s Gone Country Read Online Free PDF Page B

can.” And then she rattles off the address, and I’m fairly confident I know the house since Blue lives on Beverly Drive, too.
    “Make sure they’re okay with me being late,” I say.
    “They’ll be fine. They need you.”
    Glad somebody does, I think, ending the call.
    I shower and leave the house with my hair wet. I’ve also shaved—laser hair removal treatments aren’t completely permanent—and am now racing to Dallas. I’m flying down Highway 180, cell phone connected to car charger, and I dial my brother Blue’s cell phone.
    I end up getting his voice mail and leave a message: “Blue, it’s Shey, and I’m doing a photo shoot in Highland Park today on Beverly Drive. I’m thinking it’s the big red-brick Georgian-style mansion down the street from you. Not sure how long I’ll be working, but it’d be great to see you and Emily before I head home if there’s time. Call me on my cell.”
    I hang up and concentrate on driving. And trying to quell the butterflies. I haven’t done a lot of modeling in the past ten years, just a couple of jobs a year, but at least I knew most of the photographers in New York as well as the stylists. This, though, is my first job since returning to Dallas and my first job working with the Stars agency. I hope it goes well. I need it to go well. I don’t know why it wouldn’t. I’ve been modeling since the early nineties, appearing on my first U.S. Vogue cover in 1994, and then three years later making back-to-back covers for the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.
    But modeling is different now. I’m older—thirty-nine—and not as toned or fit. My face is different, too, and when I lived in New York I kept up with all the skin treatments and fillers and injectables. But since moving home this June, I’ve concentrated on the kids, not on my appearance.
    Turning the rearview mirror toward me, I steal a quick look at my reflection. Eyebrows need to be waxed. Eyelashes should be dyed. Hair should be colored and cut. Skin cries out for dermabrasion or a chemical peel.
    Irritated, I snap the rearview mirror back into place and focus on the road, trying to pretend that my hands aren’t clammy and my stomach isn’t in knots.
    Lord, I’m nervous. What if I arrive and they’re disappointed? What if I’m too big for the clothes? What if I’m too old? Sweet Jesus, maybe taking this modeling job today wasn’t such a good idea after all.
    I reach Highland Park in exactly two hours and make only one wrong turn before finding the right house. It isn’t the Tudor brick mansion I was thinking of, but it’s similar in style, and U-Haul trucks and cars line the quiet street, with cameras and lights set up outside the house in front of the arched front door. The dark-stained door boasts a huge wreath, and a decorated Christmas tree is visible through the living room’s leaded glass window.
    I park the truck down the street and head for the house. My palms are still damp, but I walk the catwalk walk, the one I first learned in Milan and then perfected in New York. It’s a strut that looks confident and careless and hides the fact that I feel like an impostor.
    Members of the crew look up as I approach. One of the men has a light meter around his neck. He must be the photographer or the photographer’s assistant. Another man has tools and duct tape hanging from his belt. The thin, graying brunette with closely cropped hair and a clipboard has to be the stylist. She eyes me critically as I join them. I know the look. She’s a woman who feels she has to be a bitch to be taken seriously. She also thinks that Dallas is the big time and she’s the big cheese and I’m lucky to be here on her shoot.
    “Good morning,” I say, feeling the sun beat down. It’s not yet ten and it’s already muggy hot. If we’re shooting outside today, wearing winter coats, it’s going to be miserable. “I’m Shey Darcy, and I’m looking for DeeDee.”
    The graying brunette gives me another slow