Chapter 7

Most people, when they look at a picture of themselves, tend to see the flaws in the person in the picture. Maybe it’s a mole you think looks horrible, or that extra weight that photographs seem to show so well. Maybe the hair is out of place, or the look on the face looks goofy. The truth is that most people don’t like looking at pictures of themselves.

Misty was no different. She’d been told she was beautiful, and talented. She’d been told that by people in her family, whom she wanted to believe, and by people in the music industry, whom she almost always disbelieved. If she’d been able to articulate how she felt about herself, she’d have said something like “I guess I look okay, and I love to sing.” She still couldn’t believe that almost half a million people had bought her album.

As such, when she looked at the proof sheet, the first thing she did was dismiss certain pictures. She saw something wrong in them, and discarded them, looking on. Most of those were ones in which she was wearing Felicity’s borrowed clothing. It wasn’t the clothing she objected to, really. That was fine, for the most part. There was one shot, with her wearing the doeskin shirt. She was looking over her shoulder, and her bare back was clearly on display. She liked that one, but immediately decided she looked entirely too naked.

She looked at the ones where she was wearing the tank top. Christy had been right about them. All you could see was that she probably wasn’t wearing a bra under it. There was nothing really prurient about them, but they made her face feel hot anyway.

Then she got to the sheet where she was wearing the clothes Mirriam had loaned her. She looked more relaxed, somehow. Her face wasn’t as tight, somehow. She looked more like how she envisioned herself ... just a girl with a guitar that she loved playing, and the camera had caught that girl doing what she loved most.

The way Christy narrowed things down fit perfectly with how Misty was feeling. She asked first which shots were definitely not acceptable, and crossed those out with a big red X in grease pencil. Then, almost like an eye exam, Christy would pick two shots and ask which one Misty liked better. The loser in that round was crossed out. Eventually, one whole sheet was covered in big red Xes, and was put aside.

“But I like some of those,” moaned Misty.

“That’s fine,” said Christy. “What we’re looking for is the one you like the best. I’ll keep the negatives of all of them. If you want me to make you some prints later, I’ll be happy to do that, but for right now, we need three publicity shots. We don’t have much time either. It’s going to take us all day to get enough for your concert tonight, and, after hearing you sing, I suspect we’re going to be busy all day tomorrow and the next day too.”

In the end, Misty was surprised to pick one in which she was wearing the clothes she still had on. The faded jeans and soft looking work shirt didn’t do much to make her look feminine, but it was the look on her face she loved. She was wearing the old straw hat in that picture, worn level, and her head was dipped slightly. She was looking at the frets and her fingers were poised to strum a chord. There was just something about the look on her face that made her feel good.

“That one,” she said. “I can’t believe it, but I like that one best.”

“I told you so,” crowed Jill, grinning from ear to ear. “Didn’t I tell you I liked that one best?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Christy. “Now get your butt in the dark room and start turning these babies out. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“What about the kids?” asked Jill.

“Damn!” said Christy. “I forgot about them.”

“I can drop them off at Renee’s,” suggested Bobby.

“Would you, really?” Christy smiled. “That would help just tons and tons.” She turned to the two children who were sitting on the floor with the book Bobby had been reading them. They were pretending to read it to each other. “Hey, do you two little gremlins want to go play at Renee’s?”

They obviously did and, in short order, they were bundled into the front seat of the pickup between Misty and Bobby.

“You’re a doll,” said Christy, leaning in through the driver’s window to kiss Bobby on the lips. “We’ll get the prints done as quickly as we can. What should we do with them?”

“I’ll come get them while she’s rehearsing,” said Bobby. “Once I get her to the fairgrounds I don’t think she’ll need me again until after the concert. I need to run over to Wichita too, and see if they got her suitcase back yet. How about I pick up the prints on the way back from that?”

All that arranged, they left.

“So...” said Misty, clutching her guitar between her legs, and her performance clothing in her lap. “Christy is your girlfriend?”

“Nope,” said Bobby carelessly. “She’s just a friend.”

“But the pictures ... on the wall ... in her bedroom...”

He looked over at her, and then down at the two children between them.

“She’s a photographer,” he said simply.

“Yeah, and you must be too,” said Misty, thinking about the picture of Christy.

He smiled for some reason, and Misty felt anger trying to wiggle its way into her chest. She somehow knew that he wasn’t going to give her any information about those pictures.

“She showed me how to work the camera,” he said. “That’s all.”

“I thought maybe she was one of your sisters, at first ... when we first got there. Or maybe Jill.”

He laughed then. “Nope, definitely not my sisters.”

It was obvious that was all he was going to say. She wanted to question him more, for some reason, but Steven spoke, his voice high and piping.

“Can I drive, Uncle Bob?”

“Not in town, Sport,” said Bobby. “Wait until we get out of town, okay?”

That happened in a few minutes and Misty watched as the little boy stood on the seat between Bobby’s slightly spread thighs and gripped the wheel below Bobby’s hands. He made what were obviously supposed to be motor noises as he tried to jerk the wheel from side to side. He couldn’t, because Bobby wouldn’t let him.

“Straight down the road, Sport,” said the real driver.

They made one turn, going almost laughably slowly, and then another, turning into the drive of a house out in the country. A sign in the yard proclaimed it to be, “Renee’s Child Care Center and Pre-School.”

“Wow!” said Bobby, putting the little boy back in the middle of the seat. “You drove two whole miles!”

The boy had lost all interest in driving, however. Both he and Jillian were too excited about getting to play at Renee’s. Misty had to set her guitar case down to help them out, afraid they’d try to climb down from the truck by themselves and fall. Then they ran haltingly toward the house.

“You can wait here, if you want,” said Bobby, starting to follow them.

“Okay,” said Misty, picking her guitar up and putting it back in the truck.

She was sitting there when a dark-haired woman came out the front door of the house, to let the two children in. They ran past her, eager to get inside. She was carrying an infant in her arms.

Misty watched as the woman paused, while Bobby looked at the baby in her arms. Then the woman leaned forward to give him a long and obviously passionate kiss. The kiss broke, and Bobby leaned down to kiss the baby’s forehead, before turning and striding back to the truck.

“So,” said Misty as they got on the highway to Hutchinson. “Is Renee your girlfriend?”

Bobby looked over at her. She couldn’t tell what was on his face.

“Nope,” he said. “She’s just a friend too.”

Misty spent the rest of the trip in silence. When she wasn’t thinking about all the women who seemed to be so willing to kiss this man, and how comfortable he seemed to feel with all their children, she was thinking about that picture of him standing in the window.

All thoughts of Bobby fled when Misty arrived at the fairgrounds and found out that a band ... of sorts ... had been cobbled together to back her up during the concert. It had been Amanda’s idea, apparently. Misty wasn’t so sure it was a good idea.

She was introduced to Jasper Tomkins, who proudly announced that he owned a grocery store and played bass. He looked to be in his early fifties. Rocky Waldorf was sitting at a drum kit, and said he worked at the feed mill. He played the riff that announces a joke has been told: pu-dum-dum. He looked like he wasn’t a whole lot older than she was. A woman standing there with a guitar in her hands identified herself as Lucy Simms.

“I have three kids, and I’m a stay-at-home mom, but I practice all the time, singing to them,” she said. “I play rhythm.”

Another woman - a girl really - sat at an electronic keyboard.

“I’m Janie,” she said shyly. “I can’t believe you’re actually Misty Compton.”

Misty turned to Bobby.

“I’m supposed to play with these people?” she whispered. “Store keepers and stay-at-home moms?”

“Isn’t that who you played with back in the mountains?” asked Bobby, smiling.

Misty blinked.

“Well yeah ... but...”

“Give them a try,” said Bobby. “Amanda wouldn’t have lined them up if they weren’t any good. Trust me on that.”

Misty simply stepped up to a mike, turned around, gave them a title and stamped her foot four times. She intended to leave these yokels in the dust. She had intended to play solo, and didn’t need any amateurs making her sound provincial.

The first thing that amazed her was that the four musicians knew her music already. They had what seemed like reams of sheet music. It turned out they had been practicing together for three days. Not only did they know the music, they knew the lyrics as well. Jasper had a strong bass voice to go with his guitar, and the drummer had a lilting tenor. Lucy had a smoky alto voice, and Janie’s soprano was sweet and pure. They had improvised the harmony, because the harmony for the voices wasn’t written into the sheet music.

The second thing she realized was that while these folks might live and work in Hutchinson, Kansas, they were certainly not amateurs. Within three songs Misty was elated at the sound they were producing as a band.

She grinned, announced another number, and, before she could stamp her foot to set them off, the drummer beat her to it, hitting a stick on the metal rim of a snare drum.

They didn’t take a break for over an hour.

The musicians cut it off at five, but the only reason they did so was because a crowd had gathered. The festival gates opened at four, so that people could begin to ride carnival rides, and shop at little booths vendors had set up. There was a rodeo scheduled between five-thirty and seven, when Misty’s concert would begin. The rehearsal, however, had drawn the crowd, who mingled, standing in front of the stage, clapping and yelling as each song ended.

Misty was starving, and was about to go get a hot dog when a she saw a familiar truck pull up behind the stage. Bobby got out, a box in his arms.

“Got your pictures,” he said. “They printed a hundred of the last three shots you liked.”

“Surely I won’t need three hundred pictures!” she moaned, thinking of having to autograph each one.

A man and woman stepped forward.

“Can we get one of those?” asked the man. The woman smiled hopefully. “You’re really good.”