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simplicity of the place carried a charm that fancy accoutrements just couldn’t bring. The red paint was peeling on the little storage shed . . . barn . . . whatever it was, as well as the much larger barn farther back on the property. “It looks like a Norman Rockwell painting.”
    “Norman who?” Brian leaned a bit to his right side with the weight of the telescope in his hand.
    “He was an artist from a long time ago—before my time even.”
    “Was paint even invented back then? Were there dinosaurs, too?” Brian grinned up at her through reddish-orange lashes. His face had gone so red from heat and exertion, his freckles had nearly vanished.
    “Brian, you refrain from the old-people humor and I won’t call you ‘kiddo’ on national television.” Julie smiled at her son, happy to see him in such good spirits.
    “It smells funny here.” Whitney wrinkled her nose.
    Julie took a deep breath. “That, my darling, is clean, fresh air.”
    “Perhaps.” Brian sniffed the air. “But I’d say there’s also a bit of freshly turned earth, the sweet smell, I think, is honeysuckle, and there’s just a dash of . . . hmm . . .”
    “Manure?” Whitney cocked one eyebrow at her brother.
    “Most likely. Animal waste of some kind is nearby, likely near the barn Mom thinks looks like a painting.”
    Honeysuckle or horse manure: Which one was the summer going to be?
    Julie looked again at the scene ahead, took a deep breath, and said, “Okay, you two, let’s go do this.”

Chapter 3
     
    “Lift your chin up just a little and look over my left shoulder.”
    Susan did as the photographer—whose name she hadn’t been told—said, hoping she didn’t look like a complete amateur. She concentrated on presenting a polished and in-control demeanor for the camera but couldn’t be sure it came across that way.
    “Just a minute.” The stylist rushed over to dust Susan’s forehead with a bit of powder. Then she took a comb and painstakingly adjusted what felt like only a few strands of hair. “There now, that’s better.” She hurried behind the photographer, and the camera began to click once again.
    The photographer pulled the camera away from his face, tilted his head, and stared. He nodded twice, forehead wrinkled in concentration. “Hmm. Let’s try a few without a smile. Show me your best power pose.” He pulled the camera back up to his face, ready for action.
    Susan had no idea what a power pose might look like, but she tried to visualize magazine photos she’d seen of women CEOs over the years. She folded her arms across her chest and turned sideways a little, pretty certain she’d seen this one before.
    “Umm, no, I don’t think that works.” Kendra Stern, the segment producer for the Lisa Lee show, stepped from the shadows. “We do want to portray her as competent, but we want to keep a homey edge to it. Maybe something a bit more relaxed.”
    “Right. How about turning that chair a quarter turn, rest your elbow on the back of it, and your chin in your hand.”
    Susan did as she was told and waited.
    “It still looks a little . . . stilted,” Kendra said.
    The photographer squinted, “Maybe if you don’t sit quite so straight. Try to look relaxed, like you’ve just arrived at your cozy home after a hard day’s work.”
    Susan tried to ease back a little. Somehow she felt a bit slumped, but she did as she was told as the camera began clicking again.
    “Okay, I think we’ve got enough to work with here. Thank you, Carl.” Kendra took a step forward. “You’ll email the proofs this afternoon?”
    The photographer loaded his camera into its case. “Yep.” He looked toward Susan then and nodded. “Good luck.”
    “Thank you.” Susan watched him leave the room, followed by the stylist, and wondered what to expect next.
    “Now, a few more things we need to talk about.” Kendra walked over and popped the latches on her leather briefcase. “I’ve been speaking with the