as she drew closer to the concession stand. If someone saw her and took her picture. . .
So far no one seemed to care that she was in Starlight, and if things went well, no one would. At least no one who worked for any national gossip magazine or news show.
Neil was good at damage control, and he’d assured her the other night that he’d clear up the mess with her California home.
“It’s a misunderstanding, Justine. Only a misunderstanding that I can clear up with a few receipts and some phone calls,” he’d said the other night during a thirty-minute phone conversation. “You just work on getting back into shape, healed up, and I’ll have you out there again within six months.”
Before Christmas time, she’d be back in California and getting on with her life. Which is why she didn’t need to think about a soldier-turned-boot-maker-slash-rancher-slash carpenter. She just had to think about getting completely whole again.
If God healed the broken, she sure hoped He’d do a quick fix on her. She'd started reading from the book of Psalms, all because of that one little verse the flight attendant had given her the night she arrived. Good reading. If God could do all that the psalmist said He could, she could use a little help like that.
A mother and daughter got in line with her at the concession stand, and the daughter’s face lit up with a flash of recognition. “Mom. . .”
“What?”
“That’s Justine Campbell in front of us. It looks just like her.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Justine had heard the same before and studied the menu board. Ice water would do nicely. She debated about turning around and saying hello.
“It is her. I know it is.”
“No, no,” came the mother’s voice. “The real Justine Campbell is prettier.”
Justine bit her lip and touched the scar on her chin. The real Justine Campbell . She ordered her bottled waters, paid for them, and headed back to the canopy without another look at the people behind her.
The simple phrase ricocheted through her mind as she trudged back in the direction of Azalea’s canopy. She was real, all right. But the image that she and Neil had painstakingly crafted for her career? Who was that?
She should never have come back here. If only she’d had the energy to follow Tyler to New Zealand. She’d been kidding herself, though. She knew what it was like while shooting films. The very idea that Ty had time to go out while shooting was ridiculous.
“Justine.”
She’d came face-to-face with an older version of herself, but with red hair.
“Mom. I. . . I called the other night.”
Her mother hugged her, in spite of the water Justine carried. She should have felt some warmth in her mother’s hug, but it felt as cool as the bottles in her hand.
“I meant to call you back.” Cynthia Campbell had aged well. Justine had that much to be grateful for with her family genetics. Her hair skimmed her shoulders, and the choppy layers gave the reddish locks a bit of movement.
“That’s okay. I know you’re busy. Um, I like your hair.”
“Thanks, thanks.” Her mother slid a few strands of hair over one ear. “I was away for a few days at a hair and coloring seminar in Austin and came back with this style. I love it. I quit my cashier job at Wal-Mart, and I'm running the salon full-time now. Don't know if I told your or not.”
Didn’t Mom see her limp, or the scars on her hand? Or the one on her chin and jaw? What kind of mother didn’t care about her child’s wounds and scars? But then the last few times they’d spoken, Justine had hurled her own barbed words across the phone line at her mother.
You’re so self-righteous, who made you judge?
I’d rather offend God than you. At least God will forgive me!
Justine chose her words more carefully this time. “I don’t know if I mentioned in my message, but I’m back here for a while. Getting physical therapy. I have one surgery next month, but the plastic surgeon wants to go
So far no one seemed to care that she was in Starlight, and if things went well, no one would. At least no one who worked for any national gossip magazine or news show.
Neil was good at damage control, and he’d assured her the other night that he’d clear up the mess with her California home.
“It’s a misunderstanding, Justine. Only a misunderstanding that I can clear up with a few receipts and some phone calls,” he’d said the other night during a thirty-minute phone conversation. “You just work on getting back into shape, healed up, and I’ll have you out there again within six months.”
Before Christmas time, she’d be back in California and getting on with her life. Which is why she didn’t need to think about a soldier-turned-boot-maker-slash-rancher-slash carpenter. She just had to think about getting completely whole again.
If God healed the broken, she sure hoped He’d do a quick fix on her. She'd started reading from the book of Psalms, all because of that one little verse the flight attendant had given her the night she arrived. Good reading. If God could do all that the psalmist said He could, she could use a little help like that.
A mother and daughter got in line with her at the concession stand, and the daughter’s face lit up with a flash of recognition. “Mom. . .”
“What?”
“That’s Justine Campbell in front of us. It looks just like her.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Justine had heard the same before and studied the menu board. Ice water would do nicely. She debated about turning around and saying hello.
“It is her. I know it is.”
“No, no,” came the mother’s voice. “The real Justine Campbell is prettier.”
Justine bit her lip and touched the scar on her chin. The real Justine Campbell . She ordered her bottled waters, paid for them, and headed back to the canopy without another look at the people behind her.
The simple phrase ricocheted through her mind as she trudged back in the direction of Azalea’s canopy. She was real, all right. But the image that she and Neil had painstakingly crafted for her career? Who was that?
She should never have come back here. If only she’d had the energy to follow Tyler to New Zealand. She’d been kidding herself, though. She knew what it was like while shooting films. The very idea that Ty had time to go out while shooting was ridiculous.
“Justine.”
She’d came face-to-face with an older version of herself, but with red hair.
“Mom. I. . . I called the other night.”
Her mother hugged her, in spite of the water Justine carried. She should have felt some warmth in her mother’s hug, but it felt as cool as the bottles in her hand.
“I meant to call you back.” Cynthia Campbell had aged well. Justine had that much to be grateful for with her family genetics. Her hair skimmed her shoulders, and the choppy layers gave the reddish locks a bit of movement.
“That’s okay. I know you’re busy. Um, I like your hair.”
“Thanks, thanks.” Her mother slid a few strands of hair over one ear. “I was away for a few days at a hair and coloring seminar in Austin and came back with this style. I love it. I quit my cashier job at Wal-Mart, and I'm running the salon full-time now. Don't know if I told your or not.”
Didn’t Mom see her limp, or the scars on her hand? Or the one on her chin and jaw? What kind of mother didn’t care about her child’s wounds and scars? But then the last few times they’d spoken, Justine had hurled her own barbed words across the phone line at her mother.
You’re so self-righteous, who made you judge?
I’d rather offend God than you. At least God will forgive me!
Justine chose her words more carefully this time. “I don’t know if I mentioned in my message, but I’m back here for a while. Getting physical therapy. I have one surgery next month, but the plastic surgeon wants to go
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