Asher is standing ten feet away with a cooler, a folding chair, a beach umbrella, two bottles of water, and a bag of snacks.
“She needs to stay hydrated,” he says.
“I know.”
“And the sand might be hot.”
“I brought a mat.”
“And the sun —”
“Asher.” I point at the folding chair. “Sit down and look handsome. I’ll tell you when I need you.”
He sits. He does not relax. He watches Mads the way a lifeguard watches a swimmer—alert, tense, ready to launch into rescue mode at any moment. It’s the most adorable and completely unnecessary thing I’ve ever seen.
“He’s going to be hovering for the next two months, isn’t he,” Mads says, not as a question.
“Minimum.”
“I told him the baby’s not due until September. He said, and I quote, ‘babies don’t follow schedules.’ He read that in a book.”
“He read a book about babies?”
“He’s read four books about babies. He has a spreadsheet. He has aspreadsheet, Emma.”
“That’s actually kind of sweet.”
“It’s sweet until he starts timing how long I’ve been standing and asks if I need to elevate my feet. Which he will. Give it ten minutes.”
Eight minutes. It takes eight minutes.
“Mads, you’ve been standing for a while. Do you want to sit? I brought a folding chair. It has lumbar support.”
“Asher. I’m in the middle of a photo shoot.”
“You can look beautiful sitting down.”
“Nobody does maternity photos in a camping chair from Target.”
“It’s a very supportive camping chair.”
I shoot through the entire conversation. Some of my best work happens when people forget the camera exists, and right now Mads and Asher have completely forgotten I’m here. She’s rolling her eyes with so much affection it’s almost unbearable. He’s offering her water for the third time. The ocean is doing its thing behind them, andthe baby kicks hard enough that Mads grabs Asher’s hand and puts it on the spot and his face—his face goes from worried husband to awestruck father in a single breath.
Click.
That one. That’s the other one they’ll print poster-size for the nursery.
I shoot while she talks. That’s the trick with maternity photos—don’t make them pose. Let them move, let them laugh, let them be themselves. Mads laughs with her whole body, one hand on her belly like she’s sharing the joke with the baby, and I catch it mid-laugh—chin up, hair catching the breeze, ocean behind her, the white dress blowing against her legs.
That’s the cover shot. The one that goes on her wall.
“Can I get Asher in a few?” I ask.
Asher stands up so fast the folding chair tips over.
“She didn’t mean right now,” Mads says, but he’s already walking over, brushing sand off his shorts, trying to look casual and failing completely.
“Where do you want me?”
