“Behind her. Hands on the belly. Just be natural.”
He puts his hands on her belly like he’s handling a bomb.
“Natural, Asher.”
“This is natural.”
“You look like you’re defusing an explosive device.”
Mads takes his hands and rearranges them. Lower on the belly, fingers spread, his arms wrapped around her from behind. She leans back into his chest and his whole body changes—shoulders drop, jaw unclenches, chin rests on her hair. There it is. That’s the real him. Not the guy with the spreadsheet and the hospital bag. The guy who’s so in love with this woman he can’t think straight.
I shoot thirty frames in forty seconds.
“You can breathe now,” I tell him.
“I am breathing.”
Mads pats his cheek. “He holds his breath when he’s emotional. He did it at our wedding too. The pastor was ready to catch him at the altar.”
“It was a small venue. He was standing close.”
I’m laughing behind the camera, which is my favorite way to shoot—when the moment is so good that I’m part of it, not just recording it.
Grandma Hensley arrives twenty minutes into the session. She’s in a beach chair that Asher unfoldsfor her and a sun hat the size of a small satellite dish. She settles into the sand like a queen taking her throne.
“Tilt your chin, darling,” she tells Mads. “And Asher, stand up straight. You’re going to be in these photos for the rest of your life.”
“I’m not slouching.”
“You’re slouching adjacent. I can see the intention to slouch.”
She’s directing from her beach chair like she’s shooting a film, offering suggestions that range from insightful to completely unhinged.
“What about some photos in the water? Just the ankles. Very artistic.”
“That’s actually a good idea,” I say.
“Of course it is. I didn’t survive four generations of Hensley stubbornness without developing an eye for beauty.”
“The water’s cold,” Asher says.
“The water is refreshing. It’s July. She’ll be fine.”
“I’ll be fine,” Mads confirms, already walking toward the surf.
Asher follows her like a golden retriever that’s been told to stay but can’t quite manage it. “At least let me hold your arm. The sand is uneven. You could slip.”
“Asher, women have been walking on beaches while pregnant since the beginning of time.”
“Those women didn’t havemybaby.”
Mads looks at me over her shoulder. I take the shot. Her expression says everything—exasperation and love andcan you believe this manall at once.
“What about some with the ultrasound picture?” Mads pulls a folded image from the pocket of her dress. The baby. The first photo of the next Hensley woman.
Grandma Hensley goes quiet. Which is alarming, because Grandma Hensley is never quiet.
“Five generations,” she says softly. “Five generations of Hensley women.”
