Picture Perfect (Weddings by Design Book #1): A Novel (6 page)

“No problem.” I rolled over on the bed and sat up. “See you Saturday.”

“At ten,” she added. “If that works for you.”

“Perfect. See you then. I’m excited.”

“Me too.” She went back to scolding Tres, and the call ended.

I headed downstairs to grab a glass of water and say good night to my parents. I found Mama in the kitchen, standing—shirt unbuttoned—in front of the open freezer.

“Um, Mama?”

She turned, her face red. “Oh, hey, Hannah.”

“What are you doing?”

She made quick work of buttoning her blouse, then took to fanning herself. “Melting.”

The only thing melting right now was the Blue Bell homemade vanilla ice cream in the freezer, and we couldn’t risk that. I reached through the open door and grabbed the container.

“I hate menopause.” Mama groaned. “It’s going to be the death of me yet.”

“I hope not.” Watching my mother go through “the change” made me wonder what she might do next. Still, it was rather refreshing to see something changing around here.

“Well, you know what I mean. Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold.” She closed the freezer and shivered as if to prove her point. I leaned back against the counter and took a bite of ice cream.
Not that I needed the calories after all the cake I’d consumed today, but oh well.

Mama untied her apron and hung it on the hook on the back of the kitchen door. “I keep forgetting to remind you about our shopping date this coming Saturday.”

Yikes.

“We’re going to the mainland, remember?” She grabbed a spoon and stuck it in the open container of Blue Bell.

I paused to look her way. “Mama, I’ve been asked to photograph Bella Neeley’s family on Saturday.”

Mama’s smile twisted into a frown. “But we talked about this a couple of weeks back, remember? You said you would go. I like to do my holiday shopping early, and you know I hate to drive off the island by myself.”

Another bite of the creamy ice cream went into my mouth. Yum. “Get Dad to go with you.”

She rolled her eyes. “You know he won’t do that. Besides, you promised. You even said we could go out to lunch at Dixie’s. You know how much I love that place.”

Ack. Yes, I’d promised. And a McDermott never went back on a promise unless, perchance, the earth tilted off its axis.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Mama said with a wink. “You come with me this Saturday, and I’ll spring for the last season of
Stars Collide
on Blu-ray. That way you can see Brock Benson as much and as often as you like.” She placed the lid back on the Blue Bell and put it in the freezer.

“But . . .”

My thoughts shifted to Brock in his tuxedo with Cheryl on his arm. Thinking about Brock—for some reason—got me to thinking about Drew Kincaid. Though I found both strikingly handsome, I’d stick with the television hero, not the real-life pain-in-the-neck adversary.

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t really my adversary. Maybe he just kept showing up at the wrong times and stealing my thunder.

An insane thought suddenly crossed my mind: I could get Drew to cover for me with Bella’s family this coming Saturday so that Mama wouldn’t have to shop by herself.

No, that would never work. The ultimate goal here was to impress Bella Neeley. She wouldn’t be very impressed if I turned down the opportunity to photograph her family. Maybe she would be willing to change the date to accommodate Mama.

No, that wouldn’t work either. I’d made a commitment to be with her this coming Saturday at ten.

I heard my father’s voice ring out his usual “
Oíche mhaith
,” his nightly indicator that he was headed to bed.

Mama and I both responded with our usual “Good night to you too,” followed by a promise from my mother that she would join him shortly.

As he walked up the stairs to bed, my father broke into his usual nightly song, “Irish Lullaby.” But I didn’t feel very “too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral-ish” tonight. In fact, I felt plenty down in the dumps as I looked in my mother’s somber face. No matter what decision I made regarding this Saturday, someone would be disappointed.

Five words flitted through my brain at that very moment:
What would Grandpa Aengus do?

I knew the answer. He would figure out a way to make everyone happy. Now if only I could do the same.

A family of Irish birth

Will argue and fight,

But let a shout come from without,

And see them all unite.

Irish saying

A
t some point late Monday night I came up with the perfect solution to my problem du jour. I would photograph Bella’s family on Saturday morning and shop with my mother in the afternoon. That way I really could have my cake and eat it too. Barring a hurricane, of course.

Thank goodness the disturbance in the gulf dissipated and life went on as usual as the week progressed. I breathed a sigh of relief when Brock made it through the elimination process on
Dancing with the Stars
. Praise the Lord for small
favors. He had lived to dance another week. I felt as if I had too. I managed to advertise a new special at my studio and even took on a couple of new clients as a result.

Yes, things were definitely looking up. Well, until Friday night. Somewhere in the wee hours of the night, I had the weirdest dream. I was dancing the cha-cha with Brock Benson. But when the music came to a halt, I gazed into his eyes and realized it wasn’t Brock at all . . . it was Drew Kincaid. Weird. Then Drew morphed into a horrific-looking sea creature that bore an uncanny resemblance to Jacquie Goldfarb. The sea creature chased me around my studio, eventually crawling up the high brick walls and slithering into the attic space above. Creepy.

I awoke Saturday morning feeling confused yet, at the same time, strangely invigorated about the day ahead. I slipped on a pair of jeans and a lightweight green sweater and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. Wearing tennis shoes made perfect sense. No point in ruining a good pair of heels for an outdoor shoot in a garden.

Deciding to forego too much makeup, I applied a little lipstick and mascara and I stepped back to examine my reflection in the mirror. As always, I fought the desire to sigh as I took in the freckles. Who had freckles at twenty-six? My reddish-blonde ponytail was a little lopsided, but it didn’t really matter. I’d been through enough of these photo shoots to know that the family members wouldn’t be focused on the appearance of the photographer. Likely the parents would be far too preoccupied scolding the children.

Another quick glance in the mirror reminded me to stand up straight. I could almost hear Grandpa Aengus calling me his little pixie. Sure, I was petite. Five feet two if I stretched. And yeah, my size 6 jeans were a little loose. Still, pixie hardly
described me. Besides, I packed a lot of punch in this tiny little frame. I would show the competition what was what. I would fight to the death, wield my bloody sword, and—

Hmm. Well, I’d keep my eye on the prize, anyway.

I bounded down the stairs, my grandfather’s words flitting through my mind: “As you ramble through life, whatever be your goal, keep your eye upon the doughnut, and not upon the hole.”

“I’ll do it, Grandpa Aengus. I’ll do it.”

Thinking of doughnuts made me hungry. I headed into the kitchen to grab a breakfast bar, all the while humming a happy tune.

As I passed through the living room, my father looked up from his morning paper. “You’re chipper this morning.” His gaze narrowed. “Very suspicious.”

“Nothing suspicious about it. Just have a feeling this is going to be an amazing day.”

“Carpe diem, Shutter Speed.”

“Seize the day!” we said in unison.

I felt like dancing, so I did a little jig down the hallway, stopping only when I landed in the kitchen.

Mama looked up from the soapsuds in the sink and stared at me as if I’d grown a second head. “Hannah?”

“Yes?”

“You’re dancing? Practicing your cha-cha in case Cheryl Burke sprains her ankle or something?”

“Nah.” I giggled. “Just in a great mood today, that’s all. I’d dance on the moon but don’t have time to get there. I’m excited about the photo shoot at the Rossis’ house. I think it’s going to be good for my business.”

“Ah, that’s right. Well, wrap it up as quick as you can, honey. I’m dying to hit the malls.”

“I’ll do my best, but I can’t rush, okay? I need to do a good job.” I turned to grab a breakfast bar from the pantry, but something on the countertop caught my eye. “Mama, what’s this?” I pointed to a stack of mail shoved under an empty oatmeal bowl.

She turned to face me and shrugged. “Yesterday’s junk mail, I think. Grocery store fliers and such. Meant to toss it.”

Something in my gut told me to go through it. I scrambled through the stash until I landed on a familiar magazine. My heart went into a tailspin, then roller-coastered up into my throat as I clapped eyes on
Texas Bride
.

“I . . . I . . . I . . .”

My father walked into the kitchen, a perplexed look on his face. “Hannah, you’re as white as a ghost. Never knew ad sheets had that effect on you.”

“This isn’t an ad sheet. It’s—it’s my article!”

And Mama almost threw it in the trash!

I released a slow breath and peeled dried oatmeal off the cover. Straightening out the wrinkle on the first page, I ran my finger down the table of contents until I came to “Photo I Do’s.” My heart almost came to a stop as I turned to page 46 and skimmed the article, eyes darting this way and that to take in as much as I could.

Strangely, much of the piece was about Bella. Not that I really minded. And the reporter had plenty to say about Drew Kincaid’s business too. Still, she’d given me a fair shake, and she hadn’t even mentioned my mismatched shoes or the faux pas with the coffee. Praise God for small favors! She’d even mentioned my business by name, along with the appropriate address and website information. Yes and amen!

“Can I see it?” My mother stepped next to me and wiped her sticky hands on her apron.

“Sure. Of course.” Still beaming, I handed her the magazine.

Mama pulled it close as she looked at my head shot. She backed away a tiny bit and squinted. “Wow, that’s a close-up photo of your face.”

“Yeah, I can almost see the fillings in your teeth.” My father’s voice sounded over my shoulder. He opened the refrigerator, came out with a gallon of milk, and took a swig.

I groaned as I took in my head shot. “Wish I’d opted for a different photo of myself. Have you ever seen so many freckles?”

“Hey now, don’t despise the freckles.” My father took another drink of milk, then closed the jug and put it away. A couple of seconds later he opened the freezer and grabbed a carton of ice cream. “You come from a long line of freckles, darlin’.” He pulled the top off the ice cream carton and grabbed a spoon from the drawer. My mother groaned.

“I know, I know.” Still, I’d hoped my portfolio photographs would make up for the head shot. Sure enough, I found three of the pictures I’d shot at recent weddings beautifully inserted into the story.

Unfortunately, I also found a few of Drew Kincaid’s. I should have expected that.

“Ooh, I love that one.” Mama pointed to one of Drew’s pictures. “Hey, look! It’s Brock Benson . . . again.” She gave a drawn-out sigh, a blissful expression on her face. “Every time I turn around, there he is.”

Oh, if only life were like that.

Mama gazed at Drew’s photo of Brock all gussied up in his “I’m getting married” tux. “That man’s quite a looker.”

From across the kitchen, my father let out a belch, then muttered, “Why, thank you. I’ve often been told I’m a
looker.” He ambled out of the kitchen, ice cream carton in hand.

Under ordinary circumstances, Mama would’ve scolded him for eating ice cream for breakfast. This time, however, she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off Brock. “I don’t remember you showing me the photo of Brock Benson before, Hannah.” She pressed the magazine back into my hands. “But it’s wonderful. Great angle. A lot better than that one.” She pointed down to a photo I’d taken at a wedding last spring.

I released a sigh. “Mama, I didn’t shoot Brock’s wedding. Drew Kincaid did. That’s his photo, not mine.” I pointed to the one I’d shot. “
This
is mine.”

Her eyes widened. “Oops. Sorry.”

I pointed to Drew’s slick, perfectly aligned head shot and winced. “That’s him. That’s the competition. Drew Kincaid.”

Again, Mama pulled the magazine from my hand. She let out a slow whistle. “
That’s
the competition?”

“Yep.”

“Can we just concede right now?” She looked up at me with a twinkle in her eyes.

“Mama!” I grabbed the magazine back from her, wanting to savor the article, but I found my gaze riveted on Drew’s handsome face. Those captivating eyes held me spellbound, as if he’d stepped into the room alongside me. And—perhaps for the first time—I noticed a teensy-tiny splattering of freckles along the edge of his nose.

Looks like we have more in common than photography, Jacquie Goldfarb.

Er, Drew.

I couldn’t help but give him another look. His light hair stood in stark contrast to his deep tan, and the expression on his face spoke of contentment. Happiness.

Then again, why wouldn’t the guy be happy? He got all the breaks.

“Well, one thing’s for sure, Hannah Grace,” Mama said as she faced the sink full of dirty dishes. “We McDermotts might fight to the finish, but with competitors like that, it’ll be a lovely fight.”

“A lovely fight?” I let out an unladylike snort. “I somehow doubt it. According to Dad, the Kincaids and McDermotts don’t get along. I guess this is no time to sign a peace treaty.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Mama glanced over her shoulder at the picture, and a girlish smile turned up the edges of her lips. “I might be willing to sign.”

“Mama!”

She giggled and went back to work, her hands now deep in suds. “I’m sorry I almost threw away your article. Guess I should pay more attention to the mail.”

“I guess so.” I finally ripped open the breakfast bar and took a little nibble. “I have to go. Not quite sure when I’ll be back, exactly. Kind of depends on how much work is involved. The Rossis have a big family, so pray for me. It’s going to be a challenge to get this done.”

She turned toward me once again, and her face lit in a smile. “Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t I come with you? That way we’ll already be together. We can go on from there. And maybe I could help you in some way. You know? Doesn’t that sound like fun?” Her expression told me it sounded fun to her.

“Hmm.” I paused to think this through. Might not hurt to have someone else there to assist.

At once my pride kicked in. What would it look like to Bella? I didn’t want her to think that I couldn’t handle things on my own.

“I’m not sure,” I said after a moment.

Mama sighed and reached for a dish towel to dry the bowl in her hands. “I understand. You’re a grown woman. You don’t need your mama tagging along.”

“It’s not that. I just don’t want you to be bored.” I offered what I hoped would look like a convincing smile. “And it’s going to be really chaotic. They’ve got kids. Lots and lots of kids.”

“I love children. You know that.” She gave me that same “why don’t you get married and have a few?” look I’d seen so many times.

Good grief. How would I get around this?

“I’ll tell you what.” I grabbed my mother’s hand, an idea taking hold. “You come by Club Wed around noon, okay? We should be wrapping up by then. There’s someone I want you to meet before we head out for the day.”

“Bella Neeley?”

“Well, Bella, yes, but someone else too.” I filled her in on the Food Network connection, and for a minute there, I thought she might faint.

Mama could barely get a word out. “You’re—you’re—you’re telling me that Rosa—the very Rosa who makes all of that great Italian cuisine—lives here, on the island?”

“Yes. She’s Bella’s aunt. It took me awhile to figure it out too, because Rosa’s last name is Rossi. Bella’s is Neeley, but that’s her married name.”

“I—I—I see.” Mama began to pace. “And I get to meet her? And Laz too?”

I nodded, praying Bella would go along with the idea. Had I spoken too soon?

“There is a God, and he loves me!”

Her joyous outburst surprised me. “Well, of course, Mama. We’ve always known that.”

“Oh, honey, you don’t understand.” My mother’s eyes filled with tears. “I watch every episode of
The Italian Kitchen
. I record it and watch while your father’s at work. He would never understand my passion for Italian food. I’ve been sneaking around for months, wishing, hoping, dreaming about manicotti. And ravioli. And garlic twists. And tiramisu.”

“Ah.” I smiled. “I’ve actually eaten Rosa’s manicotti. It’s wonderful.”

“You—you have? I’m so jealous.”

I gave my mother a detailed description, which had my mouth watering in short order. Mama began to gush—now in Gaelic—about how much she would love to cook Italian food. About how my father, God bless him, had the dullest digestion in the world. About how, if it were up to her, we would eat a wide variety of foods from around the globe, starting with Aunt Rosa’s famous garlic twists.

I had to admit, this whole thing was making me hungry. Hopefully Bella wouldn’t mind if my mother stopped by for a quick hello. Surely not.

Off Mama went in Gaelic once more, her words flowing like honey. I couldn’t make out all of it, but I did catch something about her desperate need to spice up her life. After a couple of minutes, she went into hot-flash mode and opened the freezer, waving the door back and forth to cool herself down.

Finally she paused and smiled at me. “How can I ever thank you?”

“Oh, no need.”

Please, dear God, let Bella go along with this.

“This is going to be the best day of my life.” Mama tugged at her apron strings, finally pulling them loose. “I must get ready. I want to make a good impression.”

“Well, you have several hours. No rush.”

“This is a day I will never forget. Bless you, sweet girl. Bless you.” Mama dried her hands, gave me a huge hug, then sashayed out of the room, humming “Oh Happy Day!”

Heart, don’t fail me now.

I ushered up several pellet-gun prayers, begging God for help. Why oh why had I promised Mama something so huge without asking Bella first? Would I live to regret this?