Picture Perfect (Weddings by Design Book #1): A Novel (13 page)

For a moment I had a vision of Bella’s parrot singing “Amazing Grace.” Lighthearted. Carefree.

B.J.G. Before Jacquie Goldfarb.

“You’re still like that.” Bella gave my hand a squeeze. “At least that’s how you come across to me.”

“Thank you.” Sure, I was glad I came across that way, but in my heart I knew it wasn’t the same as before. “Just feels like I get my feet knocked out from under me a lot. Going all the way back to high school, actually, when the guy I thought I loved—emphasis on
thought
—told me that he planned to ask me to the prom, but he ended up going with my so-called friend instead.”

“Wait, your dream date ended up taking your friend to the prom?”

“Jacquie Goldfarb.” I sighed. “But I guess we should be calling her a frenemy, not a friend.”

“Why do I keep hearing that name?” Bella’s nose wrinkled.

“Just wait.” Scarlet rolled her eyes. “You’ll be hearing it a lot.”

“She’s a girl I knew in high school,” I explained. “Cheerleader. Dated the quarterback.”

“Ah, I know that girl.” Bella grinned. “Well, maybe not Jacquie Goldfarb, but I definitely know her type.”

You probably
were
that girl. C’mon, Bella. You’re the kind of girl everyone envies.

I released the wistful sigh wriggling its way to the surface.

“So, were you real friends?” she asked. “With Jacquie, I mean.”

“I always wanted to be. Guess I tried a little too hard to be like her. But I never came close.”

“You’ve got to be joking.” Scarlet’s gaze narrowed. “You’re not going to try to tell me that you were socially awkward as a kid, are you? Because frankly, you’re one of the coolest girls I know.”

“I was socially awkward.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Okay, not when I was a little girl. All of this started in high school. Before that I was pretty carefree. And I’d love to get back to that place. Not saying I want to be a kid again. Just saying I want my lilt back.”

“Lost your lilt, eh?” An older woman’s twangy voice rang out from behind me. “Sounds pretty tragic.”

“Yes. Not sure what to advise,” another woman countered, her voice even more countrified. “Maybe a trip to the beauty salon for a perm?”

“I once had a Lilt perm,” a third voice sounded. “The derned thing like to fried my scalp.”

What in the world?

I turned to see three unfamiliar ladies standing directly behind me. The first woman—a large, glitzy gal with a beehive hairdo—stared at me with such intensity that I felt as
if she could see all the way into my soul. My bare, naked, writhing soul.

Oh. Help.

“Well, if you aren’t the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.” She reached out to stroke my hair. “Gorgeous hair. And look at that peaches-and-cream complexion. You must know the secret of a great moisturizer.”

“Oh, I . . .”

“Your pores are magnificent.” The second one bent down—albeit arthritically—to have a closer look at my pores. “How do you do it?”

I fought the temptation to swat her hand as she touched my cheek.
Ew!

“Easy,” Scarlet chimed in. “She stays indoors all day.”

“An island girl who stays indoors?” The third woman snorted, then rested her hand on my shoulder. “Scared of the sun?”

“My complexion is light. I burn too easily to go outdoors.”

And why are you all touching me?

“Smart girl.” The first woman leaned down—
Lord, help me look away from the boobs that are headed my way
—and I smelled the peach tea on her breath.

Bella rose from her chair, all smiles. She threw her arms around the largest of the three ladies and began to gush in Italian. After a couple of minutes of greeting them, she looked my way. “Hannah, what perfect timing! If anyone can advise you, these precious ladies can.”

“O-oh?”

“Yes, I want you to meet three of my best friends in the world. These are the ladies I was telling you about, from Splendora.”

She introduced them as Sister Twila, Sister Jolene, and
Sister Bonnie Sue from the piney woods of east Texas. And though she referred to the buxom trio as sisters, I had a feeling they weren’t related. And they
definitely
weren’t nuns. No way, no how. Not with those glittery blouses and froufrou hairdos. Turned out, in their neck of the woods, everyone was referred to as
brother
or
sister
.

I guess that would make me Sister Hannah. Perfect. Grandpa Aengus always wanted me to be a nun.

“Well, happy to meet you, sweet girl,” Twila said with a grin. “You’ve got to be one of the prettiest little things ever.”

“Th-thank you.”

“Really, you’re a true beauty queen. That gorgeous red hair . . .” She clucked her tongue. “Girl, I have to pay top dollar at the Cut ’n’ Strut in Splendora to have my hair dyed red. God blessed you with that color naturally.”

“I’ve never considered it a blessing, trust me.” Once the words slipped out, I wished I could take them back. I didn’t care to talk about my hair color. Or my freckles. Or my pale skin.

“You need to embrace what the good Lord gave you,” Jolene said, her gaze narrowing. She turned to Scarlet and took her hand. “And if you aren’t a soul sister, I don’t know what you are!”

Oh dear. The only thing Scarlet appeared to have in common with these three was her fluffy size. Still, she didn’t even flinch. In fact, she greeted them like long-lost sisters with a confident “Happy to meet you.”

“We never come to Galveston without stopping in to see Bella and the kids,” Bonne Sue said.

“And to have the Mambo Italiano special.” Jolene nodded. “It’s the perfect pick-me-up when you’ve had a hard day.”

“Exactly why Hannah’s here,” Scarlet said. “She needed a pick-me-up today.”

“Well then, we’re just in time.”

The ladies pulled up chairs, and our party of three morphed to six. Bella ordered more pizza, and it arrived shortly. The women instigated a fun conversation filled with lilt, and I found myself captivated by their funny, easygoing style. Their conversation bounced back and forth from hair and makeup to deep spiritual issues. In spite of our obvious differences, there was a certain quirkiness about them that resonated with me. Why?

Because you used to be like them, Hannah. You used to approach life from a carefree place.

“Don’t recall ever praying for someone’s lilt before.” Sister Twila dabbed some pizza sauce from her lip, then reached over and took my hand. “But I’m open to the idea, so I commit to give it a go.”

“I think her problem is a little deeper than that,” Bella said.

“It’s a matter of conscience,” I added. “Well, conscience and money. And legalities. And a few other things.” A wave of nausea passed over me, and I did my best not to let my emotions get the better of me in front of these ladies. They hardly knew me. Wouldn’t be fair to total strangers to have a nervous breakdown in front of them.

“Something you can share?” Bonnie Sue gave me a pensive look. “It just so happens I specialize in praying for the personal needs of others, and I’m ready, willing, and able to bow the knee right here, right now.”

I could hardly picture this plus-sized woman kneeling, let alone in the middle of a pizza parlor, but stranger things had happened.

“If there’s anything we’ve learned,” Jolene threw in, “it’s how to stop right where we are and pray.”

Interesting concept. I couldn’t imagine being that bold, but I admired them for their dedication to prayer.

“So what’s happening, honey?” Twila’s eyes showed her concern. “Something you can share publicly?”

“Oh, well, I . . .” How much should I disclose? I barely knew these women. “I’m having a little trouble with a bridezilla. Or, rather, the bridezilla’s publicist.”

“A bridezilla, eh?” Jolene’s beehive hairdo bounced as she turned my way. “I saw this once on television. Quite a pistol, if memory serves me correctly. Made things a nightmare for everyone. I daresay, if Bella’s got a bride who treats her like that gal treated her wedding planner, she’ll knock some sense into her. Won’t you, Bella?”

For the first time ever, I got to hear Bella’s take on the matter of one Sierra Caswell. Off she went, talking about what a rough time we were having with our bride-to-be’s publicist.

“Oh, is this the wedding I read about in
Texas Bride
magazine?” Twila’s eyes widened. “Isn’t the bride that feisty country-western singing gal?”

I hesitated, not wanting to incriminate anyone. “Well, it’s a bride whose name you might recognize. That’s really all we can say.”

Twila winked. “I understand, honey. Say no more. You’re working double time to maintain her privacy.”

“That’s right.”

“Good for you. That’s admirable.” She patted my hand.
Again with the touching?
“I like a girl who can be trusted.”

“See?” I turned to Bella. “People count on me to be trustworthy. How trustworthy would I be if I agreed to sign that document? People would see me as a traitor. This is more than a matter of right and wrong, it’s a matter of perception from my would-be clients.”

“Well, you know what I always say,” Twila interjected. “It’s easy to be flexible when one is spineless.” She leaned forward
and gave me a pensive look. “Stiffen your spine, girlie. Don’t let ’em get to you.”

This, of course, led to a rebound conversation from the three Splendora sisters, who offered all sorts of advice, some of it usable, some not so much. The conversation rolled right past Bonnie Sue’s tidbit: “When the devil starts messing, God starts blessing,” and right on through to Jolene’s sage advice: “When you’re arguing with a fool, make sure the other person isn’t doing the same thing.”

I found their chatter to be wonderfully distracting. Just what I needed. Well, that and the pizza, which really hit the spot. As we nibbled on the cheesy goodness, drank our Diet Cokes, and basically unloaded our cares on one another, I found my spirits lifted. To think my attitude could change this drastically, and all in an extended two-hour lunch.

Two hours? I’d better get back to my studio. I had a three o’clock appointment with a new client.

Wrapping up with the Splendora trio was easier said than done. Another fifteen minutes of goodbyes transpired, followed by hugs all around, along with a promise from Scarlet to bake a cake for Jolene’s upcoming birthday party. Go figure.

I left Parma John’s feeling better than I had in weeks. Well, unless you counted that whole “what am I going to do about the obvious?” issue with Sierra Caswell’s publicist. Still, that decision would wait for another day. And Bella trusted me to do the right thing. I could sense it. Right now I had to focus on my new client and try to get back to the business of photography.

As I bounded from the restaurant, my cell phone beeped. I looked down to discover a Facebook message had come through. No biggie.

Still, curiosity got the better of me, so I opened it. My heart
sailed into my throat when I saw that Jacquie Goldfarb had accepted my friend request. Not only that, she’d sent me a private note, sort of a “long time, no see” bit.

Saints preserve us.

Now what?

May you never forget what is worth remembering,

Nor ever remember what is best forgotten.

Irish proverb

A
fter a long day, I arrived home anxious to have a quiet dinner and enjoy
Dancing with the Stars
. Knowing that Brock was coming to Galveston—
Really, Lord? I get to meet him in person?—
made me want to watch the show more than ever.

Unfortunately, my father had other ideas. He groaned as Mama and I introduced the idea of watching the show once again. “Are you serious?”

“Of course we’re serious,” my mother said as she served up our usual Monday night dinner. “This is going to be our new routine for the next several weeks.”

“I cannot believe you’re going to make me watch it again. Has my life really come to this?”

“Yes, it has.” Mama wrinkled her nose. “Besides, you didn’t really watch it last time. You read the paper. That hardly counts.”

He rolled his eyes and reached for his plate.

“Brock made it through last week, and tonight he’s dancing the tango,” I explained. “The judges are merciless on the tango, especially that one judge.”

“The older man?” My father took his fork and jabbed at his potatoes.

“Yes. I’m sure Brock will do well. But how did you know one of the judges was older if you weren’t paying attention?”

And trust me, Dad. You will appreciate the fact that I’ve introduced you to the world of Brock Benson once he arrives in town.

My father stared at me and sighed. “You know what your grandpa Aengus would say right now, don’t you, Shutter Speed?”

No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.

“A married man should never iron a four-leaf clover. He doesn’t want to press his luck.”

I placed my fork on the table. “Which, interpreted, means . . . ?”

Dad stuck the forkful of potatoes in his mouth and spoke around them. “Means I won’t be pressing my luck with you two by insisting on having my own way.”

This got a chuckle and a warm smile out of my mama, thank goodness.

Before long our conversation got back to normal. We ate our dinner, then settled down in front of the television. The show got under way with lots of fanfare and zeal from both
the television audience and the McDermott clan. Well, all but one McDermott, who grumbled a bit from behind his newspaper. Still, I couldn’t help but notice that he lowered the paper every time the judges offered their comments and critiques.

About halfway into the speed skater’s awkwardly choreographed waltz, the doorbell rang. Mama looked at me. I looked at Dad. He looked at Mama. None of us seemed to know what to do. After all, our doorbell never rang on Monday nights.

“I’ll get it.” I rose from my spot and made my way to the door. When I opened it, I felt my heart jump. “Drew?”

“Hey, Hannah.” There were touches of humor around his mouth and near his eyes as he offered one of those cockeyed grins of his.

“Is everything okay?” I gestured for him to come inside.

“Yes.” A pause followed. “Well, mostly. I mean, I guess so. I hope you don’t mind that I stopped by. I got your address from Bella.”

Ack. He’d been talking to Bella? She must’ve told him about my fiasco with Sierra’s publicist. Otherwise why would he have come here? I braced myself for the inevitable conversation about to take place. By the end of it, I would most likely hand the gig over to him. But maybe he wouldn’t want it once he heard the particulars.

From the living room, the theme song for
Dancing with the Stars
rang out. I heard the announcer introduce Brock Benson, and my heart skipped a beat. I couldn’t miss this. No way.

“Would you like to come in? We’re watching—”

“
Dancing with the Stars
.” He nodded. “I’m recording it.”

“You are?”

“Sure. It’s kind of cool to watch someone I’ve actually met
in person compete on the show. And it’s one of my mom’s favorite shows. She promised not to watch it till I get home, though.” He hesitated, looking a bit nervous, even.

“Right.”

Why are you here?

I gestured for him to follow me to the living room. The moment Mama clapped eyes on Drew, I realized we had a problem. They knew each other from the Rossis’, but my mother still hadn’t told Dad about all of that. Would Drew give away her secret?

Do something, Hannah.

On the television, the music for Brock’s tango began. I forced a smile, glanced at my parents, and said, “Mama, Dad, meet Drew.”

“Drew.” My father rose and extended his hand, but I could read the curiosity in his expression. “Welcome.”

“Nice to meet you, sir.” Drew offered my father a warm smile, then turned to face my mama. “Mrs. McDermott, good to see you ag—”

“Drew, have a seat,” I interrupted. “Brock is about to dance.”

“Oh. Sure.” He settled onto the loveseat.

Wait. You’re sitting in my usual spot.

I paused, then took the spot next to him, feeling a little out of sorts. I forced my attention to the television and watched Brock and Cheryl dance the tango. He did a great job, unless you counted that one part where his shoe came off. Still, the audience seemed to love it, especially his wife, who ended up in a close-up frame at the end of the dance.

“Hey, there’s Erin.” Drew grinned. “She’s just as nice in person as she looks on TV.”

“Humph.” My father crossed his arms over his chest as he glanced at the television.

The judges gave their critique, and then the show cut to a commercial. Mama got up to make some coffee, and my father wandered off to the bathroom, which left me alone in the room with Drew. Perfect opportunity to find out why he’d really come. Just one little detail to take care of first.

Putting my finger to my lips, I whispered, “I hate to ask you to do this, but please don’t mention anything about meeting my mom at the Rossis’ house.”

“O-okay. Why?”

“It’s kind of a long story, but my dad doesn’t know she likes to cook.”

“Not sure what one thing has to do with another, but I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“Thank you.” I settled back on the loveseat. “So, what are you doing here, really?”

He wrinkled his nose. “Ah. Well, to be honest, I feel really bad about what I said at your studio today.”

“What you said?”

“Yeah. I called you predictable.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, I am.”

“Maybe, but I don’t even know you well enough to make that judgment call.”

Squaring my shoulders, I decided to place a challenge. “Well, since you’re so intuitive and all, maybe you should just tell me what I’m going to do next.”

So there, buddy.

He laughed. “Hmm. I’m guessing you’re going to end up apologizing.”

The air went out of my lungs. “Gosh, I really am predictable. I was just about to make apologies for questioning your Irish heritage.”

“Guess that puts us on a level playing field, then.”

I doubt it. And hey, would you like to take a certain bridezilla off my hands?

“Anyway, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings,” I said. “Will you forgive me?”

“Of course. But just for the record, I’m an Irishman through and through.”

My father reentered the room on the tail end of that statement and gave Drew a closer look. “You’re Irish, son?”

“Yes, sir. I’m a Kincaid.”

Oh. Help.
I began to fuss with my necklace.

“Kincaid?” My father mumbled something under his breath, then looked my way, creases forming between his eyes. “Hannah? This is the fella you told me about? The photographer?”

“Yes, Dad.”

Please, whatever you do, don’t tell that awful story about the clash between the McDermotts and the Kincaids.

Thank goodness my mother entered the room with coffee mugs in hand just as the announcer introduced the next dancing couple. She gave Drew a pensive look as she handed him his coffee. “Here you go. What did you say your name is again?”

The edges of his lips curled up as he responded, “Drew Kincaid,” and took the mug of coffee.

Dad muttered something under his breath, but thank goodness, he didn’t go off on a spiel about the war between the clans.

The television couple—a soap-opera star and a professional dancer—took off around the floor in a beautiful waltz. I was mesmerized by their grace. “Man, they’re going to give Brock and Cheryl a run for their money, aren’t they?”

“So. Kincaid.” My dad cleared his throat, and I turned away from the television to listen in.

“Yes, sir.” Drew looked his way, a relaxed smile on his face.

“You say you’re a good Irish boy.”

“Well, I’m Irish, sir.” Drew took a sip of his coffee.

“We’re holding a Bing and Bob party the first Saturday night in November,” my father said. “You should come.”

My breath caught in my throat. Considering the volatile history between the two clans, I could hardly imagine my dad making such a peace offering.
Go, Dad!
Maybe laying down the sword really was the best option.

Drew hesitated a moment, and I could almost read the thoughts in his head. He already knew about the party, of course, and had been invited that day at the Rossis’ home. Still, what could he say?

“Thank you for the invitation, Mr. McDermott. I’d love to.”

Whew!

“Well, hold on a minute,” my father said. “I’ll have to put you through a little test before you can come, son. Not just anyone can come to a Bing and Bob party, even a good Irish boy such as yourself.”

Yikes. Just wait till he met the whole Rossi family. They would never pass his test.

Dad crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Drew. “Favorite Bing Crosby movie?”

“
White Christmas
,” Drew answered without flinching.

“Hmm.” My dad rolled his eyes.

“What?” Drew looked perplexed. “Oh, let me guess—
The Bells of St. Mary’s
is your favorite?”

“You clearly don’t know my dad.” I chuckled.

“But good guess,” my mama said.

“I tend to favor a different sort of fare.” My father leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Think about it. Why do you suppose we’re having a Bing and
Bob
party?”

“Ah. You like the Crosby-Hope movies best, is that it?” Drew grinned. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

“Saying it now.
Road to Morocco
.
Road to Singapore
.
Road to Zanzibar
. Love ’em all.” A contented look settled over my father. “Nothing tops ’em in my book.”

Drew shrugged. “Yeah, they were okay, but I still say nothing comes close to—”

“
White Christmas
.” We spoke the words in unison, and I laughed.

“Love that part where Rosemary Clooney and Vera-Ellen sing that song ‘Sisters.’” I sighed. “Maybe because I was raised in a houseful of sisters. I don’t know.”

“My favorite scene is the one where Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye slip out the window to avoid being arrested.” Drew slapped his knee and laughed. “Best scene in the history of movies.”

Hmm. Maybe I should go back and watch that scene again. Might come in handy, should the police come looking for me after Sierra’s wedding.

“What about the romantic thread?” From her spot on the sofa, my mother quirked a brow, then went back to sipping her coffee. “I just love a great romance. Makes the songs even sweeter.”

Oh no you don’t, Mama. No point in trying to plant any ideas in Drew’s head.

Drew shrugged. “I liked the romantic stuff okay, I guess. Still, the Army angle really did it for me.”

“Pretty sure it was Navy,” my dad said.

“Nope. Army. Always thought Bing looked great in his uniform.”

“Gotta love a man in uniform,” I said.

Drew glanced my way, the edges of his lips upturned. “I was in the Marines.”

At this revelation, I almost choked. “You . . . what? No way.”

“Yes way. I was in the Marines. Did two tours of duty in the Middle East.”

Over the next couple of minutes, as he shared his heart about the years he’d spent in the desert, I found myself discombobulated. This man—this competitive, gorgeous, blue-eyed man—was a war hero?

“I don’t like to talk about it,” he said. “But I’ve only been home a few years. Started the business right after my dad died.”

“You poor, sweet boy.” My mother dabbed at her eyes. She looked at Dad and placed her coffee on the end table. “Michael, what do you say? Can this precious soldier, defender of our great nation, come to our Bing and Bob party, or not?”

A crease formed between my father’s brows. “I have one more question, and it’s the most important.” He looked closely at Drew, who squirmed.

“Yes, sir?”

Dad crossed his arms over his chest. “Favorite Bing Crosby song.”

“Well, hmm . . .” Drew stared off into space, which made me nervous. “I guess I would have to say ‘Irish Lullaby.’”

My father’s near-smile tilted downward. “Hmm.”

“Next to ‘Danny Boy,’ of course,” Drew said. “Because nothing can top that one, sir. No way, no how.”

My father rose and slapped him on the back, maybe a little too hard, gauging from the pained look on Drew’s face. “You’ve just won your official invitation. Congratulations.”

“Well, that’s a relief, sir.”

My dad extended a hearty invitation to the party, and before long the two were thick as thieves, talking about the
party’s agenda. I watched from my spot on the loveseat, all the while trying to keep an eye on the television, where a Nobel Peace Prize winner took to the floor with a beautiful redheaded professional dancer. They made an awkward team, at best.

Speaking of awkward, this whole thing with Drew Kincaid showing up at the McDermott house was a little awkward too. In an intriguing sort of way. A girl couldn’t help but wonder what her handsome competitor was up to.

Tilting my head to one side, I stole a slanted look at Drew. The five-o’clock shadow, the broad shoulders, the twinkle in his blue eyes . . . this guy was the whole package. I tried to imagine what it would be like to photograph him. I’d probably have him dress in a blue shirt so that his eyes would pop. And I’d definitely choose a foresty background. Rugged guys like Drew always looked great in outdoorsy photos. Not a wood-chopping photo or anything like that, but something believable—maybe at a lake or on the pier overlooking the gulf.