Picture Perfect (Weddings by Design Book #1): A Novel (4 page)

What makes you think I haven’t looked over those photos?

“George says he hasn’t heard from you.”

“I called him yesterday. And a couple of days before that. And responded to an email from him this morning.” Suddenly I felt like a suspect in a whodunit. Hated that feeling.

“Well, he’s really busy right now. But we’re taking this photo thing very seriously. Just be aware that I’ve got to approve all of the photos before any are leaked to the media. You know that’s kind of the reason for the great photo angles, right?” Her cheeks flamed pink. “George plans to slip them to the national media, then create a scandal, saying they were leaked against my wishes.”

“Wait.” My heart fluttered into my throat. “You’re not going to pin that leak on me, are you?” A thousand thoughts shot through my head at once, none of them good.

“Oh. Hmm.” She shrugged, and a little giggle escaped. “I don’t think so, silly. I’m sure he has a plan of action for all that. You know George.”

Yes. I knew George, all right. And I trusted him about as far as I trusted my younger sister’s so-called potty-trained Pekingese on our mother’s carpet.

“I’m not sure about all of that, Sierra.” Bella’s brow wrinkled, my first sign that she didn’t care for the idea either. “Let’s talk it through the next time we meet, okay?”

“I guess.” Sierra rambled on, oblivious to my ponderings, and ended with, “I just know George is super picky about the shots you take.”

“Well, I got his email this morning and—”

“I’m sure everything will work out fine.” Off she went on a tangent, talking about her preferences for the photographs.
Nothing terribly unusual, unless you counted the whole “don’t shoot me from the left side because my nose is crooked” thing.

I’d just opened my mouth to respond when Bella shot a warning glance my way. I clamped my lips shut.

“No worries, Sierra.” Bella turned toward the screen with a confident smile. “Your wedding will come off without a hitch. I haven’t lost a bride yet.”

I paused to think about the confidence in her voice. After years in the business, she could actually say that and mean it. Me? I still trembled when I thought of using the words “come off without a hitch” to my brides. Not that I’d ever used those words, necessarily. But one day I would. And I would mean them too.

“Awesome.” Sierra’s face lit in a relaxed smile, and she brushed some of that big hair over her shoulder. “You should hear the song I’ve co-written to sing to David just before we say our ‘I do’s.’ George is going to have a video team there, so they’re going to catch the whole thing and use it for an upcoming music video.”

I bit my tongue, in part because I couldn’t imagine her publicist playing that large a role in her wedding, and in part because her poor groom must feel like quite a sucker, knowing his wedding was being used as a shoot for a music video. I could almost envision him now, just about to say “I do,” with a video camera swooping down to capture a close-up of his face. What a joke.

“Hannah? You still with us?”

“Hmm?” I startled to attention as Bella gave me another warning look.

I noticed the door easing open in the distance. Seconds later, the most delicious aroma permeated the room. What
was that—garlic? An older woman eased her way into the room with a tray of food. Holy cow. Not just food . . . the most delicious-looking, tantalizing-smelling tray of Italian food I’d ever seen in my life. Ravioli, red sauce, melted cheese—yum! At once my mouth began to water.

I glanced back and forth between the tray of food and the familiar-looking woman. Where did I know her from?

“Bella!” the older woman called out as she shuffled our way. “Time to eat. You need to keep up your strength while you’re nursing that little bambina! Breast-feeding takes a lot out of a new mama. You don’t want little Rosie to suffer.”

Bella paled. She looked back and forth between the older woman and the computer screen, clearly unable to speak.

“It’s okay, Bella.” Sierra gave a little wave. “You go on and eat. I’m headed into a recording session, anyway. Might be better to finish up another time.”

She clicked off, not even answering the ten or twelve questions I’d planned to ask. Still, with the distraction of—what was that to the right of the ravioli? manicotti?—staring me in the face, who cared about Sierra Caswell? No, she could wait. And so could the wrinkles around her eyes.

Bless your little Irish heart and every other Irish part.

Irish blessing

W
ith a belly full of manicotti and ravioli, I relaxed a bit. Until Bella’s baby girl awoke in a fretful mood. I happened to catch a couple of funny shots of her throwing a little fit, shots that Bella happened to love.

She snatched the camera from my hand and stared at her favorite photo, then turned my way with tears in her eyes. “Oh, Hannah, you’re the best!”

Can I get that in writing?

A squeal followed on Bella’s end as she gave the photo another look. “See how you’ve captured Rosie’s little dimples? No one’s been able to get a good shot of those yet.” She
paused, then snapped her fingers, her dark eyes flashing with delight. “Ooh, perfect idea.”

“What’s that?”

Bella passed the camera back to me and shifted the baby to her other arm. “You’ve got to photograph my babies. Here. Soon.”

“Here, at Club Wed?” My heart raced as I realized how important this could prove to be to my career.

Bella’s eyes sparkled as she continued. “Well, Club Wed and my parents’ place next door. There’s a great vegetable garden behind their house, and a hothouse too. Maybe you’ve seen glimpses of the garden on the Food Network. The executives just love it. They say it’s the most colorful in the country, and they should know.”

“Wait . . . the Food Network?” Now she’d lost me completely.

Bella gave me a funny look. “Yes. My aunt Rosa and uncle Laz have a weekly show on the Food Network—
The Italian Kitchen
.”

I almost choked at this news. “Oh my goodness.”

No wonder Rosa looked familiar. She hosted one of my mother’s favorite cooking shows, one where manicotti, garlic twists, and ravioli were daily fare. Yum.

Bella kept going, oblivious to my whirling thoughts. “Might be fun, since my babies have an Italian heritage, to get some shots of them with the tomatoes. Maybe a few photos of D.J. and me too.”

“Wow. Sure. Of course.”

“Oh, and my parents. And Uncle Lazarro and Aunt Rosa.” She went off on a tangent, one that led to her brothers and their children. And her pregnant sister. And her ex-boyfriend, who happened to be married to her pregnant sister. Before
long she had me photographing a couple dozen people, both at their home and Parma John’s, a local pizzeria owned by her uncle Laz.

I swallowed hard, thinking it through. I’d asked the Lord for an opportunity to impress Bella. Was this his answer, perhaps? Did I have it in me to corral such a large group, especially with so many small children involved?

Oh. Help.

My father’s words ricocheted through my brain:
A McDermott fights to the finish.

Yes. I had it in me. I would conquer this beast, children or not. Chaos or not.

“Our family is long overdue for a photo shoot.” Bella’s face lit in the most glorious smile. “We need it for personal reasons, of course, but could stand to have photos done for advertising purposes as well. Club Wed is a family-run business, you know.”

I glanced down at the baby in her arms and nodded. “Right.”

“People always seem to gravitate to us because of the family atmosphere.” She shifted the baby to her other hip. “I think they pick up on the fact that we really love one another, in spite of the craziness.” She offered a grin. “There’s nothing better than people who stick together in good times and bad.”

“Ah.”

Did I dare tell her about my family? Nah. If she figured out that all three of my younger sisters had married and left me in the lurch, she’d likely feel sorry for me. One thing I’d discovered about married women, especially those in their twenties and thirties—they lived to marry off their single friends. No thank you. After my high-seas fiasco with Jon,
that blond, blue-eyed Swedish traitor, I’d tossed the idea of marriage overboard. Well, mostly, anyway.

By the time I left Club Wed, I’d committed to photograph the whole Rossi clan. Not that Italians called themselves a clan, but whatever. We hadn’t talked price yet, but I could see dollar signs everywhere I turned. A shoot like this could cover my rent for a month. Or two.

Okay, so my parents didn’t charge me rent. My mother had broached the subject once, but my father’s swift reaction made me too nervous to offer the suggestion again. I’d taken to slipping Mama cash for groceries and utilities. If this photo shoot came off, I could add to that. I might even be able to afford to send my parents on a vacation or something. Though I doubted my father would break from his daily routine long enough to go on a vacation.

A sigh followed as I thought about how set in his ways Dad had become. I could almost hear him lilting, “
Níl aon tintéan mar do thintéan féin
, Hannah.”

“I know, Dad, I know,” I whispered to no one but myself. “There’s no place like home. But even the most committed homebody sees the benefit of getting out of the house once in a while.”

A couple of blocks away from Club Wed, my thoughts shifted back to marriage. Maybe I’d been a bit hasty in claiming I didn’t want to find Mr. Right. Perhaps—à la Jerry Maguire—the right guy would complete me. He would have to understand my passion for the new business. And he would definitely have to be willing to live on Galveston Island. That much went without question.

I contemplated Bella Neeley’s seemingly ideal life. What would it be like to have a handsome husband like D.J.? Someone who swept the babies into his arms with a broad smile on
his face and contentment in his eyes? Someone who looked at me with such love and affection that I felt safe and secure on every front?

I sighed as the tick-tocking of my biological clock started again.

Think about something else, Hannah. Anything.

As I rounded the corner from Broadway to Rosenberg, I saw Kincaid Photography on my right. The snazzy front window display drew my eye at once. I slowed my car and stared at all of the brilliantly placed photos. So many wonderful, happy couples, eyes shimmering with love for one another.

I hated them all.

Well, not really hated, but strongly disliked.

Okay, I didn’t really dislike them. I envied them. Like Bella and D.J. Neeley, they had their relationships—their picture-perfect relationships. No flaws. No imperfections. Nothing to Photoshop out.

And what did I have? My boring, predictable life. A life where I stood on the outside with a camera in hand, snapping moderately good shots of other people’s lives while mine slipped by. Dull. Uninviting.

Tick-tock, tick-tock.

I stared at a photo of a young couple and noticed the way they gazed at one another. Classic pose, but slightly overstaged. If I’d photographed them, I would have suggested a slightly different angle with more focus on the expressions in their eyes. Then again, Drew always seemed to capitalize on shoulder and chin positions.

Not that I’d been paying particular attention to his technique, of course.

Okay, so I had been paying attention, but that didn’t mean anything.

My gaze shifted to a large sign in Drew’s front window: W
ELCOME
TO
K
INCAID
P
HOTOGRAPHY
—B
ELLA
N
EELEY
’
S
T
OP
P
ICK
FOR
G
ALVESTON
I
SLAND
. I almost drove the car into a fire hydrant as those words sank in. I tried to fight them off. Hadn’t I just come from a great meeting with Bella? Weren’t we becoming friends? Hadn’t she chosen me to photograph the family? That had to count for something.

As I drove, the strangest sensation came over me. In spite of my joy at being asked to photograph Sierra’s wedding, a niggling fear crept up my spine. Would this turn out to be another “almost” in my life? Would this opportunity morph into another disappointment? Would Drew somehow manage to slip into my place, stealing my thunder and my business?

In that moment one of Grandpa Aengus’s proverbs flitted through my mind: “A scholar’s ink lasts longer than a martyr’s blood.”

Got it, Grandpa.

No point in playing the role of a martyr here, even if things grew difficult. I needed to be smart. Savvy. Professional.

All of this deep thinking must’ve slowed my pace. Behind me, a woman in a baby-blue Volkswagen tooted her horn, and I picked up speed, headed down Rosenberg toward my studio. When I hit the red light at Mechanic Street, my imagination kicked into overdrive. I envisioned the article in
Texas Bride
magazine, the one capitalizing on my mismatched shoes and coffee faux pas. I could almost picture Drew Kincaid laughing as he read it. Handsome, hunky Drew Kincaid, doubled over, chuckling at my missed opportunity—the one he’d snagged from my outstretched hand.

My life flashed before my eyes. Well, not really my whole life, but crazy, minuscule snatches of it. I saw the many times
I’d come a quarter-inch shy of succeeding. Well, no more. Not this time.

I pushed a button on the dash to call my best friend. Scarlet answered after the third ring with a chipper, “Hey, Hannah. I was just thinking about you. What’s up?”

“Jacquie Goldfarb.” I spoke the words with a tremor.

Silence followed on the other end of the phone, followed by, “Who’s that, again?”

“Jacquie Goldfarb.” A sigh resonated from my end. “Don’t you remember? I’ve told you about her. She was my archnemesis in high school. Voted most popular our senior year.”

“O-okay.”

“Everything I wanted, she got. The position on the drill team. First chair in choir. The guy I wanted to date. She got it all. I always came in second to Jacquie Goldfarb.” I paused, my thoughts whirling as memories overtook me. “And now Drew Kincaid is my Jacquie Goldfarb. He gets the clients. He gets the accolades. He gets Bella’s nod for top wedding photographer on the island. He gets . . .” Deep sigh. “Everything.”

“He gets the guy you wanted to date? Ew.”

“No. You’re missing my point. He’s going to come out on top, and I’m going to fail. Again. And it’s all because of Sierra Caswell. I’ve never worked with such a diva before. She’s a real prima donna.”

“Ah. I see.”

“You’ve seen those bridezilla shows, right?”

“Yeah. A few. You know me—it’s cake decorating shows day in and day out. Most of the other stuff out there eludes me. But I know what a bridezilla is. I’ve worked with a couple.”

“Right. But don’t you see? Bella Neeley holds my future
in her hands. So this wedding we’re doing together is critical to the equation. But the bride is awful.”

“So this Sierra Caswell is making your life miserable?”

“You have no idea. She’s hard to please, overly vocal, rude, and ridiculously picky. And above all that . . . I think she’s out to get me.”

“Out to get you?” The tone of Scarlet’s voice changed. Now she was all business. I could almost picture her tossing those messy auburn curls over her shoulder and placing balled-up fists on her ample hips. “Where are you, Hannah?”

“On my way to the studio. Almost there, actually.”

“Perfect. I’ll meet you there.” With a click, she was gone.

“O-okay.” I spoke to the now-dead phone.

The next couple of minutes were spent in reflection. Well, first angst and then reflection. By the time I arrived at my studio on the Strand, I felt foolish for involving Scarlet. She might just think I’d lost my mind. Maybe I’d get a lecture on jealousy, a “you should know better than to give in to fear” speech. Scarlet was pretty good at those, her daddy being a preacher and all. Likely whatever advice she gave would be coupled with illustrations from an
I Love Lucy
episode. The girl always managed to attribute most of her sage advice to Lucille Ball.

I walked into my studio, my home away from home, and felt more at ease than before. Well, until my gaze traveled to the sign I’d taped to my computer desk—W
ARNING
: D
ATES
IN
C
ALENDAR
A
RE
C
LOSER
T
HAN
T
HEY
A
PPEAR
.

This place usually had a calming effect on me. Might have had something to do with the architecture. The 1900 redbrick charm. The wood floors. The high ceilings. Or it might have had more to do with the fact that I’d somehow managed to start a business on my own and grow it into something I was proud of.

As I wandered from the front office to the studio, currently set up for a shoot, my heart sailed to my throat. Oh, how I longed to keep this place afloat. If I closed my eyes, I could see clients coming in droves. I could see myself converting the cluttered back room into a second studio, perhaps even hiring someone to help me with the overflow crowd. How fun would that be?

Right now, eyes opening to reality, all I saw was an empty studio. Quiet. Still.

Dusty.

I grabbed a rag and some furniture polish and took out my frustrations on the desk. Then I got busy downloading the photos I’d taken at Club Wed, cropping and adjusting the lighting on a few. I smiled when the photo of baby Rosie’s dimples filled my computer screen. She captivated me with her smile.

In that moment it occurred to me that all of life is more precious when viewed close-up, like this. Seeing someone in person, you scarcely notice the minute details. But in a photograph—if the photographer has done his or her job—you always notice the details. Like the pink cherub cheeks, the wisps of hair that should’ve been smoothed down, the tiny bit of slobber on the lower lip that caught the light.

The front bell rang, offering the perfect distraction. I rose to wait on a couple of tourists who’d stopped by to ask for prices. They booked a shooting for a birthday party, which lifted my morale on several levels. Just what I needed. By the time Scarlet arrived, I felt over-the-top foolish for calling her in the first place. Then again, she knew me better than anyone, so she would probably sense my embarrassment.

She rushed into the studio, dressed as always in her messy Let Them Eat Cake apron and carrying a large tray. Through the
clear glass dome lid I could see cake samples . . . lots and lots of cake samples. I felt my mouth water just looking at them.