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

We ended the call, and I changed into my nightgown, wondering how my happy-go-lucky mood could have so easily shifted. Several minutes later I climbed into bed, snuggled under the covers, and reached for my laptop on the bedside table. Scarlet’s words bounced around in my head. Did it really make sense to look for Jacquie on Facebook? Of course not. Only a glutton for punishment would go looking for her archnemesis from the past. Right?

  I paused to think it through before making a move. If I could talk to Jacquie Goldfarb again, what would I say? What would I secretly be hoping for? A chill ran through me as I contemplated my motives. The devilish side of me would hope for the worst, while the angelic side of me would wish her the best.

  Likely she’d married a wealthy man, lived in a mega mansion in Houston, and spent her days at the country club or on the tennis court. Or maybe she had achieved fame or stardom in her field—whatever that happened to be. Yes, surely she had made something big of her life. She’d always been larger-than-life.

  Then again, why would I want to know? It’s not like we could possibly have anything in common. And after years of battling the knots in my stomach every time her name was mentioned, resolution just seemed impossible. Not that contacting her would resolve anything, anyway. It would probably open a Pandora’s box and fill me with even more angst than before.

  Yet something inside of me propelled me forward. I just couldn’t seem to help myself. After signing onto Facebook, I hesitantly typed in her name. A handful of names came up, most with slightly different spellings. Scrolling all the way down to the bottom of the page, I came across a match. To the left, the photo of a woman’s face—a familiar face—greeted me. There she was, in all of her glory—as beautiful and perfect as ever. Jacquie Goldfarb.

  I read her profile information and tried to make sense of it, but it didn’t seem to compute. She’s a realtor? Odd. I’d never pictured her in that line of work. Stranger still, I’d never imagined her to be single. Last thing I heard, she and Matt Hudson—my near-miss prom date—were engaged. Weird.

  I looked at Jacquie’s photo, wondering what her life in Houston was like. My imagination took off sprinting as I stared at the screen.

  And stared at the screen.

  And stared at the screen.

  Until my curiosity got the better of me.

  It took about three minutes to work up the courage, but I finally did the unthinkable.

  I sent her a friend request.

  11

  Top o’ the Mornin’

  May there always be work for your hands to do.

  May your purse always hold a coin or two.

  May the sun always shine on your windowpane.

  May a rainbow be certain to follow each rain.

  Irish blessing

  I’ve always loved the color green, and not just because I’m Irish. There’s something so invigorating about a field of green grass, or the vibrant green leaves on Galveston’s palm trees as they sway in the breeze.

  Grandpa Aengus used to say it was no coincidence that dollar bills are green, the same color as shamrocks. I’m inclined to agree. I’m not overly partial to money, mind you. I know that falling in love with the stuff can land you in all sorts of trouble. Still, having enough to pay the bills, particularly the bills related to my studio, has always been important. That’s why, when I saw the heads-up email from Sierra Caswell’s publicist in my box on the second Monday morning in October, I sensed trouble coming. Trouble that would eventually spell m-o-n-e-y. Or the lack of it, rather.

  Reading the note didn’t calm me down any. In fact, it tied my nerves in tighter knots than before. Attached to the email, which had been sent on Saturday, was an addendum to our original contract, awaiting my signature. According to the note, I must sign it and fax it back within thirty days or they would look for another photographer.

  I thought about Grandpa Aengus’s words: “Confidence is the feeling you have before you understand the situation.”

  With fingers fumbling all over the place, I opened the document and skimmed it.

  In addition to all matters previously agreed upon in the original contract, vendor agrees:

  To provide photographs of the highest quality that not only meet but exceed the standards of the industry.

  To work within the confines of the bride’s specialized requests, shooting only photographs from the front, back, or right side when possible.

  To remove any visible surface flaws, including the small scar on the right side of the bride’s lip and any or all wrinkles around the eyes, lips, or chin. To adjust, as possible, any abnormalities in the structure of the bride’s nose.

  To hold private all details of the ceremony, sharing no information—in the affirmative or the negative—about the event with anyone who could potentially bring the parties harm.

  To maintain the privacy of all parties involved in the wedding (vendors, participants, and/or guests), sharing no information that could be deemed personal and/or private with members of the media and/or others outside of the event.

  To seek no personal gain from any of the photographs, other than the amount agreed upon in the original contract.

  To accept all liability—financially, legally, and otherwise—should the photographs fall into the hands of any undesirable entities.

  At first glance the addendum looked completely doable. So they wanted a few touch-ups of Sierra’s face. Big deal. I’d been down that road before and knew how to Photoshop with the best of ’em.

  Just about the time I thought I could breathe a sigh of relief, however, I went back and read the last clause one more time.

  To accept all liability—financially, legally, and otherwise—should the photographs fall into the hands of any undesirable entities.

  As the sentence rooted itself in my brain, my thoughts began to spin. I remembered Sierra’s words during our Skype conversation: “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? My publicist plans to slip them to the national media, then create a scandal, saying they were leaked against my wishes.”

  Oy. He planned to leak them . . . and then hold me responsible, financially, legally, and otherwise? No way!

  Now what?

  My initial reaction? Figure out some way to make this okay. Justify it. Sign the document and forge ahead.

  My second, more realistic reaction? Give way to fear. Maybe he didn’t have a significant amount of power over me or my career, but at this moment it certainly felt as if he did.

  My final reaction? Call Scarlet. She would talk me through this and lend clarity to the situation. No doubt she would encourage me to go with my gut, which in this case was churning like cottage cheese. If I went with my gut and didn’t sign, all bets were off. The opportunity with Sierra—and, for that matter, Brock Benson—would pass . . . likely into the hands of Drew Kincaid.

  In the flash of an eye, as I punched in Scarlet’s number, I saw my career ending. Off in the distance, Jacquie Goldfarb, that weasel of a woman, roared with laughter and proclaimed on my Facebook wall that I was an undeniable failure.

  “Hey, Hannah. I was just thinking about you.” Scarlet’s happy-go-lucky voice caught me off guard as she answered. I’d half expected her to sound as frantic as I felt. “I just got off the phone with my aunt Wilhelmina, and she’s going to fund my new bakery.”

  “Oh? That’s great.” It was, only I didn’t have time to talk about bakeries right now, not with so much brewing.

  “Yeah, I need your help finding a place. Working out of my home is getting old.”

  “Okay. Maybe one day later this week.”

  She dove into a lengthy chat about her business but finally paused for breath. I managed to sneak in a few words.

  “Houston, we have a problem.” I rose and paced the front room of my studio, praying no one would pick this time to stop by.

  “What’s happened?” Scarlet’s tone changed immediately, and I
could sense her concern.

  I filled her in on George’s email, and she flew into best friend mode at once. “Who do they think they are? They can’t ask this of you, knowing full well that they plan to leak the photos on their end once this is done. There’s got to be some legal precedent here.”

  “I know, right? They’ve got to know that. But they’re acting like I’m some sort of amateur, like I’m just going to go along with whatever they say because I’m naive.” Fear snaked through me as I spoke those words.

  Maybe that’s why they hired me instead of Drew, because they thought I looked like a sucker.

  Ugh! The very idea made me ill. Yes, surely they had chosen me because they believed I’d go along with their crazy plan.

  “They’re going to let me shoot the wedding, pay me, have me turn in the photos, and then release them to the paparazzi as if I’d leaked them.” I did my best to calm my nerves by releasing a breath. “And they want me to sign off on it all so that I’ll be held liable for any legal fees when the lawsuits start rolling in. I won’t do it.”

  “Of course not.”

  “This could ruin my business. I can’t even believe they’re asking this of me. I mean, to talk about leaking the photos is one thing. But to actually do it and hold me liable? Not only will it ruin me financially, it will take down my business.” I picked up a pen from my desk and rolled it around in my fingers like a twirler with a baton. A nervous twirler with a very slippery baton.

  “Right, right. Well, let’s don’t go there, girl. Don’t get discouraged.”

  “I’m not doing it deliberately, trust me. But no one will trust me with their business if they hear I’ve created a scandal. I can’t even imagine the lawsuits that could come out of this. Maybe Sierra will end up suing me personally.” I kept the pen rolling, now gaining momentum. Even Jacquie Goldfarb would’ve been impressed.

  “Yikes.”

  “And Brock too. I mean, can you even imagine?”

  “Brock?”

  A dead silence filled the gap between us over the phone line. I swallowed hard, my heart now sailing to my throat. The pen slid out of my hand and plunked as it hit the floor.

  Oh, Lord. Help.

  With my heart pounding in my ears, I whispered, “Scarlet. You. Never. Heard. That.”

  “O-okay.” She giggled, now sounding giddy. “But girl, we’re going to have to talk this through.”

  “No, that’s the point. Don’t you see? We can’t talk it through. I’m not supposed to give any details of the wedding to anyone. Nothing that could be deemed personal or private.”

  And I’ve just proven that I can’t even trust myself.

  “Right.” She sighed. “But only if you sign the addendum. Which you’re not going to do . . . right?”

  “If I don’t sign it, I don’t shoot the wedding.”

  “But that’s crazy. You can’t sign it. Don’t sign it.”

  The trembling in my extremities continued. “He’s given me thirty days from this past Saturday—then all bets are off. The job goes to Drew Kincaid.”

  “Did the email say that?”

  “No, but it might as well have. Sierra already told me that she wishes she’d chosen him.” Well, that wasn’t exactly what she’d said, but close. “The email said they would look for another photographer.”

  And if Brock Benson weighs in, I know they’re going to go with Drew. He’s already worked with him.

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Not that I would really mind losing this gig, if we’re being completely honest. Sierra’s the biggest bridezilla I’ve ever worked with. Or, rather, her publicist is. It’s been a nightmare from the beginning.” One I hoped to wake up from. Soon.

  “So, maybe you’re better off not signing and just forgetting the whole thing?”

  “I just don’t want to run the risk of putting too much on Bella’s shoulders. You know? It’s a lot for her to get stuck with.”

  “Surely she won’t go along with this. And it’s somewhat likely Drew Kincaid won’t either.”

  “So what do I do?” Another cleansing breath calmed down the shaking in my hands.

  “Beat Sierra at her own game?”

  “How do you beat a bridezilla at her own game?” I reached for a piece of candy from the jar on my desk. “It can’t be done.”

  “Sure it can. You just have to be quick on your feet. Didn’t you already sign some sort of contract with them weeks ago?”

  “Yes. What they sent today was an addendum to the original.”

  “Okay, well, take a close look at the original. Do you have an attorney? Maybe he can help you figure this out.”

  “No.” A deep sigh followed. Mama had suggested getting an attorney before opening the business. Had I listened? Of course not.

  “You need someone with some street smarts—someone who knows how to turn this back on them. But whatever you do, don’t sign the document.”

  “I won’t, I—” I didn’t get a chance to finish because another call came through. I pulled the phone away from my ear and glanced at the number. Not one I recognized. Still, with a local area code it could be an incoming client. Or, saints preserve us, Bella Neeley, calling from her house phone or something. “Scarlet, let me put you on hold. I have a call.”

  “Okay, I—”

  Before she could finish, I clicked over to the other line. The voice that greeted me was familiar but surprising.

  “Hannah, this is Drew Kincaid.”

  A mixture of emotions washed over me—fear that he somehow knew my plight with Sierra, and relief that it wasn’t Bella Neeley calling.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I said, doing my best to sound calm and normal.

  “I wanted to come by and bring a disc with the photos I took at Bella’s place the other day. Thought maybe you could drop them off when you give her yours.” He paused. “I’m not too late, am I? Have you already sent her the pictures you took?”

  “No.” I shook my head. Not that he could see my head, but whatever.

  “Great. Is this a good time? I’ve got an hour free and thought maybe I could—”

  “Sure, that would be great. See you in a bit.”

  I switched the line back to Scarlet, my fingers fumbling, a true sign that my nerves hadn’t completely dissipated.

  “Hey, you’ll never believe who that was.” My words shot out, breathless. “Drew Kincaid. I can only pray he won’t find out about the mess with Sierra. I swear, Jacquie Goldfarb is following me!” I let out an exaggerated groan for effect.

  “Jacquie Goldfarb?” Drew’s voice sounded from the other end of the phone.

  My heart skipped a beat as I realized what I’d done.

  Oh. No.

  “Someone is following you, Hannah?” His tone changed at once. “And what mess with Sierra? What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, I . . . Oops. Wrong number.” I ended the call, then tossed the phone—that venomous serpent—on my desk. For a moment, anyway. I needed to call Scarlet back to fill her in, after all.

  “Okay, so Drew’s on his way,” she said when I told her about my phone faux pas. “And now he knows something’s up with Sierra.”

  “Yeah.” I sighed. “Why oh why do I always mess up everything?”

  “I think you’re just nervous. But I don’t blame you. What Sierra’s publicist is asking you to do is wrong. W-r-o-n-g. Got it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, well, get through this meeting with Drew as best you can without giving anything away, and do not sign that addendum, no matter what.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Oh, and just for the record . . .” She paused. “I plan to be a bridezilla when it’s my turn to get married.”

  “No way.” I managed a halfhearted chuckle. “You’re so easygoing.”

  “No I’m not. Have you seen me in the kitchen? I’m ruthless. No one gets the better of me. Just like you are when it comes to photography.”

  “Wait. You’re calling
me ruthless?”

  “If the shoe—er, camera—fits.” She laughed. “Aw, c’mon, Hannah. When it comes to your business, you’re one tough mama. Nothing gets the better of you. Not Jacquie Goldfarb. Not Sierra Caswell. Not her publicist. Not Bella Neeley. Not even your toughest competitor.”

  “Speaking of which, he’s on his way, so I’d better go.”

  “Okay. I’m praying, girl. Keep a stiff upper lip.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  I ended the call and scurried around the office, making the place as tidy as possible and hiding all evidence of any conversations with or about Sierra Caswell. What I would say about her, should he ask, I had no idea. Hopefully he wouldn’t broach the subject. If he did . . . well, I’d just smile and remind him that all matters between a photographer and her subject were to be kept private and confidential.

  My thoughts reeled as I thought back through the addendum awaiting my signature. If I did decide to sign it, I could always ask Scarlet to bake me a cake—one with a nail file inside so that I could scrape my way out of this predicament once Sierra Caswell threw my tail in jail.

  In the meantime, I would remain calm, cool, and collected. I hoped.

  12

  You Belong to Me

  The longest road out

  Is the shortest road home.

  Irish proverb

  When Drew arrived, he found me seated at the front desk, hair brushed, shoes matching, blouse properly buttoned, looking as cool as a cucumber. Well, if you didn’t count the ribbon of sweat trickling down my back. But he couldn’t see that. Unless he stood behind me, anyway.

  “Drew. Nice of you to come.” I extended my hand for a shake.

  He gave me a curious look, then shook my outstretched hand and placed the CD in my open palm. “Great studio, Hannah. I’ve only seen it from the outside, but I love the back-in-time feel inside. Very turn-of-the-century.”