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

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Drew now stood so close to me I could smell his yummy cologne. “I think you do a pretty good job of keeping the Irish gene alive. In fact, you’re pretty good at just about everything you do.” He traced my cheek with his finger, and I tingled from my head to my toes.

  “Wait. Pretty good?” I quirked a brow.

  He chuckled. “Okay, very good. And I’m sure the photos you’re going to take at Sierra’s wedding will blow everyone out of the water.”

  “Sierra Caswell . . .” I paused and released a slow breath, wondering just what to say.

  Something in my expression must’ve alarmed Drew. “Everything okay with her wedding?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I mean, no.” Ugh. If I told him, he might use it against me. “I’m just struggling with some forms her publicist wants me to sign,” I said after a couple of moments of reflection.

  “Industry-standard stuff, or something more?”

  “Something more.” The familiar feelings of panic gripped me as I thought through the details of George’s email.

  I must’ve flinched, because Drew looked concerned. “You need—or want—my help?”

  Man. With those blue eyes dancing so close to mine . . . with our fingers now intimately intertwined . . . I almost responded in the affirmative. Almost. Still, the McDermott in me wasn’t ready to let go just yet.

  “I . . . I’m sure it’ll all work out.”

  “Okay. If you say so.”

  My insides churned nonstop as I pondered what, if anything, to say next. I couldn’t stop thinking about Sierra Caswell’s wedding and my eventual curfew. I felt a bit like Cinderella, only without the glass slipper and handsome prince.

  Okay, so maybe there was a handsome prince in the room.

  Drew gently released his hold on my hand. I could see the concern in his expression. He knew something was up. Still, what could I do?

  He turned to leave. A couple of steps outside the door, he glanced back over his shoulder. “Hannah, let me ask you a question. That day at the coffee shop, when we met with the magazine reporter . . .”

  “What about it?”

  Drew’s boyish smile caught me off guard. “Tell the truth. You dropped your coffee in my lap on purpose, didn’t you?”

  At this accusation, I slapped myself in the head. “Is that really what you think? You think I would make both of us look like idiots in front of someone who could potentially affect my career in such a positive—or negative—way? I would never do that.”

  His smile faded and his jaw tensed. “So, the whole thing was really an accident?”

  “Of course it was.”

  “Ah.” He frowned. “Well, frankly, I’m disappointed.”

  “Disappointed? Why?”

  “I don’t know.” He leaned against the porch railing. “On some level it made me feel special to think you would go to such efforts to sabotage me. Maybe you saw me as a threat.”

  His gorgeous blue eyes held me locked in their gaze—a prison of my own choosing. And those broad shoulders held me captive as well.

  I see you as a threat, all right, Drew Kincaid.

  After clearing my throat, I managed to speak. “Well, if it will make you feel any better, I’ll be sure to drop something in your lap at the party.”

  “Ha. Very funny.”

  I gave a funny little curtsy, and he gazed at me until my insides felt like mush. Then he gave me a quick goodbye and bounded down the porch steps. I’d just started to close the door when he looked back at me, the evening shadows framing his gorgeous face.

  “Oh, Hannah, just one more question.”

  Naturally.

  I held on to the door, trying to still my heart. “What’s that?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at me, creases forming between his brows. “Who the heck is Jacquie Goldfarb?”

  Unable to put off the inevitable any longer, I released a slow breath, looked into his gorgeous blue eyes, and stated the obvious.

  “You are.”

  15

  My Wild Irish Rose

  There are only three types of Irishmen who can’t understand women: young men, old men, and men of middle age.

  Irish saying

  The next few weeks were spent in a state of photogenic schizophrenia, one gig on top of another. My business kept me hopping during the day, and my parents kept me sedentary at night. More than once, Drew Kincaid showed up at my house on Monday night to watch Dancing with the Stars. I found myself drawn to him, almost forgetting that he was my Jacquie Goldfarb. And despite that whole “the McDermotts and Kincaids are mortal enemies” story, he and my father seemed to be getting along. Strange.

  By the end of October, I’d almost talked myself into signing the forms from Sierra’s publicist, believing they couldn’t possibly be used against me. The following week, Scarlet had convinced me otherwise. And by Saturday, the day of our Bing and Bob party, I had that sick, pit-in-the-stomach feeling that comes when you realize you’re up against a wall but have no recourse. I couldn’t sign the papers. And I had to tell Bella, once and for all.

  After the party.

  The first Saturday night in November arrived, but not without its drama. Less than an hour before the onset of the party of the century, my father’s emotion-packed words rang out across the house.

  “What do you mean, you invited thirty strangers to my Bing and Bob party?”

  Even from the comfort of my upstairs bedroom, where I dressed up as Grace Kelly, I could make out every word as the argument between my parents ensued. In fact, I could almost envision the look on my dad’s face with each punctuated word.

  I stepped out into the hallway to hear my mother’s response to his emotional tirade.

  “You’re going to love the Rossis, Michael,” she countered from the living room below, her words carrying up the stairs. “And they’re great cooks. Rosa—she’s the aunt, the one with the television show—is bringing some of the food. Isn’t that sweet? She’s really doing us a favor, you see.”

  “I will not abide Italian food at my Bing and Bob party. Where would we put it—in the middle of the room? It will ruin the whole thing. Besides, what will the guys from my lodge say?”

  “Oh, she’s not bringing Italian food,” Mama said. “She’s bringing a rack of lamb for the Bob Hope side. And from what I hear, it’s a genuine British recipe, one even you will approve of.”

  “Still. This is an Irish-English party. You’ve got to be one or the other to come, and these people, whoever they are, are clearly neither.” He began to grumble—in Gaelic, no less—about the generations of Irishmen who’d walked this road before him, but after a while none of it made sense to me. Or to my mother either, apparently.

  “Michael McDermott, I swear, sometimes I think you’ve got splinters in the windmills of your mind.”

  My father, for once, did not respond.

  “I think, just this once, you could consider doing something differently. It won’t kill you.”

  Again, no response from my father.

  “Did you hear me?” Mama said. “Or am I wasting my breath?”

  After a lengthy pause, my father spoke. “I’ll admit, I’m selective with what I hear.”

  This, of course, got Mama more riled up than ever. I could hear her in the kitchen now, banging pots and pans, followed by a rousing proclamation: “The problem with the McDermott gene pool is that there is no lifeguard!”

  This sent my father into a tizzy. He began to rant in Gaelic. I couldn’t make out much of it, but I understood his final comment about Irish loyalties.

  “Michael McDermott, don’t you think it’s time to lay all of that down?” Mama’s voice held that same stern tone she’d used on me as a youngster. “I mean, it’s all in good fun, so you can’t take it too seriously.”

  “Did the McDermotts of old take being Irish seriously?”

  “Yes, and it landed them on the front lines of battle, many of them. This isn’t a night
for battles. Let’s just have a party and relax. Eat good food. Visit with friends, old and new.” Her voice softened, and I took a couple of steps toward the stairs. “Please, Michael. For me. You know how disappointed I am that our other daughters can’t come tonight. I want to make this special for Hannah, and these are people she works with.”

  I could hear his groan all the way up the stairs. The silence that followed threw me a little. I glanced downstairs to find my parents wrapped in each other’s arms. Ew.

  Moments later the music kicked in. Bing Crosby’s cool voice crooned from the stereo in the living room below. Maybe my parents had mended fences, at least for now. Still, I could hardly imagine what the rest of the night would hold.

  The melody of “My Wild Irish Rose” wafted up the stairs, and I began humming along. I headed back into my room and completed my Grace Kelly ensemble by adding an off-the-shoulder cream dress I’d purchased at Salvation Army for a song. I did my makeup as best I could in 1950s style, adding a bit of liquid eyeliner.

  A closer look in the mirror reminded me that I still needed to put my hair up. Working with great precision—envisioning the photos that might come out of this evening, of course—I did just that. The finished look almost took my breath away.

  I compared myself to the photograph of Grace Kelly on my laptop and grinned. “Not bad, not bad.” My heart lurched as I contemplated what Drew would say when he laid eyes on me.

  What difference does it make, Hannah? Really?

  Still, a girl couldn’t help but wonder.

  I heard a ding from my computer signaling that an email had come through. Two, actually. The first set my head to swimming. A reminder email from George, who seemed concerned that he hadn’t received the signed addendum yet. Heaven help me. I squeezed my eyes shut, said a rushed prayer for God’s grace, then moved on to the next email, a notice from Facebook that I had a private message awaiting me from none other than the infamous Jacquie Goldfarb. We’d exchanged a couple of quick notes over the past weeks, but nothing earthshaking.

  I skimmed her most recent message.

  Noticed from your profile that you’re single. Good for you, girl. I wasted six years of my life on Matt make-me-sick-to-my-stomach Hudson, and he ended up putting a knife in my back. Be glad you never got married.

  Ouch. Her “be glad you never got married” carried a sting. Clearly the girl still knew how to get her digs in, hitting the single gal between the eyes with her singleness.

  Scarlet, why did I listen to you? I should never have contacted Jacquie Goldfarb in the first place.

  I knew I should probably come up with something brilliant to say in response to Jacquie’s note, but nothing came to mind, so I closed the computer and headed downstairs to help Mama with the last of the decorations.

  At ten minutes till seven, Rosa and Laz arrived. Rosa looked stunning in her Vera-Ellen getup. What a knockout. My father huffed his way through the introductions but made a bit of polite conversation once he realized that Laz, who had come dressed as a very non–English or Irish Dean Martin, held a pot of corned beef and cabbage in his hands.

  “You made that yourself?” my dad asked.

  “Sure. Love the stuff. Always have. Lived in New Jersey years ago and couldn’t get enough of it.” Laz lifted the pan as if to emphasize the point. “Want to show me to the kitchen?”

  “Never been inside of our kitchen myself,” Dad said, his expression a little forced. “But I think I can find it.”

  This got a funny look from Laz, who finally caught on that my dad was teasing.

  “Just kidding, just kidding.” My father slapped him on the back and led the way to the kitchen. I followed closely behind to see if my mother needed any help. The amazing aroma of fish and chips wafted up to greet us. Yum.

  “Haven’t had fish and chips in a month of Sundays,” Laz said. He gave my mother an encouraging smile. “You’ll have to give me your recipe.” He placed the pan of corned beef and cabbage on the counter and stole a nibble of the fish and chips.

  “Really?” Mama’s face flushed.

  “Well, sure. Maybe we’ll even add a fish and chips pizza at Parma John’s on St. Patrick’s Day. Something to think about, anyway.”

  He began to fill my mother’s ears with ideas for his upcoming special at the restaurant. Not that she appeared to mind. Oh no. I’d never seen her so flattered. Then she and Rosa got busy putting out the foods, including the rack of lamb, which smelled delicious.

  At this point, “Count Your Blessings Instead of Sheep” rang out from the stereo in the living room. Rosa paused, her eyes filling with tears. “Well, if that isn’t just the best reminder in the world. I have so much to be thankful for.”

  My mother, God bless her, reached over to give Rosa a hug. “So do I. In fact, I’m looking into the face of someone I’m very thankful for right now.”

  Before long the women were drying one another’s tears and talking about how wonderful the Lord was to bring us all together. I couldn’t help but agree. Had we really known each other such a short time?

  By seven o’clock, five of my dad’s lodge buddies had arrived. I said a quick hello to Bart, Emmet, Kevin, Riley, and Sean. A couple of them headed to the Irish side of the room to leave their themed snacks.

  Across the room, “Nollaig shona duit!” rang out, followed by its English translation, “Merry Christmas!” Even Rosa caught on and greeted the others with a bit of an Italian-Irish brogue.

  “It’s not even Thanksgiving yet,” Laz said. “Why the ‘Merry Christmas’ greetings?”

  “Just tradition,” I explained. “Something we always do at the Bing and Bob party.”

  In the midst of this happiness, the three Splendora sisters entered. Two of them—Twila and Jolene—brought along their husbands, who apparently hadn’t gotten the memo that they were supposed to arrive in costume. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out who had invited these folks. Still, here they were, the ladies dressed as the Andrews Sisters, no less, and harmonizing to one of my father’s favorite songs, “Christmas in Killarney.” This, of course, won his favor right away.

  I introduced the ladies to Mama, and she took to them at once, especially when they called her Sister Marie. Within minutes they were all standing in front of the Christmas tree, talking about how lovely it was. I gave the tree a quick glance, wondering how anyone could see it as lovely. It looked exactly the same, year in and year out. Nothing changed—not the ornaments, the garland, the lights . . . nothing.

  I pulled out my camera and caught a shot of Twila reaching up to touch an ornament I’d made as a youngster. Somehow, seeing it through her eyes—and the lens of my camera—made it feel special.

  At exactly three minutes after seven, Scarlet arrived with her scruffy-looking assistant, Kenny, who carried in the most amazing cake I’d ever seen. A true replica of Bing Crosby. On one side, anyway. He turned the cake around to reveal Bob Hope’s smiling face.

  “Frighteningly realistic,” Laz said, giving it a close look. “But I prefer the Bing Crosby side.”

  “Not me,” Rosa countered. “I think the Bob Hope side is priceless.” She began to gush over the cake, which, no doubt, was exactly what Scarlet had hoped she would do. I couldn’t fault my best friend for trying to win the favor of the Rossis. She knew a good deal when she saw it.

  I helped Kenny settle the cake onto a special table in between the Bing and Bob tables, then went to answer the door, astounded by the mad rush of Italians who greeted me. I threw my arms around Bella, welcomed D.J. with a smile, and ushered them inside, along with their children. All the while I offered up a silent prayer that Bella wouldn’t want to talk about the addendum. No point in stressing either of us out on a night like tonight.

  Bella’s parents entered next, followed by her brothers and their wives and children. Only Armando was noticeably absent. Oh well. Didn’t need him wreaking havoc.

  Soon the house was swimming in a variety of ethnicities. My dad ventured off to a
corner to nibble on some fish and chips and gab with his friend Sean, who seemed equally as puzzled by the influx of Italians. Still, I had to give it to the Irishmen. They didn’t boot the offenders.

  The song on the stereo changed again, this time to “White Christmas.” Everyone in the room grew silent for a moment. Then, as if on cue, the Splendora sisters chimed in, adding three-part harmony to the song. My father stood, clearly mesmerized by their passionate impromptu performance.

  When the song ended, my dad’s lodge buddies decided to get in on the singing action. It always came down to this at a Bing and Bob party, but such antics usually waited till later in the night, after the games. Sean, Bart, and Kevin began a rousing chorus of one of their favorites, albeit not in harmony. Not even close, in fact.

  “Me darlin’ was sweet, me darlin’ was chaste, faith, an’ more’s the pity,” they sang out, severely off-key. “For though she was sweet an’ though she was chaste, she was chased all the way through the city!”

  When they finished, my father hollered out his usual, “Maith thú! Way to go!” Several of the other men raised their glasses and cheered.

  This, of course, got a laugh out of everyone, especially Laz, who asked them to sing it again. I couldn’t help but notice that Bonnie Sue, the only Splendora sister without a mate, had set her sights on Sean, who responded to her attentions by calling her Julie Andrews. Obviously the man didn’t know the difference between the Andrews sisters and Julie Andrews, but Bonnie Sue didn’t appear to mind. Not a bit, in fact.

  Drew arrived fashionably late at twenty minutes after the hour. I couldn’t help but laugh when I saw his crazy Bing Crosby getup. The plaid suit. The trademark boater hat. The pipe. What struck me the most, however, was the hair. What little I could see of it peeking out from under the edges of the hat did not appear to be his usual blond.

  “Did you—did you dye your hair?”

  Why this mattered to me, I could not say. Still, from a photographer’s standpoint, I would hate to see the gorgeous sun-kissed locks go.