“Maybe. If I want to eat cake, I’ll eat cake. Period. End of sentence.” I took another bite of the chocolate truffle yumminess by way of demonstration.
“Hmm.” Drew took a couple more bites. “But what if you want cake tomorrow?” He pointed to his nearly empty plate and gazed into my eyes.
“I . . . well, I’d call Scarlet and she’d bake me another.” I set my plate on the table and shrugged.
“What if Scarlet was out of town? What then?” He stepped closer. “What if what you really wanted required turning on the oven and baking a new one yourself? Or what if what you really wanted was right in front of you, but you just couldn’t see it because your vision was clouded over from too much sugar?” He put his plate down and gripped my hand.
In that moment I realized we weren’t talking about cake anymore.
Oh. Help.
I stared into his eyes and felt myself melting like buttercream on an overheated cupcake.
No, scratch that. I’d already used that analogy one too many times. I was lost in those baby-blue pixelated eyes of his, swept away by the perfect, upturned lips and great photogenic cheekbones.
Good gravy. I was in over my head. And falling fast.
Quick, Hannah. Change the subject.
Thank goodness my father and his buddies took to playing their Name That Tune game once more. Seconds later, Sean hollered out, “‘Some Enchanted Evening,’” and everyone roared with laughter. He might’ve gotten the song wrong, but it was all right to my way of thinking, because it offered me a great opportunity to segue into a new conversation with Drew.
I glanced his way with a smile. “Hey, speaking of enchanted evenings, I, um, well . . . I want you to know that you’ve made my father’s night.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’ve taken an interest in something that means a lot to him. I’m sure he appreciates it.” After an awkward silence, my embarrassment lifted. “For that matter, so do I. It means a lot to me that you would come and bring your mother.”
“This has been a great night, Hannah. I’m glad we’re here.”
“Thank you. Oh, and by the way, I forgot to say it earlier, but you’re a dead ringer for Crosby.”
“Now if only I had his crooning abilities.” Drew laughed.
“I’ll bet you can sing.” The words came laced with a teasing tone. “Give it a try, and I’ll let you know if you sound like the real deal.”
“No way.” Drew’s face reddened, a clear sign that I’d embarrassed him.
I couldn’t resist the urge to carry it a step further. “C’mon. Just a line or two of ‘Irish Lullaby.’”
He gestured to the chaos on the other side of the room. “In this madness? No way.” Then a smile turned up the edges of his lips. “Okay. Only if it will lay the issue to rest once and for all. But not in here where everyone can hear me.” He took me by the hand and led me out to the front porch.
A chill settled over me and I shivered, so Drew took off his jacket and wrapped it over my shoulders. We stood—very close—with the moonlight shining down on us. His eyes sparkled with a mischief that spoke of more than songs and cake.
“Okay, fire away.” I took a seat on the bench and waited for him to begin to sing.
Drew began in a tentative voice. The first couple of notes cracked. By the time he got to the second line of the song, however, I had to admit he sounded a bit like Bing Crosby. Oh, maybe not the same velvety tones. But he had a good, strong bass voice, one that carried across the starlit sky and wrapped itself around my heart.
My heart. Hmm.
Listening to “Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ral” in the moonlight would be touching enough, but hearing it pour from Drew’s lips made the whole experience seem otherworldly. It also served as the perfect way to wrap up the night.
When the song finished, Drew took my hand and I rose. My twitterpated heart took to racing as he slipped his arms around my waist and drew me close . . . so close that I could feel his heart hammering away underneath my palm, which I’d somehow—heaven help me—placed on his chest. His very solid chest. Yowza! Those beautiful eyes locked into mine, holding me spellbound. When his lips opened to speak, I almost lost my breath.
From inside the house, a muffled version of “Yes Sir, That’s My Baby” rang out.
“Hannah, I just want to tell you . . .” Drew reached up to trace my cheek with his fingertip, and I felt myself lost in a dreamy haze. “That first night when I stopped by your house . . .”
“Yes?”
He shook his head. “I really just wanted to see you.”
“O-oh?”
“Yes, I—”
At that very moment the front door flew open, and a couple of my dad’s buddies staggered out. One of them looked our way and hollered out, “Slán leat. Go mbeannaí Dia duit.”
Drew took a step back and responded with an embarrassed, “Goodbye. May God bless you.”
My poor, trembling hands nearly gave away my nervousness as a couple more of the fellas walked out.
Sean slapped his knee and turned to Riley. “Pray for me, friend,” he said with a smirk.
“Why is that?” Riley asked.
“Me wife. She’s developed a terrible habit of stayin’ up till two in the mornin’. I can’t break her of it.”
“Why is that?” Riley asked. “What on earth is she doin’ at that time?”
“Waitin’ fer me to come home!” Sean doubled over in laughter, slung his arm over Riley’s shoulder, and belted out another one of their now-infamous ditties. If they hadn’t been walking home—Sean’s house being only two down from ours—I might’ve been worried.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of Drew—handsome, sweet, good-natured Drew—now chatting with my father, who had joined him near the door. A rush of warmth flooded over me. Suddenly every competitive feeling I’d had for him faded away on the salty island breeze.
Still, as our near-miss moment was swept out to sea, I had to face the inevitable. I could not have my cake and eat it too. Not tonight, anyway.
18
Just You, Just Me
May your neighbors respect you,
Trouble neglect you,
The angels protect you,
And heaven accept you.
Irish blessing
Every now and again a girl gets that floating-on-a-cloud sensation. It rarely lasts, but mine lingered through the weekend. Every few minutes I would relive that awesome moment when Drew pulled me into his arms. I could smell his cologne, hear his words whispered in my ear. Ah, bliss! Any questions I might’ve had about him were no longer an issue. Strange how one evening could change a girl’s life. “Some Enchanted Evening” became my theme song.
On Sunday morning, our pastor preached on the love between a husband and wife. Coincidence? I think not. My thoughts remained on Drew, on that near-miss kiss.
Near-miss kiss. Hmm. Next time I’d make sure he didn’t miss. In fact, the more I thought about the potential for a kiss from Drew, the giddier I got. The possibilities almost made me forget about the drama with Sierra Caswell’s wedding.
Almost.
By the time Monday morning rolled around, I knew I could no longer avoid the obvious. I had to face the inevitable deadline head-on. The reality slapped me in the face when I arrived at my studio at nine o’clock a.m. and checked my email. A note from Sierra’s publicist set my heart to pounding. His final demand for the addendum didn’t take me by surprise, though. I sensed the anger behind his words, which had taken on a threatening tone. If I didn’t fax the signed papers to him by noon, all bets were off.
Still, what could I do? My conscience wouldn’t allow me to sign. Even if it meant disappointing Bella. Even if it meant losing Sierra’s business and the paycheck of a lifetime. I couldn’t. I knew in my knower, as Mama would say.
Using the most professional tone possible, I wrote to George and told him that I could not sign the addendum as it was currently worded. Instead,
I suggested several changes, then sent the email on its way, whispering a prayer for God’s help. He would give it, I felt sure. Still, facing Bella with my decision was inevitable.
As I sat staring at my computer screen, I put together a plan of action for how to tell her. Later this afternoon. But I might as well get my act together now so that I would look like a pro when the moment came. It didn’t take long to gather the necessary paperwork—the original contract, the unsigned addendum, and all correspondence between George and myself. Bella would need to see it all. Then she would understand why I could not do this.
I put the printed pages in an envelope and set it on my desk. Leaning back in my chair, I thought through what I would say to Bella, once I worked up the courage. I would have to tell her, once and for all, that my final decision had been made. Because I would not sign the addendum, I would not be photographing Sierra Caswell’s wedding. She would be disappointed, of course, but would have to deal with it.
Feelings of nausea swept over me as I thought about losing the gig. Likely I’d have to give back the front monies they had paid. Thank God I’d socked it away in savings. Well, all but the part I’d used to pay this month’s rent on the studio. The idea of losing it made me feel like a complete failure.
Determined to get beyond this, I started to shut down my computer. In doing so, I stumbled across an old email from an existing client, something I’d overlooked in the mayhem of my week. Great. Now I’d need to apologize for not responding sooner. I did my best to clean up that situation, then threw myself into my work, editing photos from a recent shoot. And sweeping the office. And dusting the shelves. And repairing a broken doorknob.
I gave up about halfway into the broken doorknob fiasco. I’d never been one to accomplish multiple things simultaneously. To me, multitasking simply meant messing up several things at once.
Though I attempted to give it my best shot, I couldn’t focus. My thoughts, as always, were on the inevitable conversation with Bella. Well, that and the fact that I’d somehow forgotten to put my right earring on this morning.
What’s wrong with you, Hannah?
At some point about an hour later, I realized a painful truth. In my attempts to double my efforts to keep this business alive, I’d been cutting things in half: makeup half done, mismatched shoes, cups of coffee and tea poured but never drunk, food half-eaten, earrings half-worn. All of these things I’d done because of distraction. How could a photographer make her way in the world if she went on missing the finer points? The details?
A sigh escaped as I realized how deep this problem went. I’d given my relationships a halfhearted effort, only nodding at them instead of actually enjoying and living them. So many areas of my life had been sacrificed, and all in the name of building my business. And for what? To lose the biggest client of all due to a technicality?
Whatever courage I’d felt earlier in the day waned as I thought about facing Bella with my decision. No doubt this would cause problems with the bride-to-be, which would mean trouble for Bella—exactly what I’d been trying to avoid. Five words shot through my brain, the same five words that always propelled me in instances such as this: What would Grandpa Aengus do?
Only one way to know for sure. I had to call my dad and seek out his advice. That meant coming clean. Telling him everything.
And so I did. He seemed surprised to learn that his daughter was being threatened by a major superstar’s publicist, but he handled it with grace and ease, even after hearing the nitty-gritty details of my sad story. At the end of my lengthy dissertation about how my life and business were about to come to an end, he cleared his throat.
“You know what your grandpa Aengus would say right now, don’t you, Shutter Speed?”
No, that’s why I called you.
“It is a long road that has no turning.”
“What?”
“This road we travel is filled with twists and turns. But just because you reach a bend in the road doesn’t mean you’re at the end of the road.” His brogue thickened. “Don’t look at this as an either-or situation. It’s just a turn in the road. There’s plenty of travelin’ ahead—for you, your business, and your relationship with Bella Neeley.”
“But how do you know that, Dad? And how do I keep on going when I’m painted into a corner?” I glanced around the studio, my heart in my throat. Gosh, I’d miss this place when I closed it down. And what lousy timing, losing my business just about the time Scarlet was starting hers.
“Well, honey—”
My gaze shifted to the now-dark computer screen. “I’ve had it with these people. They’ve hit me one too many times. Seems like I’m always fighting to prove myself, but I never come in first. I’m a second-placer.” A deep sigh followed. “That’s what you can put on my tombstone when I die: ‘Second to All.’ The Jacquie Goldfarbs of this world have won. They’ve proven their point. I’m not the winner of anyone’s race. I guess I should just be happy to be running, right?” My words came faster now, propelled by a rushing current of angst beneath. “Only, I’m not happy unless I prove myself, which is probably prideful, but I can’t seem to help it. I want to do well. I want my business to succeed. Is that so bad?”
“Wanting to do well isn’t wrong,” my father said. “I’d be worried about you if you didn’t want your business to succeed. But you can’t beat yourself up or compare yourself to others. Remember, the Bible says that the first will be last and the last will be first.”
“What does that mean? I mean, really? What does it mean?”
“If you want my honest opinion, I think it has more to do with waiting on God to elevate you in his time, and nothing at all to do with where you fall on the ladder of success compared to your competition. I mean, we can climb the ladder only so far before someone comes along and nudges us down a rung. It happens to everyone. But when God decides the time is right, you’ll soar all the way to the top, even if you’ve been kicked way down to the bottom.”
“I’ve been kicked down, all right.”
“Then the timing is perfect. You have no place to go but up.” His voice oozed with compassion. “This isn’t the end, Hannah. Don’t get too defeated just because you’ve faced a challenge. You’re made of tough stuff. After all, you’re a—”
“McDermott.” I released the word on a sigh. If I hear that one more time, I’m going to hurl. “I’m starting to think I was born into the wrong family.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t live up to the name. I’m not the fighter I thought I was. The McDermotts don’t go down without a fight—got that. But Sierra Caswell has knocked the fight right out of me. I’m down for the count. Just put a fork in me. I’m done.” A pause filled the space between us, and then I whispered, “I know I’m betraying the family name, but I just can’t keep this thing going.”
My father cleared his throat. “Yes, well, about that . . . There’s something I need to tell you, Shutter Speed.”
“What’s that?” I waited, sensing his next words could change my situation and my life.
My father’s serious tone changed, and I could hear the lilt in his voice again as he spoke. “See now, it’s really kind of a funny story. I think you’ll like it.”
“I could use a funny story right about now, so out with it.”
A nervous laugh came from his end. “It involves a father with a great imagination, one capable of coming up with a believable story at the drop of a hat.”
My stomach began churning. “Go ahead.”
“I, well, I haven’t been 100 percent honest with you about something.”
“Tell me, Dad.” Pinching my eyes shut, I whispered, “I can take it.”
He released an audible sigh. “Okay. It’s like this. The McDermotts . . . um, we’re not quite the warriors I’ve made us out to be.”
“What?”
“It’s true. All that stuff about the bloody battles and all that, well . . . I borrowed a few tall tales from Grandpa Aengus, bu
t most of them are blown up a bit.”
“What do you mean?”
“Truth is, several of the McDermotts did go down without a fight. In fact, if the story your grandmother told was correct, dozens of ’em got intoxicated and ran for the hills when trouble came their way.”
“No way.”
“Yeah. Happened a long, long time ago. So your grandfather filled our ears with hyped-up blarney to counteract what he knew to be true. And I guess I’ve done the same thing.”
“Are you saying I come from a long line of cowards?”
He sighed. “Well, not a long line, necessarily. But there were a few deserters in the bunch.” He mumbled something under his breath, then came back with, “And while we’re at it, I’d better go ahead and get something else off my chest too. All that stuff about feuding with the Kincaids . . .”
“Yes, I remember. They fought tooth and nail. Bloody battles raged, all to prove one clan mightier than the other. But we got the land in the end.”
“Not exactly.”
“Huh?”
“I . . . well, I made the whole thing up.”
I felt my lungs deflate. “You . . . what?”
“The two clans have never been enemies. From what I can tell from my research, anyway.”
Disbelief coursed through me. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m being honest, Hannah. That whole story about the McDermotts and the Kincaids was something I came up with on the spur of the moment. See, I got really riled up when I found out that some other photographer had one-upped you. Thought it might get you in a fighting mood if I made up the story about the clans. But now I know Drew, and he’s a great guy.”
“And he’s a Kincaid.”
“Right.” My father cleared his throat, then coughed. “The McDermotts and the Kincaids have always been friendly. But don’t think I didn’t try to make the story work. I got on the internet and researched, hoping to find some bad blood between the two clans, but I came up empty.”