My father looked stunned. “But I recorded my show. You know I always watch the same thing on Monday night.”
Mama settled into her usual spot on the sofa and clucked her tongue. “Let your daughter have her way for a change. She rarely asks for anything. It won’t kill you to switch things up every now and again.”
“But I . . .” He couldn’t seem to manage the rest.
“She’s the last remaining child at home.” My mother’s brow furrowed and her voice intensified. “We don’t want to drive her away because of your stubbornness. Do as she asks.”
I swallowed hard at this statement, unsure of which bothered me more—the fact that she called me a child, or the idea that leaving them, whether sooner or later, would cause pain of the empty-nest variety.
Mama waggled her finger. “If you’ve recorded your true crime show, we can watch it after Dancing with the Stars. I, for one, want to see Brock Benson do the cha-cha.” A dreamy-eyed look came over her, and she appeared to be lost in her thoughts, judging from the winsome smile that now tipped up the edges of her lips. “That man is so captivating. I tell you, he could charm a snake right out of its venom.”
My father rolled his eyes and muttered something I couldn’t quite make out.
“Brock is dancing with Cheryl Burke,” I added.
“And this should be important to me because . . . ?” My father crossed his arms and settled back into his chair.
“Because she’s one of the best. I think you’ll really like her. And because he’s Brock Benson.”
Handsome, dashing, hotter-than-life Brock Benson.
Mama changed the channel on the TV, and the show started. I watched as the host introduced the new dance pros, along with this season’s guest stars. My heart pitter-pattered as Brock descended the stairs with Cheryl Burke on his arm. Oy. Was it getting hot in here, or what?
“Saints preserve us.” Mama fanned herself as she watched the television screen. “Look at that, will you? That man is handsomer than ever in a tuxedo. If he can actually dance, it might just send me into heart palpitations.” Her cheeks flushed, and tiny beads of sweat emerged on her brow.
“Should I get the nitroglycerin tablets, just in case?” My father grunted, then reached for his newspaper, which he used to shield himself from the TV.
“If those girl dancers don’t put on more clothes, maybe.” My mother wrinkled her nose. “I’m always so concerned there’s going to be a wardrobe malfunction.”
At this proclamation, my father lowered his newspaper, gave the TV screen a quick glance, grunted, then lifted his paper once again.
Mama and I enjoyed the show from start to finish. Well, all but the part where that one gawky speed skater—what was his name again?—fell in the middle of the dance floor. We found ourselves captivated when Brock took the floor. I did my best not to sigh aloud as he cha-cha-cha’d across the dance floor with Cheryl, but I couldn’t hold back the squeal when the judges gave him high marks. I felt like doing a little dance myself but showed significant restraint by remaining in the chair. No point in alarming my father more than necessary.
Behind his newspaper, he continued to grumble. Mama eventually pacified him with his favorite evening diversion—Irish coffee. When Dancing with the Stars ended, she turned on his true crime show and he settled down in a hurry. Still, the whole thing threw his schedule off by not just one hour but two, and the man never handled change well.
I slipped out of the room unnoticed when my father started snoring in his easy chair. Mama disappeared into the kitchen to finish up the dishes, and I headed upstairs to call Bella. Maybe she could answer some lingering questions about this coming Saturday’s photo shoot, particularly the big one about what time I should arrive.
From the comfort of my bedroom—the same room I’d slept in for twenty-six years—I made the call.
Bella answered on the third ring. “Hannah! I was just telling D.J. about our plans. The date works for everyone, and we’re so excited.”
“Me too.” I plopped down on the floral bedspread, my gaze traveling to the matching curtains, the same curtains I’d looked at thousands of times before.
“Hey, speaking of excited, I just watched Dancing with the Stars. Did you see it?”
“Yep. Amazing.”
She giggled. “Priceless. Brock has always been a great actor, but who knew he could dance? I’ve never seen such a fun cha-cha. Even D.J. loved it, and he’s not really into dancing.”
“Want to bring D.J. over here next Monday night? Maybe he could influence my dad.”
“Ha! Well, he’s not that into it. But he knows I am. And he’s a friend of Brock’s, so that helps.”
“Brock is great. Do you think he has a brother?” I gave a nervous laugh.
“No, but I do.” Bella sounded suspiciously happy about this. I couldn’t help but wonder what she was up to. “And speaking of which, I’ve had the most delectable idea.” She released a girlish giggle. “Armando is coming back to the island on Saturday for the photo shoot. He’s been living in Houston and hardly ever comes home, so thank you for serving as inspiration.”
“Happy to be of service.” I think.
“You’re a lifesaver,” Bella added, the lilt in her voice sounding a little too rehearsed.
Still, I couldn’t help but smile at that proclamation. If she saw me as a lifesaver, she would call on me more often. Hopefully.
Bella’s next words caught my attention. “So, I can’t help thinking you and Armando will fall hopelessly in love with each other. Wouldn’t that be great?”
“I . . . what?”
“You two would be a great match. He’s such a sweetie, and really handsome too. And he could use a good woman to . . .”
“To what?”
“Well, to calm him down.” Her tone stiffened a bit. “He’s lived on the edge for a while. Faced a few challenges. But see, that’s why I think you’d be perfect. You seem really . . . settled.”
Gee, thanks.
“Armando’s got his issues,” she continued, “but he’s a great guy.”
“Issues?”
“Yeah.” She sighed. “He has a hard time holding down a job. Mama always says he does the work of three men: Larry, Moe, and Curly.”
Okay, that got a laugh out of me. Still, what kind of a goober-like brother was she trying to set me up with?
“You want me to date your brother to calm him down?” Not in a million years, even if it means getting on your good side!
“Well, I’m just asking you to consider the possibilities. After you meet him, of course.”
A significant amount of noise on the other end of the line told me that Bella’s attention had shifted.
“Tres Neeley, what are you doing out of bed? I’ve told you a thousand times not to get up after we’ve said our nighttime prayers. It wakes up the angels.”
He must’ve responded with something naughty, because she now referred to him as Dwayne Neeley the Third. Uh-oh. Poor kid must really be in trouble, to get his real name.
Her words faded away, but it was clear she was no longer talking to me. I could hear more chaos and confusion on her end. After a minute or two, she returned. “Sorry, Hannah, but I’ve got to go. This little monster is struggling to get to sleep tonight, and now the baby’s crying too.”
“No problem.” I rolled over on the bed and sat up. “See you Saturday.”
“At ten,” she added. “If that works for you.”
“Perfect. See you then. I’m excited.”
“Me too.” She went back to scolding Tres, and the call ended.
I headed downstairs to grab a glass of water and say good night to my parents. I found Mama in the kitchen, standing—shirt unbuttoned—in front of the open freezer.
“Um, Mama?”
She turned, her face red. “Oh, hey, Hannah.”
“What are you doing?”
She made quick work of buttoning her blouse, then took to fanning herself. “Melting.”
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The only thing melting right now was the Blue Bell homemade vanilla ice cream in the freezer, and we couldn’t risk that. I reached through the open door and grabbed the container.
“I hate menopause.” Mama groaned. “It’s going to be the death of me yet.”
“I hope not.” Watching my mother go through “the change” made me wonder what she might do next. Still, it was rather refreshing to see something changing around here.
“Well, you know what I mean. Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold.” She closed the freezer and shivered as if to prove her point. I leaned back against the counter and took a bite of ice cream. Not that I needed the calories after all the cake I’d consumed today, but oh well.
Mama untied her apron and hung it on the hook on the back of the kitchen door. “I keep forgetting to remind you about our shopping date this coming Saturday.”
Yikes.
“We’re going to the mainland, remember?” She grabbed a spoon and stuck it in the open container of Blue Bell.
I paused to look her way. “Mama, I’ve been asked to photograph Bella Neeley’s family on Saturday.”
Mama’s smile twisted into a frown. “But we talked about this a couple of weeks back, remember? You said you would go. I like to do my holiday shopping early, and you know I hate to drive off the island by myself.”
Another bite of the creamy ice cream went into my mouth. Yum. “Get Dad to go with you.”
She rolled her eyes. “You know he won’t do that. Besides, you promised. You even said we could go out to lunch at Dixie’s. You know how much I love that place.”
Ack. Yes, I’d promised. And a McDermott never went back on a promise unless, perchance, the earth tilted off its axis.
“I’ll make you a deal,” Mama said with a wink. “You come with me this Saturday, and I’ll spring for the last season of Stars Collide on Blu-ray. That way you can see Brock Benson as much and as often as you like.” She placed the lid back on the Blue Bell and put it in the freezer.
“But . . .”
My thoughts shifted to Brock in his tuxedo with Cheryl on his arm. Thinking about Brock—for some reason—got me to thinking about Drew Kincaid. Though I found both strikingly handsome, I’d stick with the television hero, not the real-life pain-in-the-neck adversary.
Okay, so maybe he wasn’t really my adversary. Maybe he just kept showing up at the wrong times and stealing my thunder.
An insane thought suddenly crossed my mind: I could get Drew to cover for me with Bella’s family this coming Saturday so that Mama wouldn’t have to shop by herself.
No, that would never work. The ultimate goal here was to impress Bella Neeley. She wouldn’t be very impressed if I turned down the opportunity to photograph her family. Maybe she would be willing to change the date to accommodate Mama.
No, that wouldn’t work either. I’d made a commitment to be with her this coming Saturday at ten.
I heard my father’s voice ring out his usual “Oíche mhaith,” his nightly indicator that he was headed to bed.
Mama and I both responded with our usual “Good night to you too,” followed by a promise from my mother that she would join him shortly.
As he walked up the stairs to bed, my father broke into his usual nightly song, “Irish Lullaby.” But I didn’t feel very “too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral-ish” tonight. In fact, I felt plenty down in the dumps as I looked in my mother’s somber face. No matter what decision I made regarding this Saturday, someone would be disappointed.
Five words flitted through my brain at that very moment: What would Grandpa Aengus do?
I knew the answer. He would figure out a way to make everyone happy. Now if only I could do the same.
6
Fancy Meeting You Here
A family of Irish birth
Will argue and fight,
But let a shout come from without,
And see them all unite.
Irish saying
At some point late Monday night I came up with the perfect solution to my problem du jour. I would photograph Bella’s family on Saturday morning and shop with my mother in the afternoon. That way I really could have my cake and eat it too. Barring a hurricane, of course.
Thank goodness the disturbance in the gulf dissipated and life went on as usual as the week progressed. I breathed a sigh of relief when Brock made it through the elimination process on Dancing with the Stars. Praise the Lord for small favors. He had lived to dance another week. I felt as if I had too. I managed to advertise a new special at my studio and even took on a couple of new clients as a result.
Yes, things were definitely looking up. Well, until Friday night. Somewhere in the wee hours of the night, I had the weirdest dream. I was dancing the cha-cha with Brock Benson. But when the music came to a halt, I gazed into his eyes and realized it wasn’t Brock at all . . . it was Drew Kincaid. Weird. Then Drew morphed into a horrific-looking sea creature that bore an uncanny resemblance to Jacquie Goldfarb. The sea creature chased me around my studio, eventually crawling up the high brick walls and slithering into the attic space above. Creepy.
I awoke Saturday morning feeling confused yet, at the same time, strangely invigorated about the day ahead. I slipped on a pair of jeans and a lightweight green sweater and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. Wearing tennis shoes made perfect sense. No point in ruining a good pair of heels for an outdoor shoot in a garden.
Deciding to forego too much makeup, I applied a little lipstick and mascara and I stepped back to examine my reflection in the mirror. As always, I fought the desire to sigh as I took in the freckles. Who had freckles at twenty-six? My reddish-blonde ponytail was a little lopsided, but it didn’t really matter. I’d been through enough of these photo shoots to know that the family members wouldn’t be focused on the appearance of the photographer. Likely the parents would be far too preoccupied scolding the children.
Another quick glance in the mirror reminded me to stand up straight. I could almost hear Grandpa Aengus calling me his little pixie. Sure, I was petite. Five feet two if I stretched. And yeah, my size 6 jeans were a little loose. Still, pixie hardly described me. Besides, I packed a lot of punch in this tiny little frame. I would show the competition what was what. I would fight to the death, wield my bloody sword, and—
Hmm. Well, I’d keep my eye on the prize, anyway.
I bounded down the stairs, my grandfather’s words flitting through my mind: “As you ramble through life, whatever be your goal, keep your eye upon the doughnut, and not upon the hole.”
“I’ll do it, Grandpa Aengus. I’ll do it.”
Thinking of doughnuts made me hungry. I headed into the kitchen to grab a breakfast bar, all the while humming a happy tune.
As I passed through the living room, my father looked up from his morning paper. “You’re chipper this morning.” His gaze narrowed. “Very suspicious.”
“Nothing suspicious about it. Just have a feeling this is going to be an amazing day.”
“Carpe diem, Shutter Speed.”
“Seize the day!” we said in unison.
I felt like dancing, so I did a little jig down the hallway, stopping only when I landed in the kitchen.
Mama looked up from the soapsuds in the sink and stared at me as if I’d grown a second head. “Hannah?”
“Yes?”
“You’re dancing? Practicing your cha-cha in case Cheryl Burke sprains her ankle or something?”
“Nah.” I giggled. “Just in a great mood today, that’s all. I’d dance on the moon but don’t have time to get there. I’m excited about the photo shoot at the Rossis’ house. I think it’s going to be good for my business.”
“Ah, that’s right. Well, wrap it up as quick as you can, honey. I’m dying to hit the malls.”
“I’ll do my best, but I can’t rush, okay? I need to do a good job.” I turned to grab a breakfast bar from the pantry, but something on the countertop caught my eye. “Mama, what’s this?” I pointed to a stack of mail shoved under an empty
oatmeal bowl.
She turned to face me and shrugged. “Yesterday’s junk mail, I think. Grocery store fliers and such. Meant to toss it.”
Something in my gut told me to go through it. I scrambled through the stash until I landed on a familiar magazine. My heart went into a tailspin, then roller-coastered up into my throat as I clapped eyes on Texas Bride.
“I . . . I . . . I . . .”
My father walked into the kitchen, a perplexed look on his face. “Hannah, you’re as white as a ghost. Never knew ad sheets had that effect on you.”
“This isn’t an ad sheet. It’s—it’s my article!”
And Mama almost threw it in the trash!
I released a slow breath and peeled dried oatmeal off the cover. Straightening out the wrinkle on the first page, I ran my finger down the table of contents until I came to “Photo I Do’s.” My heart almost came to a stop as I turned to page 46 and skimmed the article, eyes darting this way and that to take in as much as I could.
Strangely, much of the piece was about Bella. Not that I really minded. And the reporter had plenty to say about Drew Kincaid’s business too. Still, she’d given me a fair shake, and she hadn’t even mentioned my mismatched shoes or the faux pas with the coffee. Praise God for small favors! She’d even mentioned my business by name, along with the appropriate address and website information. Yes and amen!
“Can I see it?” My mother stepped next to me and wiped her sticky hands on her apron.
“Sure. Of course.” Still beaming, I handed her the magazine.
Mama pulled it close as she looked at my head shot. She backed away a tiny bit and squinted. “Wow, that’s a close-up photo of your face.”
“Yeah, I can almost see the fillings in your teeth.” My father’s voice sounded over my shoulder. He opened the refrigerator, came out with a gallon of milk, and took a swig.
I groaned as I took in my head shot. “Wish I’d opted for a different photo of myself. Have you ever seen so many freckles?”
Picture Perfect (Weddings by Design Book #1): A Novel Page 6