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

by Janice Thompson

  As I bounded from the restaurant, my cell phone beeped. I looked down to discover a Facebook message had come through. No biggie.

  Still, curiosity got the better of me, so I opened it. My heart sailed into my throat when I saw that Jacquie Goldfarb had accepted my friend request. Not only that, she’d sent me a private note, sort of a “long time, no see” bit.

  Saints preserve us.

  Now what?

  14

  Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive

  May you never forget what is worth remembering,

  Nor ever remember what is best forgotten.

  Irish proverb

  After a long day, I arrived home anxious to have a quiet dinner and enjoy Dancing with the Stars. Knowing that Brock was coming to Galveston—Really, Lord? I get to meet him in person?—made me want to watch the show more than ever.

  Unfortunately, my father had other ideas. He groaned as Mama and I introduced the idea of watching the show once again. “Are you serious?”

  “Of course we’re serious,” my mother said as she served up our usual Monday night dinner. “This is going to be our new routine for the next several weeks.”

  “I cannot believe you’re going to make me watch it again. Has my life really come to this?”

  “Yes, it has.” Mama wrinkled her nose. “Besides, you didn’t really watch it last time. You read the paper. That hardly counts.”

  He rolled his eyes and reached for his plate.

  “Brock made it through last week, and tonight he’s dancing the tango,” I explained. “The judges are merciless on the tango, especially that one judge.”

  “The older man?” My father took his fork and jabbed at his potatoes.

  “Yes. I’m sure Brock will do well. But how did you know one of the judges was older if you weren’t paying attention?”

  And trust me, Dad. You will appreciate the fact that I’ve introduced you to the world of Brock Benson once he arrives in town.

  My father stared at me and sighed. “You know what your grandpa Aengus would say right now, don’t you, Shutter Speed?”

  No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.

  “A married man should never iron a four-leaf clover. He doesn’t want to press his luck.”

  I placed my fork on the table. “Which, interpreted, means . . . ?”

  Dad stuck the forkful of potatoes in his mouth and spoke around them. “Means I won’t be pressing my luck with you two by insisting on having my own way.”

  This got a chuckle and a warm smile out of my mama, thank goodness.

  Before long our conversation got back to normal. We ate our dinner, then settled down in front of the television. The show got under way with lots of fanfare and zeal from both the television audience and the McDermott clan. Well, all but one McDermott, who grumbled a bit from behind his newspaper. Still, I couldn’t help but notice that he lowered the paper every time the judges offered their comments and critiques.

  About halfway into the speed skater’s awkwardly choreographed waltz, the doorbell rang. Mama looked at me. I looked at Dad. He looked at Mama. None of us seemed to know what to do. After all, our doorbell never rang on Monday nights.

  “I’ll get it.” I rose from my spot and made my way to the door. When I opened it, I felt my heart jump. “Drew?”

  “Hey, Hannah.” There were touches of humor around his mouth and near his eyes as he offered one of those cockeyed grins of his.

  “Is everything okay?” I gestured for him to come inside.

  “Yes.” A pause followed. “Well, mostly. I mean, I guess so. I hope you don’t mind that I stopped by. I got your address from Bella.”

  Ack. He’d been talking to Bella? She must’ve told him about my fiasco with Sierra’s publicist. Otherwise why would he have come here? I braced myself for the inevitable conversation about to take place. By the end of it, I would most likely hand the gig over to him. But maybe he wouldn’t want it once he heard the particulars.

  From the living room, the theme song for Dancing with the Stars rang out. I heard the announcer introduce Brock Benson, and my heart skipped a beat. I couldn’t miss this. No way.

  “Would you like to come in? We’re watching—”

  “Dancing with the Stars.” He nodded. “I’m recording it.”

  “You are?”

  “Sure. It’s kind of cool to watch someone I’ve actually met in person compete on the show. And it’s one of my mom’s favorite shows. She promised not to watch it till I get home, though.” He hesitated, looking a bit nervous, even.

  “Right.”

  Why are you here?

  I gestured for him to follow me to the living room. The moment Mama clapped eyes on Drew, I realized we had a problem. They knew each other from the Rossis’, but my mother still hadn’t told Dad about all of that. Would Drew give away her secret?

  Do something, Hannah.

  On the television, the music for Brock’s tango began. I forced a smile, glanced at my parents, and said, “Mama, Dad, meet Drew.”

  “Drew.” My father rose and extended his hand, but I could read the curiosity in his expression. “Welcome.”

  “Nice to meet you, sir.” Drew offered my father a warm smile, then turned to face my mama. “Mrs. McDermott, good to see you ag—”

  “Drew, have a seat,” I interrupted. “Brock is about to dance.”

  “Oh. Sure.” He settled onto the loveseat.

  Wait. You’re sitting in my usual spot.

  I paused, then took the spot next to him, feeling a little out of sorts. I forced my attention to the television and watched Brock and Cheryl dance the tango. He did a great job, unless you counted that one part where his shoe came off. Still, the audience seemed to love it, especially his wife, who ended up in a close-up frame at the end of the dance.

  “Hey, there’s Erin.” Drew grinned. “She’s just as nice in person as she looks on TV.”

  “Humph.” My father crossed his arms over his chest as he glanced at the television.

  The judges gave their critique, and then the show cut to a commercial. Mama got up to make some coffee, and my father wandered off to the bathroom, which left me alone in the room with Drew. Perfect opportunity to find out why he’d really come. Just one little detail to take care of first.

  Putting my finger to my lips, I whispered, “I hate to ask you to do this, but please don’t mention anything about meeting my mom at the Rossis’ house.”

  “O-okay. Why?”

  “It’s kind of a long story, but my dad doesn’t know she likes to cook.”

  “Not sure what one thing has to do with another, but I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  “Thank you.” I settled back on the loveseat. “So, what are you doing here, really?”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Ah. Well, to be honest, I feel really bad about what I said at your studio today.”

  “What you said?”

  “Yeah. I called you predictable.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, I am.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t even know you well enough to make that judgment call.”

  Squaring my shoulders, I decided to place a challenge. “Well, since you’re so intuitive and all, maybe you should just tell me what I’m going to do next.”

  So there, buddy.

  He laughed. “Hmm. I’m guessing you’re going to end up apologizing.”

  The air went out of my lungs. “Gosh, I really am predictable. I was just about to make apologies for questioning your Irish heritage.”

  “Guess that puts us on a level playing field, then.”

  I doubt it. And hey, would you like to take a certain bridezilla off my hands?

  “Anyway, I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings,” I said. “Will you forgive me?”

  “Of course. But just for the record, I’m an Irishman through and through.”

  My father reentered the room on the tail end of that statement and gave Drew a closer look. “You’re Irish, son?”


  “Yes, sir. I’m a Kincaid.”

  Oh. Help. I began to fuss with my necklace.

  “Kincaid?” My father mumbled something under his breath, then looked my way, creases forming between his eyes. “Hannah? This is the fella you told me about? The photographer?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  Please, whatever you do, don’t tell that awful story about the clash between the McDermotts and the Kincaids.

  Thank goodness my mother entered the room with coffee mugs in hand just as the announcer introduced the next dancing couple. She gave Drew a pensive look as she handed him his coffee. “Here you go. What did you say your name is again?”

  The edges of his lips curled up as he responded, “Drew Kincaid,” and took the mug of coffee.

  Dad muttered something under his breath, but thank goodness, he didn’t go off on a spiel about the war between the clans.

  The television couple—a soap-opera star and a professional dancer—took off around the floor in a beautiful waltz. I was mesmerized by their grace. “Man, they’re going to give Brock and Cheryl a run for their money, aren’t they?”

  “So. Kincaid.” My dad cleared his throat, and I turned away from the television to listen in.

  “Yes, sir.” Drew looked his way, a relaxed smile on his face.

  “You say you’re a good Irish boy.”

  “Well, I’m Irish, sir.” Drew took a sip of his coffee.

  “We’re holding a Bing and Bob party the first Saturday night in November,” my father said. “You should come.”

  My breath caught in my throat. Considering the volatile history between the two clans, I could hardly imagine my dad making such a peace offering. Go, Dad! Maybe laying down the sword really was the best option.

  Drew hesitated a moment, and I could almost read the thoughts in his head. He already knew about the party, of course, and had been invited that day at the Rossis’ home. Still, what could he say?

  “Thank you for the invitation, Mr. McDermott. I’d love to.”

  Whew!

  “Well, hold on a minute,” my father said. “I’ll have to put you through a little test before you can come, son. Not just anyone can come to a Bing and Bob party, even a good Irish boy such as yourself.”

  Yikes. Just wait till he met the whole Rossi family. They would never pass his test.

  Dad crossed his arms over his chest and stared at Drew. “Favorite Bing Crosby movie?”

  “White Christmas,” Drew answered without flinching.

  “Hmm.” My dad rolled his eyes.

  “What?” Drew looked perplexed. “Oh, let me guess—The Bells of St. Mary’s is your favorite?”

  “You clearly don’t know my dad.” I chuckled.

  “But good guess,” my mama said.

  “I tend to favor a different sort of fare.” My father leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Think about it. Why do you suppose we’re having a Bing and Bob party?”

  “Ah. You like the Crosby-Hope movies best, is that it?” Drew grinned. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

  “Saying it now. Road to Morocco. Road to Singapore. Road to Zanzibar. Love ’em all.” A contented look settled over my father. “Nothing tops ’em in my book.”

  Drew shrugged. “Yeah, they were okay, but I still say nothing comes close to—”

  “White Christmas.” We spoke the words in unison, and I laughed.

  “Love that part where Rosemary Clooney and Vera-Ellen sing that song ‘Sisters.’” I sighed. “Maybe because I was raised in a houseful of sisters. I don’t know.”

  “My favorite scene is the one where Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye slip out the window to avoid being arrested.” Drew slapped his knee and laughed. “Best scene in the history of movies.”

  Hmm. Maybe I should go back and watch that scene again. Might come in handy, should the police come looking for me after Sierra’s wedding.

  “What about the romantic thread?” From her spot on the sofa, my mother quirked a brow, then went back to sipping her coffee. “I just love a great romance. Makes the songs even sweeter.”

  Oh no you don’t, Mama. No point in trying to plant any ideas in Drew’s head.

  Drew shrugged. “I liked the romantic stuff okay, I guess. Still, the Army angle really did it for me.”

  “Pretty sure it was Navy,” my dad said.

  “Nope. Army. Always thought Bing looked great in his uniform.”

  “Gotta love a man in uniform,” I said.

  Drew glanced my way, the edges of his lips upturned. “I was in the Marines.”

  At this revelation, I almost choked. “You . . . what? No way.”

  “Yes way. I was in the Marines. Did two tours of duty in the Middle East.”

  Over the next couple of minutes, as he shared his heart about the years he’d spent in the desert, I found myself discombobulated. This man—this competitive, gorgeous, blue-eyed man—was a war hero?

  “I don’t like to talk about it,” he said. “But I’ve only been home a few years. Started the business right after my dad died.”

  “You poor, sweet boy.” My mother dabbed at her eyes. She looked at Dad and placed her coffee on the end table. “Michael, what do you say? Can this precious soldier, defender of our great nation, come to our Bing and Bob party, or not?”

  A crease formed between my father’s brows. “I have one more question, and it’s the most important.” He looked closely at Drew, who squirmed.

  “Yes, sir?”

  Dad crossed his arms over his chest. “Favorite Bing Crosby song.”

  “Well, hmm . . .” Drew stared off into space, which made me nervous. “I guess I would have to say ‘Irish Lullaby.’”

  My father’s near-smile tilted downward. “Hmm.”

  “Next to ‘Danny Boy,’ of course,” Drew said. “Because nothing can top that one, sir. No way, no how.”

  My father rose and slapped him on the back, maybe a little too hard, gauging from the pained look on Drew’s face. “You’ve just won your official invitation. Congratulations.”

  “Well, that’s a relief, sir.”

  My dad extended a hearty invitation to the party, and before long the two were thick as thieves, talking about the party’s agenda. I watched from my spot on the loveseat, all the while trying to keep an eye on the television, where a Nobel Peace Prize winner took to the floor with a beautiful redheaded professional dancer. They made an awkward team, at best.

  Speaking of awkward, this whole thing with Drew Kincaid showing up at the McDermott house was a little awkward too. In an intriguing sort of way. A girl couldn’t help but wonder what her handsome competitor was up to.

  Tilting my head to one side, I stole a slanted look at Drew. The five-o’clock shadow, the broad shoulders, the twinkle in his blue eyes . . . this guy was the whole package. I tried to imagine what it would be like to photograph him. I’d probably have him dress in a blue shirt so that his eyes would pop. And I’d definitely choose a foresty background. Rugged guys like Drew always looked great in outdoorsy photos. Not a wood-chopping photo or anything like that, but something believable—maybe at a lake or on the pier overlooking the gulf.

  “Hannah?”

  My father’s voice startled me back to attention.

  “You still with us?”

  “Hmm?” I felt my cheeks turn hot. “Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.”

  “In body only.” He rolled his eyes. “You gonna help us plan this party, or what?”

  “Party? What party?”

  Drew gave me a funny look. “You mean you missed the whole conversation? Man, you really do check out, don’t you.”

  My cheeks flamed with heat. “Well, I’m watching the show. Sorry.”

  “Yeah, I can see why you’re interested.” Drew nodded toward the television as the Nobel Peace Prize winner tripped over his partner’s feet. “Spellbinding stuff.”

  Not exactly. But something—er, someone—in this room certainly was spellbinding.

  Stop it, Han
nah.

  The time passed easily, and then Dancing with the Stars ended. Drew rose and said his goodbyes. I followed him to the door, still curious about why he’d come in the first place. Just to apologize?

  As we stood in the doorway, he reached to take my hand, and my heart fluttered.

  “Thanks for inviting me in.”

  “For a predictable evening?” I said, grinning.

  “Not predictable for me,” he said. “Very different from my usual Monday night.”

  “Mine too, actually.” I couldn’t recall the last time I’d had a guy over on a Monday night. Or any night, for that matter. “Thanks for not saying anything about my mom and the Rossis.”

  “Don’t you think your dad’s going to figure it out when thirty strangers show up for his Bing and Bob party?”

  “Yeah.” I released a breath. “But I guess that’s my mom’s problem. I’m sure she’s got some sort of plan to tell him.”

  “Hope so.” He gave my hand a squeeze. “But at least we know I’m in, being a good Irish boy and all.”

  “Yes. And I really hope you’ll forgive me for what I said earlier about all of that.”

  He brushed a finger over my lips, and a delicious chill ran through me.

  “Don’t worry about it.” He smiled. “I’m looking forward to spending more time with your family. Your dad reminds me of my own. Makes me miss him.” A wistful look came over him. “Dad was always singing the praises of his Irish roots.”

  Suddenly I missed my grandfather something fierce. “I wish you could’ve met my grandpa Aengus,” I whispered. “He was a second-generation Irish American, and his heritage meant everything to him.”

  “Well, of course.” Drew gave my hand a comforting squeeze.

  “My father is proud too,” I added, “but not in the same way Grandpa Aengus was. It’s almost like this heritage thing gets weaker with each generation.”