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

by Janice Thompson

  “Oh, this little old place?” I gestured around the now-tidy studio and smiled. “Thanks. I like it. So do my clients.”

  “It’s kind of like visiting Galveston a hundred years ago, before the big storm, I mean.”

  “Right.” If only I could actually take a few steps back in time, I’d forget all about Sierra Caswell and her wedding.

  I gestured for Drew to take the seat across from my desk, which he did. His gaze, however, traveled the walls, taking in every photo. I could almost hear the wheels clicking in his head as he analyzed my style, my technique.

  Finally he turned my way. “So, who’s this Jacquie Goldfarb, and what does she have to do with Sierra Caswell?”

  I couldn’t help but notice the inherent strength in his face as he posed the question. The confidence in his squared shoulders and the set of his jaw. For a moment it put me at ease. But just as quickly, his strength made me feel weak in comparison.

  “Ah.” A delicate pause followed. “She’s an old friend. Really, that was just a mix-up. What I said on the phone, I mean. You know me, always tripping over my tongue.”

  “Hmm.”

  “All is well.” I gave him a weak smile.

  “Good. You had me a little confused.”

  “I’ve been told I have that effect on people.” A light bulb went on in my head as I thought about a great segue into a normal conversation. “Hey, speaking of confused, what did you think about the chaos over at Bella’s parents’ place on Saturday? Nuts, right? But a lot of fun. I had the time of my life. And that food!”

  “Yes.” He leaned back in his chair and appeared to relax. “I love going to the Rossis’ house, but man . . . lots of noise and confusion with all of those kids involved.”

  “I’m used to family chaos. Or at least I was, growing up. These days, not so much.”

  His gaze shifted to a photograph of a mother and son. “Well, I live a pretty quiet life. I think I mentioned that I’m an only child.”

  “Ah. That’s right.”

  “With no brothers and sisters in the picture, things were very . . . settled. Just my parents and me.”

  “You’ve pretty much just described my current existence. But things didn’t start out that way. I grew up with a houseful. Chaos all around and no privacy whatsoever.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You have three sisters? Isn’t that what your mom said?”

  “Yes.”

  Please don’t ask me again if they’re married.

  “They still live at home?”

  I did my best not to sigh aloud. “No, they’re all married.”

  Please, please, please don’t comment. I don’t think I can take it.

  And yet he persisted. “Do you have your own place?”

  If I were prone to lying, this would be a good time to come up with something great: “Yes, I have a lovely condo on the seawall” or “I purchased my own home last year with the proceeds from my new business.”

  Instead, I told the truth. “I live with my parents. That’s what I meant about my current existence.”

  “Ah.” He grinned. “One more thing we have in common.”

  “You still live at home?”

  He shrugged, and a smile lit his face. “Well, my dad passed away a few years ago, but I live in the house with my mom because I don’t like the idea of her being alone right now. She’s been through a lot and needs my support.”

  “Oh, wow.” I laid aside my acting skills for a genuine response. “I’m so sorry to hear that. So I’m guessing she turns to you for just about everything.”

  “Mostly.” He shrugged. “Interesting how life turns out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I’m adopted. Didn’t come to live with the Kincaids until I was five. So I can’t help but think about how lonely she would’ve been if I hadn’t come into the picture.”

  “What?” The strangest sensations shot through me. “You mean you’re not really a Kincaid?” Visions of swords being wielded on both sides of the McDermott-Kincaid feud rushed through my mind.

  “Of course I’m a Kincaid.”

  The expression on his face sent a wave of guilt through me. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

  Why, Hannah? Why do you say such stupid things?

  “Sorry.” He grimaced. “Kind of a sensitive subject. I guess, from a biological standpoint, I’m not a Kincaid. But I’m as much a Kincaid as anyone else in the clan, trust me.”

  “Of course you are. I really am sorry. I was just trying to figure out the whole Irish thing. Are you really . . . I mean, were you born . . .”

  “Irish?” His nose wrinkled. “Guess I’ll never know. I haven’t searched for my biological mother. Don’t really care to, at least not at this point in my life.”

  “I see.”

  “Anyway, I’m as Irish as they come. I sing ‘Danny Boy.’ I look great in green. I have every U2 CD ever recorded.”

  “I’m really sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean—”

  “When you’re Irish from the inside out, you don’t have to drum it up or make it more or less than it is. It’s already a huge part of you.” He pointed at me. “Take you, for instance. You didn’t even have to tell me that you’re Irish. It’s totally obvious, and not just because your mom has the right T-shirt.” He leaned forward. “My mom has the same shirt, by the way. She said it dates back to some event here on the island in the nineties.”

  “Interesting. Maybe our mothers have met at some point along the way.”

  “Maybe. But to answer your question, I am Irish. Or, as my dad would’ve said, ‘I’m Oirish.’ And thanks to him, I’ve learned to share the blarney as well as the next guy.”

  “That, we’ve established.” I offered him a cockeyed grin, and he laughed.

  I couldn’t get past the fact that he wasn’t a biological Kincaid—and certainly not the warring kind. Not that it really mattered, but knowing the history between the McDermotts and Kincaids had relieved me a little.

  Immediately the angel on my right shoulder scolded me. Why are you so hard on him? He’s a great guy. Just as quickly, the demon on my left shoulder chimed in. Because he’s the competition, stupid.

  From outside the window, a young woman probably in her twenties caught my eye. She paused in front of the studio window, and for a moment I thought she might come inside and interrupt our conversation. On one level, I wanted her to. Garnering a new client in front of Drew would boost my confidence.

  The woman waddled by, her weight on her heels. I took a second look, noticing her feet. She wore those funny little rubbery shoe-like things you get at the nail salon after a pedicure. Must’ve come from Nail Tropics next door.

  Drew smiled. “You know what I find funny?”

  “What’s that?”

  He pointed at the woman, who continued to waddle toward her fancy car, now fishing around in her large designer handbag. “That’s a woman with money.”

  “You can tell that from looking at her feet? My goodness, you are good. Very discerning.”

  “Well, look at her. Driving a BMW. Carrying a designer handbag. Wearing great clothes. Probably wouldn’t be caught checking the mail without a face full of makeup.”

  “True.” I scrutinized the woman, who’d located her keys and was trying to make it from the sidewalk to the driver’s-side door in her flip-floppy shoes.

  “And here she is, waddling like a platypus in front of dozens of people, without a care in the world.” He gestured to Parma John’s, the restaurant on the opposite side of the street. “See all of those people looking at her through the window? Do you think she has a clue? And would she be humiliated if she did?”

  “Never thought of it before. I see people coming out of the nail salon wearing those things all the time—rich, poor, and otherwise.”

  “It’s just something to ponder. Some women care too much about how they look. Give me someone who’s more laid-back any day.” Drew pulled out his camera, pointed it at the window, a
nd began clicking.

  “You’re photographing her without permission,” I argued.

  “Only her feet. And I’m pretty sure there’s nothing about those feet that would incriminate me, should she find out.” He zoomed out and then chuckled. “Unless you count the little butterflies on the nail of her big toe.”

  “Still . . .”

  He released the zoom and put the camera down, then glanced my way. “Hannah, can I ask a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re pretty in the box, aren’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’re really . . .”

  Stiff? Pretentious? Stuck in my ways?

  “Used to doing things one way.” He shrugged, and a dimple appeared on his right cheek. “I’ve noticed that about you. You’re . . . predictable.”

  He hadn’t exactly spoken the word as a death sentence. Still, it felt like one.

  “You can thank my father for that. You’ve never met a man more set in his ways. Guess maybe he’s rubbed off on me.”

  “Oh, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with predictable.” Drew shoved his camera back in its bag. “Predictable people get the job done. They’re reliable, trustworthy, and always tell the truth.”

  “You make me sound like a Boy Scout.”

  “Oh no.” He reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze, his eyes locking onto mine. “That would be Girl Scout. You’re all girl, Hannah.”

  Any or all “predictable” comebacks flew out the window. Drew Kincaid had called me a girl.

  There you go again, Hannah—melting like butter when a guy flatters you. What’s wrong with you, anyway? And what’s so flattering about being called a girl? You are one, you know.

  Doing my best to still my racing heart, I glanced out the window once more, then started fidgeting with my necklace.

  “You do that a lot,” he said, his voice now lower than before.

  “Do what?”

  “Grab your cross when you’re nervous.”

  “Oh? I—I do?” Instinctively, I released my hold on it.

  “You do.” A boyish smile lit his face. “I think it’s cute. Just so you know.”

  Good gravy. He’d called me a girl and said I was cute, all in less than two minutes.

  Is it warm in here? Did someone turn on the heater?

  I picked up a brochure and began to fan myself.

  “Well, I’d better get back to work.” He rose and gave me a smile. “One of these days I’ll figure out the whole Jacquie Goldfarb thing.” A wink followed. “But I guess that’s a mystery for another day.”

  “Yes. Well, I guess it is.”

  Not one I planned to reveal . . . ever. But he didn’t have to know that, now did he?

  13

  Blue Skies

  May God give you . . .

  For every storm, a rainbow, for every tear, a smile.

  For every care, a promise, and a blessing in each trial.

  For every problem life sends, a faithful friend to share.

  For every sigh, a sweet song, and an answer for each prayer.

  Irish blessing

  Just as Drew made it to the door of my studio, Scarlet came barreling in, holding a tray of cake samples. She almost knocked him over, then offered a rushed apology. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m—”

  “Jacquie Goldfarb?” he tried.

  “No.” Scarlet giggled. “But that’s funny. Really. Very funny.”

  “Wish I knew why.” He shrugged. “Just one of life’s little mysteries that I’m not supposed to understand, apparently.”

  From across the room, I did my best not to groan.

  “Are you . . .” Scarlet gripped the tray with her left hand and brushed her hair off her shoulders with her right. “Drew Kincaid?”

  “The one and only.”

  She grinned and offered a nod. “Scarlet Lindsey. Let them eat cake.”

  “Beg your pardon?” He glanced at the tray in her hands, then back up again.

  “Oh.” She laughed again. “That’s the name of my business—Let Them Eat Cake.”

  “Ah. Glad to hear. I thought maybe you were offering me a mandate.”

  “No, but I would like to offer you some of my cake samples.” She batted her eyelashes and placed the tray on my desk. “Now that you bring it up.”

  Oh no you don’t, girl. Tell me you’re not using him to promote your business.

  Then again, she had learned from the master, hadn’t she?

  With the tray now safely on the desk, Scarlet opened the dome lid, revealing over a dozen different types of cake in neat little bite-sized squares.

  Drew took several confident strides toward it, a perplexed look on his face. “Someone getting married?”

  “No. Unless that’s a proposal.” Scarlet released another one of those goofy giggles of hers, then fanned her ever-reddening face. “They’re just samples. Have one.” A pause followed as she set the dome lid down on top of some important papers. “Or two. Or three.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” He grabbed a square of chocolate cake and popped it in his mouth. His eyes widened at once, and he looked back and forth between us. “Did you make this from scratch?”

  “Of course.” She grinned. “It’s a brand-new recipe. Do you like it?”

  “Best chocolate cake I’ve ever eaten. I need to pick up one for my mom’s birthday. She loves chocolate. And she’s got a lot of friends in the Grand Opera Society, so maybe she would spread the word about your business.”

  “Ooh, that would be divine.” Scarlet’s cheeks turned pink again. “I’ll bake her birthday cake for free. It’ll be good advertising for my new shop, which I hope to open in a few months. Right now I office out of my home.” She reached into her purse and came out with a card.

  Stop flirting with the enemy, girlfriend.

  Only, he wasn’t really the enemy, was he? No, he happened to be a great guy who had stopped by to drop off a CD. And she wasn’t necessarily flirting, just promoting her business.

  Scarlet glanced my way and mouthed, “Wowza! He’s gorgeous!”

  Okay, so maybe she was flirting.

  I gave her a warning look. “Well, Drew was just leaving. Isn’t that right, Drew?”

  Scarlet’s lips curled down in a pout. “Oh, that’s a shame. I was hoping to see the photos you two took at Bella Neeley’s place. Guess that’s out of the question?”

  “I’ve got a few minutes.” Drew pulled up a chair. “If Hannah does.”

  “Sure.”

  I put his CD into my computer and did my best to still the trembling in my hands. Right away the email from Sierra’s publicist popped up. I quickly minimized it and opened my photo app, and the photographs—dozens of them—appeared in glorious display. Wow. This guy was really good.

  Keep your cool, Hannah. Don’t let him see you sweat.

  A photo of Tres appeared, his olive skin glistening and his cockeyed smile charming.

  “Oh, Hannah, that’s priceless!” Scarlet went on and on about the picture, talking about the angles, the curve of his cheekbone, the darling smile.

  “Drew took that one,” I muttered. I grabbed a tiny piece of Italian cream cake, which I popped in my mouth. I chased it down with a square of lemon. Then orange fudge. By the time we’d looked through all of Drew’s photos, I’d wiped out nearly a quarter of Scarlet’s cake samples.

  Scarlet pointed to my lips, and I wiped away a bit of fudge frosting. Perfect.

  “Wow.” Drew’s eyes widened. “I had no idea you liked cake so much, Hannah. That’s pretty impressive.”

  “I don’t.” And it didn’t like me very much either, from the rumbling in my stomach. Then again, I’d skipped breakfast. What I needed was real food.

  After giving me a funny look, Scarlet turned back to the computer and began to rave about the photos all over again, her sentences loaded with adjectives.

  Just what I needed—a bellyful of sugar and an earful of spice.

>   After that, though, Drew asked to see the pictures I’d taken. We spent the next several minutes going over them, and I breathed a sigh of relief when he gave them rave reviews.

  By the time Drew left, I’d almost forgotten about my dilemma with Sierra Caswell. Almost. When the bell rang out as the door closed behind him, Scarlet looked my way. But I couldn’t focus on her right now. My gaze shot to the window. I watched as Drew opened the door to his SUV and climbed inside, my eyes narrowing as he glanced back at me through the glass.

  “Mm-hmm.” Scarlet clucked her tongue as she took a few steps in my direction. “I had my suspicions, but you’ve just confirmed them.”

  “Suspicions?” I shut down my computer. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean about the way you look at Drew Kincaid. Drew ‘so hot you’d have to blow him out to keep the house from going up in flames’ Kincaid.”

  Okay, so Drew was plenty hot. And yeah, he’d pretended to be my boyfriend so that Armando would leave me alone. But guys like Drew never really looked my way unless they wanted my take on something business or sports related. More likely he’d come to my studio today to scope out the place. Size up the competition.

  “Girl, no wonder you’ve been keeping him all to yourself.” Scarlet put the dome lid on the remaining cake samples. “He’s gorgeous.”

  “I guess.” I shrugged. “Never really paid much attention.”

  “Please. You’d have to be blind. And I happen to know you’re not. You’d never make it as a photographer if you were.” She grinned and pulled the tray of cake samples away from me. “So, what happens next?”

  I rose and reached for my purse. “What happens next is I call Bella and tell her what’s going on with Sierra Caswell’s publicist. Tell her that I cannot under any circumstances sign that document, even if it means losing the gig.”

  “Oh, right. That.” Scarlet released a sigh. “I was hoping you’d say, ‘We’re going to lunch.’”

  “Well, maybe we can do that too.”