Picture Perfect (Weddings by Design Book #1): A Novel Page 5

  At this news, Scarlet began to choke. She managed to get control of herself, thank goodness. I’d never been very good at the Heimlich maneuver. And with Scarlet being a little wide around the midsection, I honestly wondered if my arms would wrap all the way around her.

  “What?” she said at last.

  “Yep.” I swallowed and reached for another cake ball, this one red velvet. “Bella’s aunt Rosa and uncle Laz host a show on the Food Network. I just put that together today.”

  “Wait. The Italian Kitchen—that’s the show you’re talking about?”

  “Yes.”

  Scarlet’s eyes widened. She brushed a loose strand of hair behind her shoulders, and crinkles appeared around her eyes. Hmm. Maybe women in their twenties really did have wrinkles.

  “I knew they lived on the island, of course. Everyone knows that.”

  Not me.

  “And I knew they had the best vegetable garden in the world. But I had no idea they were connected to Bella Neeley or the wedding facility.” A deep sigh followed on her end. “I love that show.”

  “Mama does too. But you get my point, right? These are powerful people with great connections. Life-changing connections.”

  “Still, you and I both know that Bella Neeley, powerful as she might be, doesn’t hold the key to your future.” Scarlet leaned forward and grabbed a piece of vanilla cake. “She can’t make or break you. Or me, for that matter. Only God can do that.”

  “Well, yes, but . . .”

  Popping the cake in her mouth, Scarlet leaned back in the chair, a look of contentment on her face. “I, for one, am getting really tired of hearing that she has all of this power over you when in fact she doesn’t. That was the point of my I Love Lucy story, by the way. Lucy always felt like Ricky had all the talent when she had none. It was never true in the first place. Lucy always had the goods, just didn’t realize it due to her insecurities.”

  Conviction set in, but I chose to ignore it, focusing instead on my passionate response. “I’m just saying that I can’t take the chance of letting Bella down. I’ll fight till the finish. I’ll prove myself. I’ll—”

  “You’ll wield your bloody sword.” She sighed and brushed her hands on her apron. “I’ve heard that one before, you know. Several times, in fact.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. When you gave up your job on the Clarity. When you opened your studio. When you realized Drew Kincaid was opening his studio. When your mother suggested you stop wearing pink because it clashes with your hair.”

  “Hey now. That’s a low blow.”

  “Looks like you won that battle.” She pointed to my pink blouse. “And remember, you’re talking to another redhead here.”

  Please. Yours is from a bottle. And it’s auburn. There’s a difference.

  I sighed as I fingered the hem of my blouse. “Go on.”

  Scarlet leaned back in her chair and gave me a motherly look. “Hannah, that article in Texas Bride is going to come out soon. You’re going to be a superstar. An icon. People on and off the island will flock to this studio to have their pictures taken.”

  “If you had any idea how badly I botched that interview, you would know better.”

  “Still, I don’t think you realize just how blessed you are. It’s got to be a huge boost to have such a great opportunity. Things like that don’t come along every day.”

  “And when they do, I usually mess them up. You know me better than almost anyone. Don’t you see that I’m the queen of missed opportunities?”

  She rose and paced my office, her eyes now flashing with excitement. “Girl, when that article releases, this studio is going to be full, sunup to sundown. I can see it. In faith, I mean.”

  “Sure hope so. I’d like to eventually get my own place. Move out.”

  Scarlet’s eyes narrowed, and she crossed her arms over her 42DDs. “Hmm. Doubtful.”

  “W-what do you mean?”

  “I’m of the firm conviction that your parents are trying to hang on to you. They’re not willing to let go. Now that all of your sisters are married . . .”

  I must’ve flinched because she paused, a look of chagrin on her face. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to rub salt in an open wound.”

  “It’s not a wound.” I reached for another piece of cake.

  “Okay, well, anyway, I think you’re afraid to move on.”

  This certainly got my attention. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, you’re avoiding men because you’re scared. After what happened with that Jon guy on the cruise ship . . .”

  The piece of cake nearly slipped out of my hand. “For your information, that was a total fluke. I had no way of knowing he was playing me.”

  “Whatever. I’m just saying that you’re giving off bad vibes. Guys avoid you because you’ve got walls up.”

  For whatever reason, my gaze shifted to the bricked walls of my studio. Had I really built up a barricade meant to keep others out?

  “It’s just my . . . situation.” I spoke the word like a death sentence.

  “Your situation? What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’m nearly twenty-seven and I still live at home with my parents. All of my sisters are married—and I hear every intimate detail of their lives whenever we’re together. They all have stories. I just have the same old, same old, day in and day out. Nothing ever really changes.”

  “For Pete’s sake, you worked on a cruise ship. You saw ports all over the world. Traveled to places the rest of us only dream about.”

  I hated to debate her on this point, but it wasn’t exactly like that. “Mostly I just saw the inside of the ship. And not to discount the great experience, but our rooms on the ship weren’t like what you see in pictures. They were really small. Think cracker box.” I hesitated, unsure of how to redeem this. “I’m just saying that I sometimes look at my life—factoring in my age, my singleness, my codependent relationship with my parents—and wonder if things will always be the same.”

  “Ready for a change?”

  I nodded. “I think so. Not an abrupt, move-to-Australia sort of shift, but something on a smaller scale.”

  “You want to fall in love and get married and have babies.”

  As the sigh inside of me released, I felt like a balloon deflating. She’d just summed up in one sentence everything I currently longed for. I would add only one thing to her list—a flourishing career where I actually came out on top instead of playing second fiddle to Drew Kincaid. But how could I have any of those things with walls up?

  “See my dilemma?” I asked. “I’m avoiding the very thing I know I want.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.” I swallowed hard, ready to admit the truth. “I just know myself. I can’t be trusted.”

  “Can’t be trusted?” Her thinly plucked brows arched, showing off her over-the-top teal eye shadow, which she’d applied to match her apron. “Dying to know what you mean by that.”

  “I mean, so few guys hit on me that when they do, I crater. What’s wrong with me?” I hung my head in shame. “I’m a sucker for a handsome face.”

  And Drew Kincaid has the handsomest face on Galveston Island.

  Where that thought came from, I had no idea.

  “What do you mean?” Now Scarlet really looked nervous.

  “I mean, every time a great-looking guy glances my way, I melt like buttercream on an overheated cupcake. I lose all control of my senses. He could be an ax murderer for all I know, but my discernment goes out the window because I’m so flattered a guy—any guy—would give me the time of day.”

  Scarlet clucked her tongue. “Oh, girl, you really are in bad shape, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah.” I reached for a square of carrot cake and took a bite, then spoke around it. “But I don’t know what to do about it. I’m a hopeless case.”

  The stillness of my empty studio haunted me as I spoke those words. I looked around, thinking of all the hopes and dreams I’d invested in this place. A
nd here it sat, empty. Well, empty except for the two of us.

  “There’s no such thing as a hopeless case.” Scarlet’s eyes grew misty. “I guess some people would say it’s a self-image problem, but I don’t really look at it that way. You’re created in God’s image, Hannah.”

  “I know that.”

  Sort of.

  “Hmm. Well then, if you know it, you have to know that he sees everyone as beautiful, whether they’re young, old, chubby, thin, have freckles, warts—you name it.” She pointed at herself. “Look at me. I’m a good thirty pounds overweight.”

  Hmm . . .

  “Okay, fifty. But do I beat myself up? No, I do not. And you shouldn’t either. It’s time to change the way you see yourself. You’re beautiful, Hannah, inside and out. And I’m not just saying that. I’ve never been one for condescension. I get enough of that from my aunt Wilhelmina.”

  “I know, but you’re not going to get me to say I think I’m pretty, so forget about it. I’ve known a lot of girls over the years who’ve bragged about their gorgeousness.” Gorgeousness? Is that a word? “I’ve never been one of them and don’t care to be.”

  Scarlet shook her head. “I’m not talking about vanity. Nothing like that. Just the self-assurance that God created you exactly like you are and loves you just the way you are. You don’t have to pretend to be something you’re not around guys.” She took another nibble of cake. “You know how it is just before you go out on a date? You spend all of those hours primping to make sure you look your best?”

  I released a slow breath, realizing that I hadn’t been on a date since the fiasco with Jon. Thank goodness she jumped back into the conversation.

  “You don’t have to primp for God. He thinks you’re gorgeous, even on the bad hair days.” Scarlet pointed at her unruly auburn mop, which she’d pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. “And trust me, he’s got a guy out there for you who will love you just like you are too. You’ll be able to relax around him. Be yourself.”

  Easy for her to say. She had a boyfriend. Well, a sort-of boyfriend. Kenny, her beatnik assistant, had been hanging on her apron strings from the time she’d started baking cakes. Then again, he didn’t seem to be in any hurry to pop the question. Still, Scarlet had options. I had nothing.

  Well, nothing but a fabulous photography studio, an article in Texas Bride magazine, and connections to the greatest wedding planner in the history of mankind.

  Oh, and a great family.

  And a wonderful church.

  And a prepaid, yearlong membership to the best gym in town.

  And an upcoming job with one of country music’s top celebrities.

  Suddenly I felt stupid for whining. I gave Scarlet a weak smile, reached for another piece of cake, and swallowed it down whole. She responded by easing herself up from the chair and offering me a hug that made everything all right again.

  Melting into my best friend’s sympathetic arms, I realized I really did have just about everything a girl could ever want.

  Almost.

  5

  Wrap Your Troubles in Dreams

  An elderly man called Keith

  Mislaid his set of false teeth—

  They’d been laid on a chair,

  He’d forgot they were there,

  Sat down, and was bitten beneath.

  Irish limerick

  After Scarlet left, I felt a little better about life. Well, unless you counted the stomachache I’d acquired from all of the cake samples I’d consumed.

  My mind now freed up, I went back to work, editing the pictures I’d taken at Club Wed and putting together a marketing brochure for Galveston’s upcoming Christmas extravaganza, Dickens on the Strand. The afternoon flew by at lightning speed. I paused as the clock rang out the hour. Five o’clock. No way. Had the whole day slipped right by me? I’d need to keep an eye on things if I wanted to be home in time for dinner.

  One thing about the McDermott clan—we were predictable. Every day at 6:01 my father would pull his chair up to the table, where my mother would serve a meal he’d seen hundreds, if not thousands, of times before. Every meal had to incorporate potatoes or cabbage, of course, and either corned beef, roast beef, or stewed beef. Sometimes chicken. No exotic side dishes. No unusual desserts. Just the same fare, day in and day out. One time, my mama—I shiver to remember—made the mistake of serving up homemade enchiladas. The result was not pretty.

  And so, at 5:56, I entered the house—the same house we’d lived in all of my life, with the same furniture, the same carpets, the same pictures hanging on the wall. I smelled the usual smells coming from the kitchen, heard the usual sound—my father turning off the news channel—and waited for the usual words, the same words I heard every day: “Shutter Speed, you’re home! Thought you’d never get here.”

  I couldn’t help but smile as I clapped eyes on my father. Except for a few wrinkles and his graying temples, Dad looked pretty much the same as I remembered from my childhood. Funny how nothing ever seemed to change.

  “How was your day?” he asked, slipping an arm over my shoulder and pulling me close.

  “Long, but my appointment with Bella went all right. I think everything’s going to turn out okay with Sierra’s wedding. I hope so, anyway.”

  “Glad to hear it. You know what your grandpa Aengus would say right now, don’t you, Shutter Speed?”

  Um, no. But I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.

  “As you slide down the banisters of life, may the splinters never point the wrong way.” My dad grinned and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Remember, darlin’, some banisters are slipperier than others. Just hang on for the ride, even if you do come in contact with a few splinters.”

  “I’ve seen more than my share already. When it rains, it pours.”

  His brow furrowed. “Speaking of which, I saw on the news there’s a tropical disturbance in the gulf.”

  Yikes. Hopefully it wouldn’t interfere with my photo shoot this coming Saturday. Galveston’s weather could be pretty unpredictable.

  I followed on my father’s heels into the dining room, where we would take our usual places at the massive table and eat from the same dishes I’d eaten off of since childhood. Nothing had changed, even after my youngest sister’s wedding, though not for lack of trying on my part. Mama and I had both done our best to convince Dad to eat in the living room in front of the television now that we were down to three, but he wouldn’t hear of it. No way, no how. And so we dined—the three of us—at a table that once seated six. Before my sisters abandoned me.

  Instead of taking my seat, I popped my head in the kitchen to say hello to Mama. I found her watching the tail end of a show on the Food Network. Nothing new there, though she only watched “my TV shows,” as she called them, when Dad was working his shift at the post office or in the other room. I would have to remember to tell her about Bella’s aunt and uncle later, when he wasn’t listening. She would flip when she realized two of her favorite TV stars lived close by.

  I walked across the linoleum floor and leaned against the tiled counter. “How are things?”

  “Good. I had a call from Deidre today,” Mama said as she served up the sliced beef. “She and Corbin are coming down for a visit in early December for Dickens on the Strand.”

  “Oh, when is that, again?”

  When my mother gave the same date as Sierra’s wedding, I almost choked. “W-what? You know I have the event of a lifetime that weekend, don’t you?”

  “Oh?” Mama’s brow wrinkled. “Something going on?”

  “Yes, I told you all about it. The big wedding at Club Wed. Sierra Caswell. The country singer.”

  “Oh . . .” With a wave of her hand, my mother dismissed any concerns. “Just a wedding.”

  “Just a wedding?” I fought the temptation to enter into an argument. “It’s the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  “That’s what you said about the interview with Texas Bride.” She placed thick slices of beef on a platter,
the same platter she used every Monday night.

  “Well, it was.”

  “And if memory serves me correctly, you said the same thing when Bella Neeley called you the first time.”

  “I’ve been blessed with a lot of opportunities lately.”

  Most of which I end up botching, but that’s a story for another day.

  Mama reached for a pot holder, then pulled a loaf of soda bread from the oven. “Well, hopefully you can spend a little time with your sister and her husband, in spite of this wedding of yours.”

  Strange that she phrased it “this wedding of yours.” I didn’t have time to respond, though, because the clock in the dining room chimed six times, and my dad coughed, his usual sign that Mama had better get the food on the table—quick.

  We ate our usual dinner, had our usual conversation, nibbled at the usual dessert, then headed into the living room to watch our usual Monday night fare—one of Dad’s prerecorded true crime shows. Still, I felt something stirring deep inside me and couldn’t let it go. I’m not sure how I garnered the courage to do it, but I managed to spit out the most shocking thing I’d suggested to my father in years.

  “Can we watch something different tonight, Dad?”

  “W-what?” From his worn recliner, he glanced my way, his jaw dropping.

  “Dancing with the Stars is starting up again tonight,” I explained. “It’s a new season.”

  He pulled the handle on the side of his recliner, and his feet shot up in the air. “Dancing with the Stars?” Creases formed in his brow. I could almost hear the thoughts clicking in his head.

  I used my most persuasive voice. “Brock Benson is going to be on it this season. You know who he is, right? He plays a talent scout on Stars Collide. You like that show, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, I tolerate it. But I do not—repeat, do not—like dancing shows. And nothing will change that. So I would rather not, thank you.”

  “Michael McDermott, don’t be so stubborn.” My mother’s voice rang out in scolding fashion as she entered the room, coffee cup in hand.