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

  © 2013 by Janice Thompson

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-4062-0

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  Most Scripture used in this book, whether quoted or paraphrased by the characters, is taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

  Some Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  The author is represented by MacGregor Literary Agency.

  The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate at the time of publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group does not endorse them or vouch for their content or permanence.

  To the faithful prayer warriors on my dream team. You helped me breathe Bella back to life. What fun to see her through Hannah McDermott’s eyes! Thank you for your prayers, your encouragement, and your ideas. This book is as much yours as it is mine.

  In memory of the great Bing Crosby, whose movies and melodies filled my heart as a child. I couldn’t pen a story about Irish Americans without including some of his best-loved songs as chapter titles.

  So the last will be first, and the first will be last.

  Matthew 20:16

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1. Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ral

  2. The Little Things in Life

  3. I’m a Dreamer, Aren’t We All

  4. When Irish Eyes Are Smiling

  5. Wrap Your Troubles in Dreams

  6. Fancy Meeting You Here

  7. It Could Happen to You

  8. Be Honest with Me

  9. I’ve Got a Pocketful of Dreams

  10. After Sundown

  11. Top o’ the Mornin’

  12. You Belong to Me

  13. Blue Skies

  14. Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive

  15. My Wild Irish Rose

  16. Count Your Blessings Instead of Sheep

  17. Put It There, Pal

  18. Just You, Just Me

  19. The Merry-Go-Run-Around

  20. Don’t Let the Stars Get in Your Eyes

  21. Once in a Blue Moon

  22. Learn to Croon

  23. High Society

  24. Winter Wonderland

  25. You Keep Coming Back Like a Song

  26. True Love

  Bonus Feature

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Janice Thompson

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Prologue

  Going My Way

  May your troubles be as few and as far apart as my grandmother’s teeth.

  Irish proverb

  My life has been a series of almosts.

  Take, for instance, the time I almost made the cheerleading squad in high school but lost out to my archnemesis, Jacquie Practically-Perfect-in-Every-Way Goldfarb. Then there was the time Matt Hudson, the hunkiest football player at my high school, almost asked me to the prom but ended up going with Jacquie instead. Oh, and we can’t forget the time I almost got a photographer’s dream job, shooting superstar Brock Benson’s wedding. Yep. Another almost. That time, the opportunity of a lifetime slipped through my fingers and into the open palms of my chief competitor, Drew Kincaid of Kincaid Photography.

  Some people are haunted by memories of things they’ve done. Me? I’m haunted by all of the things I nearly accomplished but missed by a quarter of an inch. That’s why, when faced with yet another unbelievable opportunity—a profile piece in Texas Bride magazine to promote my new Galveston-based photography business—I couldn’t blow it. No more almosts for me. This time I would hit the finish line a winner. My meeting with the Texas Bride reporter would transform my career and propel me into the limelight, winning me the favor of the island’s top wedding planner, Bella Neeley. If I could just keep from messing it up.

  Oh, but this time I wouldn’t! In fact, I could almost hear my grandpa Aengus cheering me on from the great beyond: “Hannah Grace, if you’re lucky enough to be Irish, then you’re lucky enough.”

  I didn’t happen to believe in luck, but if being Irish meant I stood a better chance at succeeding in business, I would embrace my heritage as never before. I would bathe with Irish Spring soap, dress in the vibrant colors of the family crest, skip through fields of shamrocks, and listen to my father’s nightly tales of Clan McDermott’s glory days. And I would do it all with a smile on my face and confidence in my stride.

  From his mansion up in heaven, Grandpa Aengus smiled down on me, his gold-capped front tooth gleaming like the precious stones in the pearly gate. I could sense his pleasure as I made up my mind to do the McDermotts proud. Like my warring ancestors of yesteryear, I would fight to the finish, wielding my bloody sword—er, my two-thousand-dollar digital camera with stellar resolution and optical zoom—until I took the prize. I would come out a victor in the end, or make a fool of myself trying.

  Either way, I wouldn’t go down without a fight. A true McDermott never did.

  1

  Too-Ra-Loo-Ra-Loo-Ral

  May you have no frost on your spuds,

  No worms on your cabbage.

  May your goat give plenty of milk.

  If you inherit a donkey, may she be in foal.

  Irish saying

  There’s no denying the fact that my grandpa Aengus shaped the way I look at life. The man had a saying for everything. If I fell and scraped my knee, he mended it with an Irish proverb: “For every storm, a rainbow, for every tear, a smile.” If I woke up with a head cold, he had an Irish remedy: “A good laugh and a long sleep are the two best cures.” If I got into an argument with my BFF, he offered sage Irish wisdom: “Don’t give cherries to pigs or advice to fools.”

  The man firmly believed that anything good that came to him in this life was in some way tied to his great fortune at being born Irish. No one ever debated him on that point. No one in the family, anyway. Since his passing three years ago, those quirky proverbs and blessings have brought those of us who loved him an ongoing sense of comfort and peace.

  My father, God bless him, has done his best to keep Grandpa’s sayings alive, but he usually ends up botching the proverbs. Still, a botched proverb is a proverb, so, on the third Saturday in September, as I buzzed down the road, I decided to give my dad a call. Surely he could come up with words of wisdom. I desperately needed them before meeting with the reporter from Texas Bride magazine.

  My father answered with a jovial, “Hannah Grace! How
’s my girl?”

  The moment I heard his voice come over the car’s Bluetooth speaker, I wilted like a flower in an underfertilized garden. Something about my dad’s happy-go-lucky tone always made me feel young again. Vulnerable. Once a daddy’s little girl, always a daddy’s little girl, right?

  I turned my focus to the road, paying particular attention to a group of tourists on the edge of the seawall snapping photos of the murky gulf waters as they rolled in and out in predictable fashion. Funny how people liked to capture every little moment on film—the good, the bad, and the ugly. Even the mundane.

  My hesitation must’ve prompted some worry on my father’s end.

  “You okay, Shutter Speed?”

  I laughed at his funny nickname. “Yeah. Mostly.” A lingering sigh followed. “Just needed some sage advice.”

  “So you called me?” His chuckle lifted my spirits. “You must be desperate. Or forgetful. I’ve never been very good at advice, remember? I’m pretty sure I’m the one who told my friends to buy stock in Enron years ago, wasn’t I? And I’m the one who convinced your mother to buy that over-the-top Christmas sweater you girls all make fun of. Oh, and remember that whole Y2K thing? Got people worked up for nothing and felt like a fool in the end.”

  A girlish giggle escaped on my end. “Yeah, but you’ve been forgiven for all of that. And I do need some words of wisdom, Dad. I’m just about to head into an interview with an important reporter and need to know how to change the subject if she brings up Sierra Caswell’s wedding. I don’t want to blow this. Bella Neeley from Club Wed will read this article, and I need to impress her.”

  “Wait . . . Bella Neeley, that’s a name I know. But who’s Sierra Caswell?”

  “The bride I told you about a couple of weeks ago. The one with all the attitude.”

  “Ah. The country-western singer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why are you so worried about the reporter’s questions?”

  “Because I need to do my best to protect Sierra’s privacy, and I’m afraid I’ll blow it. You know? Sometimes we get to talking and things just slip out. I’ve got to be careful not to let that happen. You know me, Dad.”

  “Gotcha. You’re a chip off the old block.”

  “Yep. But Sierra’s a high-profile case, and she hasn’t been easy, so I’m afraid I might accidentally spout off if the reporter gets too nosy.” I turned onto Broadway. “You’re not going to believe it, but Sierra’s publicist sent me a note saying that I have to Photoshop out any wrinkles around her eyes.” I thought about the email I’d read on my phone just this morning. The whole thing seemed ludicrous, even now. “Seriously? Who has wrinkles at twenty-six?”

  Oh, wait, I did. And they deepened every time I thought about Sierra’s wedding. Instead of seeing the event as a blessing to my career, I felt a strange and ominous sense of foreboding every time I imagined the big day. But I tried to push those feelings aside. They were just feelings, after all. And as a woman of faith, I knew better than to put much stock in feelings.

  “Grandpa Aengus never had a wrinkle till he turned seventy-five.”

  My father’s voice brought me back to reality.

  “Then again, his hair turned gray at twenty-two,” my father continued, “so he always looked older than his age, even without the wrinkles. From what I hear, it never really bothered him, though.”

  “Still, some people worry about such things, especially people in the public eye. Sierra’s famous, you know. She had a top ten song on Billboard last month, and she just recorded the new theme song for Stars Collide.”

  “Stars Collide?”

  “My favorite sitcom. The one about the talent scouts. You know?”

  “Oh, right, right.”

  I had a feeling he didn’t have a clue, but I kept going anyway. “My point is, she’s famous. So landing this gig is critical to my career. It will put me in good standing with Bella Neeley, and if I can stay in her good graces, my studio will become famous.”

  “And this Sierra person holds the key to all of this? She’s really that important?”

  “Definitely. You can’t pick up a magazine without seeing her name in it. And she was on Entertainment Tonight just last week. But she’s a pain in the backside to work with, like I said. Talk about a diva. I was really excited to get this gig, but it’s been nothing but trouble so far. Even Bella has struggled with her, and she’s handled every bridezilla known to mankind. If she’s having trouble, can you even imagine me trying to manage it?”

  “From what I’ve heard, Bella’s one tough cookie.”

  “Oh, she is. But she’s as sweet as sugar too. And right now she adores me. I’d like to keep it that way.”

  Up ahead the light turned red and I waited, though waiting didn’t come naturally to me.

  “How could she help but love you? You’re a McDermott.” He took a swan dive into one of his usual Irish tales about the joys of belonging to the clan.

  As always, when he got to talking about our heritage, his brogue thickened. The g’s disappeared from the end of his words. The r’s were pushed. The h’s disappeared altogether. Words like thirty became tirty. The letter i became oi. In other words, we were no longer Irish. We were, without apology, Oirish. And very happy about it, from the lilt in Dad’s voice. He continued to share his heart about how easy it would be for Bella to love me and my work.

  “Hey, Oi read the Daily, kiddo. Oi know tat Bella named you one of te top five photographers in South Texas. Tat’s got to be great for business, right?”

  He had no idea. Picture This, the Galveston studio I’d opened just a year and a half ago, stood a chance at blossoming into something of great beauty now that the coordinator at Galveston’s premiere wedding facility had taken notice of me. How many months had I prayed for such a miracle? Seemed like forever. And with one word from Bella, the Red Sea had parted at last. I would forever be grateful. But I had to be proactive. Nothing—I repeat, nothing—could mess this up. Not now, after I’d worked so hard.

  A little sigh escaped as I thought it through. “I just have this horrible feeling that the situation with Sierra Caswell could undo all of my hard work. She’s a royal pain. I’ve never met anyone so self-focused.”

  The light turned green and I put my foot on the accelerator, ready to move forward—both physically and emotionally.

  “Ah.” My father paused. “And you need to make sure you don’t give any of this information away to the reporter, should she ask.”

  “Right.” I eased the steering wheel to the left, careful to avoid several parked cars on the side of the street. The closer I got to the Strand, the worse the traffic.

  “Well, you know what your grandfather would’ve said on a mornin’ such as this, don’t you, darlin’?”

  The lilt in my father’s voice made me smile, and a sense of calm settled over me as I anticipated his next words. “Nope, that’s why I called you.”

  My dad chuckled. “Your grandpa would’ve said, ‘Put silk on a goat and it’s still a goat.’”

  I eased down on the brakes as I approached the Starbucks parking lot. “You’re calling Sierra Caswell a goat?”

  “Well, if the silk fits . . .”

  Okay, that got a chuckle out of me. I turned my car into the lot, then slipped it into park and leaned back against the seat. “Don’t know how you’ve done it, Dad, but you have. You made me laugh. And feel much better about the situation.” Nothing new there. This daddy’s girl always felt better after a heart-to-heart, even a quirky one involving goats.

  “I didn’t give you a lick of advice, but I’ve managed to distract you, and that’s exactly what you need to do with that reporter. Pull a Grandpa Aengus on her. Respond with an Oirish proverb. She’ll think you’re brilliant.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “Well, you are brilliant, Shutter Speed. You’re from good Irish stock, after all. Now get in there and knock ’em dead.” He cleared his throat. “Well, um, not really
. But you know what I mean. Let your confidence ring out loud and clear. Just give the reporter enough information to let your competitors know who’s who and what’s what. The rest will take care of itself.”

  As he said the word competitors, my thoughts shifted at once to Drew Kincaid. Would I ever get past the nerves when his name was mentioned? Okay, so my father hadn’t actually mentioned my hunky competitor by name, but he might as well have. Why did Drew unnerve me so?

  “You still there, kiddo?”

  My father’s voice roused me from my ponderings and forced my attention to the matter at hand. “Yeah. Just thinking about what you said. Wondering how I should go about putting Drew Kincaid in his place so that I come out looking like a pro and not some sort of bitter competitor with a chip on my shoulder.” Which I probably am, but I’m working on it.

  “Kincaid?” A string of words in lyrical Gaelic flowed on my father’s end, followed by, “That’s the competition? A Kincaid?”

  “Yeah.” I sighed. “Kincaid Photography.”

  “Well, why dinna ye say so?” Brogue now thicker than before, my father took off on a passionate rant. I couldn’t make out much until I heard the words “fight till the death.” Only death sounded more like det.

  “Wait, what are you saying, Dad? We have some connection to the Kincaids?”

  His tirade drew to an immediate halt. “You mean you really don’t know? You haven’t heard the story?”

  “No.”

  “It’s quite a tale, the story of the clash between Clan Kincaid and Clan McDermott. Are ye sure yer up for it?”

  Have I ever been up for any of your Clan McDermott stories?

  A quick glance at my watch told me I’d arrived twenty minutes early for my appointment. Probably just enough time for one of Dad’s tales. “Sure. Fill me in.”

  His brogue deepened even more as the story began to unfold. Before long I felt he’d transported me all the way across the Atlantic to the green hills of Ireland, the lilt in his voice dancing across the phone line. “We’re talkin’ generations of fightin’ that took several lives. Almost wiped out both clans. Worse than the Hatfields and McCoys.”