Love Just Clicks

Chapter 1

One

Sherlock Bones is waiting outside the door for me. And he’s brought me a present.

As per usual.

With Sherlock, you never know what the present will be (or if it’s alive or dead). His heart’s in the right place, and he knows that I keep the good cookies in the bottom drawer of my desk.

The bell on the photography studio’s glass front door tinkles as I open it. “Sherlock,” I say. He prances right in, his four-inch tail wagging proudly, his usually white front legs soiled with the evidence of his labor. I swear he’s smiling. “What did you bring me?”

He drops my “present”—a mutilated tennis ball today—on the floor next to my desk and pushes himself onto his hind legs, as if posing for the ringmaster and his adoring audience.

“You shouldn’t have,” I say, patting his narrow, white-and-brown terrier head. “You got dirt in your ears, bud.” He shakes his whole body like he’s just jumped out of the bathtub. “Thanks. I just vacuumed.”

I open the bottom desk drawer and pull out his favorite biscuits. He poses for me again; I give him two. I’ll wait to throw the tennis ball away after he leaves. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.

He manages to get another few cookies out of me—because I’m a sucker for smart Jack Russells—and just as he’s chewing the last of it, the studio door bursts open, allowing entry to one of the scariest women in all of Portland.

“Sherlock! You are the baddest dog in the entire world!” Mrs. Gianotti’s Italian accent is as thick as her famous sauce, even though she’s lived in Oregon for most of her life. Sherlock Bones responds to his mother’s reprimand by taking off at a sprint, likely to find another escape route.

“Hello, Mrs. Gianotti,” I say, wiping my hands on a tissue. “You’re looking well today.”

“I look terrible. I am too old for this dumb dog. He will be the death of me.” She dresses the part of an old-world Italian mamma—the black dress, the white apron dotted with whatever she’s been cooking this morning, the gray-and-black hair pulled into a loose bun on top of her head, the dark pantyhose and sensible, slip-proof shoes. The flashiest thing about her are the leopard-print reading glasses that hang from the gold chain around her neck. She says they’re “ugly, like pineapple on pizza,” but her young granddaughter picked them, so they stay.

And for the record, everything will be the death of Mrs. Gianotti. You should’ve heard her after last season’s winner of The Bachelorette.

“How’s the deli?” Mrs. G. owns one of Portland’s oldest and most famous Italian delicatessens just down the block—my father is one of her best customers. I think she might secretly be in love with Dad, which explains why the fridge here is always stocked with takeout containers from Gianotti’s, most of it involving prosciutto, all of it clogging his arteries I’m sure.

“Deli will kill me,” Mrs. G. says. “SHERLOCK! Come! We have cannoli to fill!” She turns and shuffles toward the door. Looks like her left hip is still bothering her.

“Good to see you again, Mrs. Gianotti.”

“Send my stupid dog home. Maybe I will make sausages out of him.”

I hold the door open for her and she flaps a hand at me and grunts as she exits, her thighs swish-swishing as she walks. As soon as the bell quiets, Sherlock emerges.

“You’re going to be the death of her, you know,” I say, moving back toward my desk to answer the ringing phone. Sherlock barks once and then sets to cleaning himself against the throw rug near the front door. Ugh. Just another man to tidy up after. Though Sherlock is way cuter than my brother.

“Hawes Photography, Frankie speaking.”

“Frankie—it’s Gabe. I need you to do me a favor.”

“Hey …” My brother sounds weird. “Are you seriously drunk? It’s, like, not even noon. I hope your vacation involves more than boozing it up. Poor Lainie—”

“You’re going to have to shoot the Meyer-Nelson wedding.”

“What?”

“The Meyer-Nelson wedding. This weekend. Revelation Cove, up in British Columbia. I can’t go—”

“Gabe, what are you talking about? You have to go. This wedding is a huge deal.”

“Frankie—liiiiisten to me—I crashed my bike and screwed up my leg. I’m at Legacy Emanuel. They gave me morphine. It’s awesome.”

I bury my face in the hand not holding the phone, but my heart pounds loudly enough in my ears that I almost can’t hear my own voice. “Is Lainie there with you? Put her on the phone. You still have time to shoot the wedding—you just need a cast or one of those air-boot thingies, right?”

“I have to have surgery, Francesca. Trust me,” he says, on the verge of slurring. “I’d rather be shooting a wedding instead of getting my leg bolted back together.”

“Surgery?” My voice squeaks. “Gabriel, please … please don’t ask me to do this. Isn’t there another photographer who can shoot it?”

“Frankie, you know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t have to.”

“Can’t Dad do it?”

“And cut short his golf trip?”

Gabe is right. Our dad is in Vegas with his latest playmate. I hope this one is old enough to vote.

“How bad is the break?”

“If I tell you, you’ll barf. Blood and guts and stuff.”

Oh god, if his broken leg involves blood, it’s bad.

“Can I bring you anything?”

“Nah, Lainie is going home to grab some clothes. Lazarus is at the kennel until tomorrow night so we’ll keep him there.”

“I can go get him—”

“No, you can’t. I need you to go deal with this wedding.”

“I’m not kidding, Gabe. You cannot ask me to do this.”

“The doctor said the surgery will take a few hours and then I have to be here overnight at least. Plus this morphine is fantastic.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that,” I say. “Can’t they give you crutches? And more morphine? I can go up with you to assist and hold cameras—all you have to do is point and shoot. You can do that with crutches, right?”

“You can do this, Frankie. You’re a super-good photographer.”

Now I know he’s stoned. I’m an uninspired photographer. Which is why, at Hawes Photography, a full-service, family-owned photography studio, I answer the phones and handle the accounts and sit with bridezillas as they rattle off their ridiculous shot lists that often require unicorns and “A castle would be great” and also “Can you make sure it’s sunny that day, not too sunny, but like overcast with some blue sky showing?”

Sure. Let me get my Elder Wand. Please stand by.

“Just pretend the bride is a golden retriever, and you’re—ha! Golden!—oh my god, I love these drugs,” he says. “I gotta go, sis. All the details are in their event binder.”

I turn in my spinny, squeaky office chair. The near-bursting Nelson three-ring binder is on the UPCOMING EVENTS shelf, right where it’s supposed to be, waiting for my big brother Gabriel to scoop it up and work his magical magic with his cameras to bring the happy couple—the daughter and soon-to-be son-in-law of one of our dad’s oldest friends, practically Portland royalty—all the vivid, shiny memories of their Very Big Day.

“Gabe—”

Beep beep beep.

He’s hung up. Probably has to get ready for that surgery or whatever.

“Shit.”

Sherlock sits up and whines once at me.

“Yeah, I know, a dollar in the swear jar.”

He flops back down and sighs contentedly. What I would give to be Sherlock Bones right now.

I look through our list of freelance photographers. My father, Harrison Hawes, is legit famous for his years as a photojournalist and later for his editorial work of both humans and animals. Like, James Nachtwey, Annie Leibowitz, Frans Lanting famous—almost as well known for his photographic skills as he is for his wandering eye and taste for young models. He shot wars and civil unrest and global chaos, and then Something Really Terrible happened, so he opened this studio when we were kids.

My dad’s adventures made for an interesting childhood.

Gabriel inherited the artistry, so Dad paid big bucks for him to go to CalArts and study with some of the best in the field, in the hope that Gabe would take over the family business one day. Still, how anyone with spelling like Gabe’s can get a university degree …

I, however, rely on more practical sensibilities to get through life. Degree from a regular academic university (Portland State), double major in English and history, minor in photography that I only achieved through a miracle of the gods. These days, I participate in things that don’t require me to be artistic, given that most ants have more artistic ability than I do.

Okay—I recognize this as negative self-talk. The therapist I saw for four visits at my father’s insistence because he thinks I have unresolved confidence issues stemming from my mother’s abandonment—that therapist lady told me I have to challenge negative thoughts with positive ones, so here goes: I am a passing photographer who is actually quite good at photographing dogs.

Yeah. I said dogs.

Not a lot of calls for dog-wedding photographers, and certainly not often enough to pay my electric bill.

But dogs are easy. You hold up a squeaky toy, give them a chunk of hot dog or the specialty bait the dog-show people use, and they give you the world. A dog’s eyes are judgment-free, full of heart, and ridiculously eager to please.

Sherlock Bones is living proof. He brings me presents!

I’ve done some backup shooting in the studio for my dad—mostly kids’ portraits—but I get so wound up when the parents are there watching and critiquing … I actually had one dad tell me he could do my job if he had my camera, and he couldn’t understand why I was having such a hard time getting a shot of his kid.

Probably because his kid was trying to climb the backdrop and wouldn’t keep his fingers out of his crusty mouth and nose.

And weddings—oh my god, no. I manage brides week in and week out when they come in to book their wedding packages, and they are some of the scariest creatures ever to crawl out of the primordial soup. A few years ago, there was a meme about a honey badger, how they’re so badass they can even eat venomous snakes, and I told Gabe that our brides could scare that honey badger right into submission.

He agreed.

So, people, brides included, make me very nervous. They have Opinions with a Capital O. Dogs don’t. Like I said, squeaky toy, pat on the head, chunk of meat equals winning shot.

You can see why me shooting the Nelsons’ wedding is probably going to be disastrous.

Because last time I checked, the bride is NOT a golden retriever.

Speaking of, I pick up and kiss the small golden retriever figurine sitting next to my phone. My good-luck charm—one of many little statuettes from some unknown source that just appear in random places now and again. Dad swears they’re not from him.

I’m pretty sure they are. He’s a bear of a man, but he’s a good dad.

I spend the afternoon contacting our other photographers; Gabe contracts with a lot of freelancers when we have jobs he can’t shoot. Finding someone to take the Meyer-Nelson wedding for an all-expenses-paid weekend up in what is reportedly a gorgeous part of the West Coast—how hard can that be?

Hard. Like, impossibly hard.

Everyone is busy, scheduled to shoot other events from Portland to Seattle. One of our shooters is even on a plane to LA for a destination wedding. Lots of “Oh man, sorry to hear about Gabe” and “Text me when he’s out of surgery.” Polite sentiments aside, this is not helping because none of these jerks is available to shoot the Meyer-Nelson wedding.

I’m going to hyperventilate.

Sparkly lights in the corners of my eyes.

I push my chair aside and lie flat on the Pier One Imports shag rug Lainie picked out for me specially. She said the office was too bro-apartment and needed a feminine touch to bring down the free testosterone in the air. I agree. I love this rug, even if my chair snags on it.

Sherlock comes over and licks my face; his breath smells like salami. “Thank you. That helps,” I say. He nudges in beside me on the rug.

The panic attacks don’t happen very often anymore, not since university, but the therapist recommended that a calm, cool, and collected life could be the ticket to managing my anxiety.

Routine and structure. Dependability and order. Drama-free and organized.

So, I bought a day planner and canceled my therapy appointments, which leads me to now: Mondays are for movies, Tuesdays and Thursdays are for aqua-fit with my best friend Bryony, Wednesdays are bookstore nights where Bryony and I walk around and dream about the bookstore-s***h-pet-rescue we’re going to open one day, Fridays are for sushi. Weekends are the only things I freewheel, and not even that much—Saturdays mean chores and laundry, Sundays are for sleeping in and pancakes. I will babysit my dog-nephew Lazarus when he’s available (he’s a Malamute mix so he basically destroys my apartment but he’s also awesome so, yeah, worth it). Throw in the occasional weekender to the Oregon Coast or Vegas, and I’d call this a full-enough life.

The ringing phone startles Sherlock. I push myself up, lean on the desk, and read the caller ID: “Nicolette Meyer Nelson.” Oh god, she’s already changed her name?

I have to answer it.

She will keep calling until I answer it.

I can’t talk to her.

What will I say?

When I told her there were no horses available for the shoot at this Canadian resort, she yelled at me until I cried.

Oh god.

Sherlock barks once, as if yelling ANSWER THE PHONE, FRANCESCA.

“Hawes Photography, this is Frankie, how can I help you?”

“Nicolette Meyer here. I’m just calling to let Gabe know that I’ve sent a courier over with everything he needs for the weekend shoot in British Columbia. Ferry tickets, petty cash, everything we talked about. It’s in the binder—you remember,” she says, hardly breathing as she speaks, “so the courier should be there soon. We’re flying into Victoria tonight because I cannot sit in a car for six hours north and then deal with a ferry and still have a face that will photograph well. Like I need any more stress wrinkles, I swear. I hope their spa doesn’t suck.” She pauses long enough to, I think, take a drink of something. “Anyway, that’s all. Tell Gabe we’ll see him Thursday night for the rehearsal dinner, for Friday’s prewedding excursion, and then for the big day on Saturday. Between you and me, Frances, I cannot wait for this to be over.”

Francesca. Or Frankie. Not Frances.

“Oh, someone’s calling through. Probably the caterer. They think they’re going to get away with serving Atlantic salmon. Ha! Did you hear how it’s filled with sea lice? Ohhhh my god!”

As the phone clicks quiet, the front door of the studio opens, sending Sherlock into investigative mode. A young guy in a sleeveless shirt and bicycle-friendly pants with hair that probably hasn’t been washed since he was in grade school yanks his messenger bag around to his stomach.

“Hey,” he says. “Cute dog. Yours?” Oh. Wow. He’s actually kinda hot. I want to ask him if the eyebrow piercings were painful. That’s a lot of nerve endings to be stabbing through. “For Gabriel Hawes. You sign for this?”

“Sure.”

He hands over the overstuffed, rigid envelope—it’s almost as big as the binder sitting on my desk. I’m terrified to open it.

“Just sign here … and here. Gotta get two signatures ’cos there’s cash inside.”

“Right.”

He looks around while I sign. Sherlock is very interested in whatever is on the messenger’s high-top shoe.

“Nice place. You a photographer?” I hand him the form back. “I always wanted to be a photographer. I’m pretty good with my iPhone.” He pulls his phone out of a zippered pocket and goes immediately to an i********: feed. “I like to get shots of stuff I see in the city. This job lets me do it.”

His photos aren’t terrible. Then again, anyone with a decent phone camera is a photographer these days. Good thing my father isn’t here. He’d threaten to beat this kid with a tripod.

“Those are nice.”

“Yeah, they’re not for everyone. Not commercial like this place,” he says. It doesn’t sound like a compliment. “Okay, more stops to make before drum circle tonight.” He pats his bag and then Sherlock’s head. “See you later, little doggie!”

The bell on the front door jingles his departure.

I take a deep breath and use a letter opener to slice into the envelope. As promised, there are ferry tickets out of Tsawwassen for Wednesday and then Swartz Bay for Sunday, as well as shuttle tickets to and from the resort called Revelation Cove, located in the Discovery Islands, British Columbia, Canada.

“I hear they have bears in Canada, Sherlock. Don’t bears eat people?”