Brown-Eyed Girl (Travis Family #4)(13)

“I’m supposed to be running things,” I said. “I have to stay vigilant. Anything could happen. Someone could have a heart attack. The tent could catch on fire.”

After taking two glasses of champagne from the waiter, Joe handed one to me and retained the other. “Even General Patton took a break sometimes,” he said. “Relax, Avery.”

“I’ll try.” I held the crystal flute by the stem, its contents shimmering with tiny bubbles.

“To your beautiful brown eyes,” he said, lifting his glass

I flushed. “Thank you.” We clinked glasses and drank. The champagne was dry and delicious, the chilled fizz like starlight on my tongue.

My view of the dance floor was obstructed by orchestra instruments, speakers, and ornamental trees. However, I thought I caught sight of Hollis Warner’s distinctive white-blond bob in the milling crowd.

“Do you happen to know Hollis Warner?” I asked.

Joe nodded. “She’s a friend of the family. And last year I took pictures of her house for a magazine feature. Why?”

“I just met her. She was interested in discussing ideas for her daughter’s wedding.”

He gave me an alert glance. “Who’s Bethany engaged to?”

“I have no idea.”

“Bethany’s been going out with my cousin Ryan. But last time I saw him, he was planning to break up with her.”

“Maybe his feelings went deeper than he thought.”

“From what Ryan said, that doesn’t seem likely.”

“If I wanted to land Hollis as a client, what advice would you give me?”

“Wear garlic.” He smiled at my expression. “But if you handle her right, she’d be a good client. What Hollis would spend on a wedding could probably buy Ecuador.” He looked at my champagne glass. “Would you like another?”

“No, thanks.”

He drained his own glass, took mine, and went to set them on a nearby busing tray.

“Why don’t you do weddings?” I asked when he returned.

“It’s the hardest job in photography, except for maybe working in a war zone.” He smiled wryly. “When I was starting out, I managed to land a position as a staff photographer for a West Texas quarterly. Modern Cattleman. It’s not easy trying to get an ornery bull to pose for a picture. But I’d still rather shoot livestock than weddings.”

I laughed. “When did you first take up photography?”

“I was ten. My mom sneaked me off to a class every Saturday, and told my dad I was working out to get ready for Pop Warner football.”

“He didn’t approve of photography?”

Joe shook his head. “He had definite ideas about how his sons should spend their time. Football, 4-H, working outside, all that was fine. But art, music… that was taking it too far. And he thought of photography as a hobby, but nothing a man should try to make a career of.”

“But you proved him wrong,” I said.

His smile turned rueful. “It took a while. There were a couple of years we weren’t exactly on speaking terms.” He paused. “Later it worked out that I had to stay with Dad for a couple of months. That was when we finally made our peace with each other.”

“When you stayed with him, was it…” I hesitated.

His head bent over mine. “Go on.”

“Was it because of the boat accident?” Seeing his quizzical smile, I said uncomfortably, “My sister looked you up on the Internet.”

“Yeah, it was after that. When I got out of the hospital, I had to stay with someone while I healed up. Dad was living by himself in River Oaks, so it made the most sense for me to go there.”

“Is it hard for you to talk about the accident?”

“Not at all.”

“Can I ask how it happened?”

“I was fishing with my brother Jack in the Gulf. We were heading back to the marina at Galveston, stopped near a seaweed mat, and managed to hook a dorado. While my brother was reeling it in, I started the engine so we could follow the fish. Next thing I knew, I was in the water and there was fire and debris everywhere.”

“My God. What caused the explosion?”

“We’re pretty sure the bilge blower malfunctioned, and fumes built up near the engine.”

“That’s awful,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah. That dorado was a five footer at least.” He paused, his gaze flickering to my mouth as I smiled.

“What kind of injuries —” I broke off. “Never mind, it’s not my business.”

“Blast lung, it’s called. When the shock waves from an explosion bruise the chest and lungs. For a while I couldn’t work up enough air to fill a party balloon.”

“You look pretty healthy now,” I said.

“One hundred percent.” A wicked glint entered his eyes as he observed my reaction. “Now that you’re all sympathetic… come dance with me.”

I shook my head. “I’m not that sympathetic.” With an apologetic smile, I explained, “I never dance at an event I’ve planned. It’s sort of like a waitress seating herself at a table she’s supposed to be serving.”

“I had two operations for internal bleeding while I was in the hospital,” Joe informed me gravely. “For almost a week, I couldn’t eat or talk because of the ventilator tube.” He gave me a hopeful glance. “Now do you feel sorry enough to dance with me?”