Through a Magnolia Filter (4 page)

She checked the flames under the chafing dish and opened the last bottle of wine.

Her one claim to photography fame was the picture of her mother. And she hadn't even told her sisters she'd won the contest. Somehow the words just wouldn't leave her mouth.

Abby and Bess were so talented. One picture was nothing compared to what her sisters had accomplished in their careers, Abby in the kitchen and Bess with her landscaping.

A honeymoon couple walked into the library, arm in arm. The newlyweds had stayed at Fitzgerald House for the last few days.

“How was your day?” Dolley asked.

“We kayaked off Tybee Island.” The bride massaged her upper arm.

“Did you get to the salt marshes?” Dolley asked.

The groom nodded. “Almost had to pull Gretchen across the bay. There was a little chop, but we got there.”

Now she remembered their names. Gretchen and Denny.

The couple headed to the wines and food. Tonight's offerings were from Germany: a Riesling, a pinot gris and pinot noir. She sampled the red. Not bad. She checked the cards Abby created for the appetizers. Then she took a plate and added pork turnovers, pretzels, warm German potato salad and barbequed kielbasa. She skipped the sauerkraut crepes.

Checking the food layout one more time, she headed to the foyer. Her heels echoed on the marble floor. She would let the guests enjoy their wine and keep an eye out for Liam, the last guest checking in tonight.

She skirted the foyer table. Her sister, Bess, had designed a tower of poinsettias shaped like a Christmas tree. The red-and-pink leaves sparkled with glitter. Another Christmas tree twinkled in the front window. They'd decorated seventeen trees in the House this year, a new record.

She took a seat at the Queen Anne secretary they used as a reception desk.

The front door opened, and she started to stand.

It was another honeymoon couple. They waved and headed toward the library.

Dolley sank back into her chair. What if Mr. Delaney didn't show? That would hurt. He'd eventually asked for a discount, but they were still going to clear a tidy profit from his stay. She'd held firm that they couldn't discount rooms during the St. Patrick's Day festivities. They had to maintain their prices during high season.

Finishing her dinner, she returned the plate to the packed library. Cheryl, a B and B employee, restocked the food. They smiled at each other. Dolley bussed a tray of dirty dishes to the kitchen.

Might as well check the reservation line messages. She put a hold on a room and returned the call, entering the credit card information. Then she pulled this year's reservation data down into a spreadsheet. For fun, she created a comparison graph with the prior year's reservations. These cool facts would be nice to show at their next sister meeting.

She pushed back a curl that kept falling in her eye. What next? Pulling out her bag, she settled behind the desk. She would work on photo cards, her creative contribution to the gift shop scheduled to open in January.

She glued pictures on a pale blue fold-over card stock, hoping the result was classy and contemporary. They would sell the cards as six-packs. Each pack included a picture of Fitzgerald House and the rooms the guests saw most: the formal dining room, library and sunroom. All photos she'd shot. The rest of the packet varied, with shots of the gardens or guest rooms. By the time she'd glued all the pictures, she'd made ten packs.

She checked her watch. Almost eight o'clock. Mr. Delaney was supposed to have been here by six. This was getting ridiculous. She'd never waited at the reception desk for a guest.

The front door opened, and there was a swoosh of nylon rubbing nylon. A lean man with dark wavy hair lugged two large suitcases across the foyer. Mr. Delaney?

“Let me help.” She grabbed a roller bag.

“Thank you.” He turned, his gaze catching hers, his eyes a brilliant blue that almost looked purple. “I'm checking in.”

Hurrying around the desk, she asked, “Liam Delaney?”

“Absolutely.” He raised a dark eyebrow. “And would you be Dolley Fitzgerald?”

“Guilty.”

“After all our conversations, it's lovely to finally meet you.” He reached out a hand, his expression way too serious.

“Oh. Thank you. You, too. Or me, too.” Flustered, she shook his hand, hanging on a little too long.

He dropped her hand and reached into his back pocket, pulling out a wallet.

Shoot, she was supposed to be checking him in. Her fingers danced over the keyboard. “How was your trip?”

She glanced up long enough to see him grimace.

“I raced through the Atlanta airport to catch my flight, then there was some broken widget on our plane, so we all trooped off.” He pushed back his black hair with long artistic fingers. “They sent us to another gate where we sat and sat. When I got to the car rental, they'd let all the cars, so I waited for one to be turned in.”

“I'm so sorry.” She had his reservation in front of her.

“I'm looking forward to sitting someplace where I can stretch my legs.”

Dolley peeked. He had a lot of leg.

Taking his credit card, she said, “We'll charge your card each week in advance.”

“That works.” He signed the slip.

Handing him a key card, she explained breakfast, tea and wine tastings. “I'm afraid you've missed tonight's wine tasting.”

“Damn.” He huffed out a breath. “I guess I could use a recommendation for a restaurant.”

“I can throw something together in the kitchen.”

Relief filled his deep blue eyes. “I'd be ever so grateful.”

“Sure.” Moving around the desk, she grabbed his bag.

“That's my cameras,” he said. “I can get it.”

“I'll be careful. You're juggling two suitcases.”

She led the way to the elevator. “There's always coffee, tea and soda in the dining room.” She pointed to the library. “Our evening wine tastings are held there. Feel free to borrow the books and movies.”

He kept glancing at his camera bag. Or was he checking her out?

She tightened her glutes.

“The house is lovely,” he said as they wedged into the elevator.

“It is.” She inhaled, catching a whiff of his scent. Nice. “We just finished the full renovations in August.”

“Your website said you were under construction.”

“That's Carleton House.” She stepped out of the elevator and stopped at the window overlooking the adjacent mansion. “We're in the process of restoring the house next door. I've booked your crew into Carleton House. It opens in February. If you prefer, we can move you there when they arrive.”

“I'll think on it.” He stopped in front of his room. “This it?”

“Yes. You're in the Martha Jefferson room.” Instead of setting the bag down, she handed the strap to him so he wouldn't worry. “If you use the front stairs and head down the hallway by the reception desk, you'll find a swinging door. That's the kitchen.”

He touched her shoulder. His scent wrapped around her. Mint, apples, lemons. Not a fragrance she would associate with a man—but he made it work. She leaned in and took another sniff. Delicious.

His gaze caught hers. “I appreciate the help with my bags. It was a long day.”

She stepped back. Her objective was to learn more about photography, not drool over him or his cologne. She headed to the back stairs. “Let me see what food I can scrounge up.”

She would ply him with food and if there was an opportunity—questions. Find out if she could use her photography for more than selling cards.

* * *

L
IAM
ROLLED
HIS
suitcases next to the bedroom door, settling the camera bag on the bed. It was foolish, but he unzipped the bag. The Hasselblad, Rolleiflex, his Canon, Nikon and all his lenses and filters looked undamaged. Barbara had come through with a portable, and it was fine.

Dolley had been careful. And watching the bag had given him the opportunity to admire a really lovely bum.

He stretched, working a kink out of his lower back. Ms. Dolley Fitzgerald was more interesting in person than in her website photograph. She had...energy. A camera couldn't capture her gleaming green eyes or the life in that mass of red curls.

He unpacked a few things, plugged in his phone to recharge and set the stack of releases on the desk with his computer.

His stomach rumbled. He pocketed his key card and headed downstairs.

The curved railing was silky smooth under his palm. What a difference between the uncared-for Kilkee manor house and this well-preserved Savannah mansion.

He would get something to eat, take the lay of the land with the first Fitzgerald sister and then fall into bed.

Tomorrow he planned to wander Savannah, get a sense of the city and the historic district. He loved exploring and listening to the natives. It didn't matter that this wasn't an aboriginal community in Australia or a small tribe forced out of their hunting grounds in Africa.

Skirting a tower of poinsettias, he found the right hallway and pushed on the swinging door.

Dolley stood in front of a stainless steel counter, containers covering the surface. The worktops, grills and a wall of fridges made this look like a restaurant. But in the back was a small sitting area with a glowing fire and a Christmas tree.

“You found me.” Dolley pointed to the back area. “Grab a chair by the fire. I'll bring everything over.”

He snatched a chunk of cheese as he passed by the counter. “Thanks ever so much.”

“What would you like to drink? Beer, wine, soda? We have Jameson if you'd prefer.”

He sank into an armchair. “A Jameson, neat, would be appreciated.”

She dropped off a tray of cheese, sausage, crackers and fruit. “I'll grab your drink.”

She pushed through the swinging door. Her short black dress flirted with her tidy bottom. Nice.

He piled a cracker with cheese and meat and took a bite. Followed up with some cool green grapes. He kept going as if he hadn't eaten in days.

Ever since Seamus's funeral, his appetite had been—off. His meals had been haphazard at best. He'd do better. He'd comply with the schedule Dolley had rattled off. She'd said the hours were in the pamphlet she'd handed him. He'd make sure he didn't miss meals like he'd been doing in Ireland.

“Sorry it took so long. Jameson is in the library.” Dolley pushed through the doorway. “It's always there for guests, FYI.”

The room brightened. Why? He turned his photographic instincts to the question. Dolley? It wasn't just her hair, it was her—her smile—her sparkle. Being in Kilkee had drained him. Maybe in Savannah he could absorb some of her vitality.

“This is great.” He waved his hand over the half-decimated spread of food.

“I could make you a sandwich,” she offered.

He took the tumbler from her hand and their fingers bumped. Awareness surged through him. “This will hit the spot.”

“Would you like company?” she asked.

“Please.”

She took the armchair across from him, curling her feet underneath her trim bottom. She tipped her wineglass. “Welcome to Savannah.
Sláinte.
”

Her pronunciation was spot-on.
“Sláinte.”

They both stared into the fire. He popped grapes in his mouth, enjoying the silence, so different from the cacophony of airports and planes.

“Did you fly straight from Ireland today?”

He shook his head. “I was in New York for a week. Meetings.”

“My sister, our chef, trained in New York.” Her smile dimmed. “I visited when I was seventeen. Not sure I could live there. I enjoy fresh air too much. But the city—everything moved and breathed. It was alive.”

Weird that she mentioned the one thing that bothered him about the city—the smell. “I can never get the stench of petrol out of my nose. I hate the crowds.”

“I love crowds.” Her grin made her green eyes twinkle. “Savannah smells like life to me. Green and growing. And when you get closer to Tybee, the ocean.” Her shoulders lifted and dropped. “I love it here, but I'd like to see...the world.”

The world?
Been there. Done that. “Tybee sounds like Kilkee, but warmer.”

“Kilkee? Is that where you live in Ireland?”

“Only for part of my childhood. Before that I lived in county Kerry.”

“It sounds so—glamorous.”

He shook his head. “It's a small coastal village.”

“I checked out your website.” She leaned forward. “It's amazing. I love your Irish landscapes—well, all your landscapes. But the Irish ones made me feel like I was walking a path home to a cottage. Or I'd just stepped into a pub and someone built me a Guinness.”

Her compliment sounded genuine. “Have you been, then?”

“To Ireland? No. Closest I've come is Kevin Barry's pub here in Savannah.” She laughed. “Sad when we're Irish-Americans, isn't it?”

“No.” He popped one last cracker in his mouth. “You take the photos for the website, right?”

She nodded, chewing on her lower lip.

“You've an excellent hand with the camera.” He tried not to stare at her mouth. He was supposed to be scoping out the territory. But the sight of her lower lip, now wet and slightly pink from her teeth, was...entrancing.

“Me?” Her eyes widened. Her fair skin turned a beautiful peach color with her blush.

“Your photographs are well composed. You use light like an artist.”

“Coming from you, I'm awestruck.” Her hand pressed against her chest. A rather lovely chest, at that.

He forced his gaze up to her face. “Did you study under someone?”

“I took classes in college, but nothing serious.” She shook her head, and her curls danced. “Nothing like what you must have done.”

“I never went to university.”