Through a Magnolia Filter (6 page)

* * *

“T
HE
D
UNES
'
WEBSITE
just went live.” Dolley leaned against Jackson's doorway.

He glanced up from his array of screens. “When was it due?”

“Next week.”

He smiled. “Wonderful.”

“Hold that thought.” She moved into his office and settled into a guest chair.

“What's up?”

She cleared her throat. “I need to cut my hours a little earlier than I thought.”

“You and your sisters having problems at the B and B?”

“No.” She took a deep breath. “I have an opportunity to apprentice with a world-class photographer.”

“And that affects your work—how?”

She swallowed. “I need to cut back to ten to fifteen hours a week.”

If Liam took her on, she'd end up working long hours for a while. Somehow she would juggle her job, working with Liam and the B and B. Her stomach churned. Who needed sleep?

“Ten hours?” Jackson was shaking his head. “You're my best designer. People ask for you.”

“They do?” He'd never told her that.

“Yeah, they do. What's with the photography bug anyway?”

“I...I like taking pictures.”

“Then you can take more shots like you did for—” he snapped his fingers “—that...that pub last fall.”

“I want more than having my pictures on other people's websites.” She was tired of fading into the background just like in her family.

Jackson shoved his fingers through his short curly hair.
Bad sign.
“I've given you a lot of leeway.”

She nodded, a chill running down her back.

He aimed his dark brown gaze at her. “When you wanted to flex your hours, I didn't complain.”

Her hands clasped together in her lap. “I hope you know I appreciate that.”

He waved her statement away. “You have more latitude than any other designer.”

Was there a
but
in his tone?

“I don't know if I can let you drop below thirty hours a week. I definitely can't grant any benefits at the levels you're talking about.”

“What are you saying?” her voice squeaked.

“You'll have to become an independent contractor.” He froze her with his stare. “No benefits. And you'd bid each project.”

Bid. Not get a salary. Not even get an hourly wage. If she had problems with a site, she could end up working for pennies. She'd assumed she would be paid hourly from now on.

If Liam didn't take her on, she'd just burned a major bridge. She wouldn't have steady income. She wouldn't have money being set aside for her retirement. She'd have to go on the B and B's health plan. Sweat trickled down her back.

She let out a shaky breath. “When do you want me to start bidding?”

* * *

L
IAM
GLANCED
AT
his watch. The day was crawling. He had another half hour before he saw Dolley again.

She'd accepted his offer, even though he hadn't committed to mentoring her. He wasn't sure he wanted to take on the responsibility that came with an apprenticeship. Bonds formed if he worked that close with someone. Kieran, his only apprentice, had betrayed their friendship.

Would Dolley be as ambitious as Kieran? He didn't have to decide right away, but he couldn't keep her dangling, either.

He slipped the Savannah history book back on the shelf of the Fitzgerald House library. He hadn't found anything new in it. Then he checked the grandfather clock in the hall to make sure his watch was correct. 1:10 p.m.

This was odd. He'd never been bored on a project. And he wasn't bored. He just wanted to see Dolley and soak up some of her sparkling energy.

Guilt had him rolling his shoulders. He'd agreed to work with her because he was toying with the idea of using the Fitzgeralds as the core of his film. The documentary could highlight the difference between James's journey to America and the poor Irishmen who built canals and railroads and oversaw plantations.

James's letters might be the carrot to get what he wanted—an exposé on the difference between the Fitzgeralds' ancestors and the countrymen who fled Ireland during the potato famine. The age-old conflict of rich versus poor. Haves versus have-nots.

Hopefully, spending time with Dolley would determine the perfect approach to integrate their family into his film. He didn't want the sisters tossing him out on his arse.

The clock read 1:15 p.m. He headed to the dining room to grab one last cup of coffee.

“Hi, Liam.” The newlyweds he'd met at last night's wine tasting were pouring mugs of coffee.

“Hey, Becca, Hale. Did you have a good time at the fort?”

“We did. Now Becca wants to shop.” Hale rolled his eyes, but was grinning.

“Oh, stop.” She added cream and sugar to a mug and handed it to her husband.

The couple shared an intimate smile that had Liam shifting on his feet.

“Thanks.” Hale touched Becca's cheek as he took the mug.

What was it like to have someone know how you took your coffee?

“See you at the wine tasting tonight?” Hale asked, taking his bride's hand and heading out the door.

“I'll be there.”

Maybe coming to a B and B that catered to newlyweds was not the place for him. Why have what was missing from his life shoved in his face every day?

Quick footsteps echoed out in the foyer. Dolley entered the room and filled it with light.

“Hi.” She took a mug, poured coffee and took a deep drink. Her eyes closed. “I needed that.”

“Tough morning?” he asked.

“Just issues I have to work through.” She smiled, but it wasn't the joy-filled smile he'd seen before.

“Anything you want to talk about?” His knowledge on website design could fit in a teacup, but he could listen.

“No.” She sipped her coffee and hummed.

He couldn't tear his gaze away from her face. He'd never watched someone who was that into the moment. Her peach-colored lips wrapped around the edge of the cup. Her pale throat moved up and down as she swallowed.

If he took her picture, would it translate onto film?

Her green eyes blinked open. “Where would you like to start?”

He shook his head. What she was talking on about?

One corner of her mouth turned up. “Where do you want to go this afternoon?”

“Oh.” He finished his coffee, dredging up his plan. “I'd like to check out cemeteries.”

“Good.” She shifted her bag higher on her shoulder. “Which one?”

“The one with all the statues.”

“Bonaventure. I love going out there.”

“And the Catholic Cemetery.” He set his empty mug on the tray set up for dirty dishes.

“Here's a little-known fact.” She raised an eyebrow. “The colony of Georgia forbade the practice of Catholicism.”

“Really?”

“It didn't change until after the Revolutionary War.” Her smile was coming back.

“Fascinating.” Having Dolley around was going to help focus his research.

“We can't do both cemeteries justice in an afternoon.” She set her mug next to his. “You'll need to choose—statues or Irish?”

“Statues.”

“Grab your cameras. I can't go there without taking tons of pictures.”

He pointed to his camera bag. “Ready.”

“Okay, then.” Dolley led him to a small Volkswagen.

“I pushed the passenger seat back as far as it could go.” Dolley glanced over at him. “You have a lot of leg.”

He tucked himself into her car. “Next time we take my rental.”

“What are you driving?”

“Audi sedan.”

Her grin was full and happy. “Will you let me drive?”

He shook his head. “I don't think I can.”

“Drat.” She drove with one hand on the wheel and the other on the stick shift. “We'll circle a lot of the squares. This is Columbia Square. That's Wormsloe Fountain. It came from the Wormsloe plantation, which was down on the Isle of Hope. It was owned by—” she tapped her nose “—Noble Jones. In the mid-1700s.”

She continued to give him background as they passed through the historic district.

“How do you remember it all?” he asked. “I wouldn't be this good a guide if you came to Ireland.”

“Oh, I wish I could see Ireland.” Her fingers drummed on the stick shift. “I do the historical write-ups for the B and B's blog.”

“I'm impressed.”

As Dolley drove, she spouted off information like she was a fountain. She intrigued him. Easy on the eyes, and she smiled—all the time.

He wanted what she had. She and her sisters worked together. Their family owned a mansion their ancestors had built. He wanted to be part of something that—deep. Have roots sunk into bedrock, so no one could yank them free.

What would his life have been like if his parents had survived their car accident? Would he have smiled more? Been happier?

He would never know. He'd been torn away from everything and everyone he loved and forced to live with Seamus.

“Liam?” Dolley jostled his elbow. “Where'd you go? You're frowning.”

“Sorry.” He forced himself back to the car. “I hope I didn't miss anything.”

“Maybe I should tape my tour guide talks.”

“Would you?”

She shook her head. “I was kidding.”

“I'm serious.” He turned toward her, their knees bumping. “Do you know much of how your ancestors got here?”

“Us? Our immigration was generations back. I don't even know how many.” She shook her head. “Well, I do. My four-time great grandfather James Fitzgerald left Ireland in 1830. Came with some money and invested it in warehouses and shipping. Eventually, he was a part owner in the bank.”

“Facts just roll off your tongue. You're some kind of walking computer, right?”

Her jaw clenched. “Something like that.”

They left the historic district. Squares no longer appeared every few blocks, but Spanish moss still swung from the massive oak trees, sheltering the streets. She pulled under a stone archway and into a small parking lot.

“We'll walk from here.” She pulled her bag crossways across her chest. The strap molded her sweater to her breasts.

He shouldn't admire the effect. She was essentially an employee.

He unfolded his legs. Grabbing his bag, he waved. “Lead the way.”

They walked between two weathered rock posts. Roads angled away from a building labeled Information. Avenues of oaks dressed with moss shaded the drives.

The cemetery stretched far as he could see. What a difference from the small graveyard set on a Kilkee hill where he'd buried his godfather.

He should find Michael FitzGerald's grave in Ireland and see if he could find James Fitzgerald's grave here in Savannah. He could use the two graves in the documentary.

Dolley led him deep into the cemetery.

Small stone borders, wrought iron fences or rounded tiles separated most of the family plots. There were headstones and markers. Some monuments had piles of stones on the memorials.

“Do they still bury people here?” His voice lowered in respect.

She nodded.

Their tree-lined road narrowed, changing to dirt, shells and sand. Birds serenaded them from the trees. In every direction, statues of angels, people and obelisks had blackened with soot or lichens. Some plots had signs that said
Do Not Maintain.
In those sections, headstones were tipped and weeds were knee-deep
.
Others were trimmed and looked like good spots for a garden party with their conveniently placed stone benches.

“When my great-grandmamma was young, they would picnic here. It was a social event.”

“They'd eat lunch in a cemetery?” On second thought, it sounded morbid.

“Over on the banks of the river.” Her smile crinkled her eyes. “We like eccentricities in Savannah.”

At a crossroads, signs pointed to different graves. Dolley stopped in front of a black iron picket fence. “This is Little Gracie Watson, probably the most photographed statue of Bonaventure.”

He knelt to peer through the pickets. The statue of the little girl was beautiful. Gracie sat wearing a dress that looked as if it would ruffle in the breeze. Her hair curled around her shoulders, and her eyes were magnetic.

“She was six when she died from pneumonia. A beloved fixture at Pulaski House Hotel, near Johnson Square.” Dolley's smile was pensive. “The statue was made from a photograph.”

“It's lovely.” The little girl's face was sweet.

“There are rumors her ghost haunted the last people to live on the cemetery property. Of course that story could be made up for visitors.” Her smile was just this side of cheeky. In a deep voice she said, “They say her statue stays warm at night, as though it's alive.”

Liam had a healthy respect for the spirits. “So you've been here at night?”

“Kids in high school would sneak over the fences.”

“Did you?”

“I was pretty studious, and we all needed to help Mamma with the B and B.” She shook her head. “I wish we could get inside the fence, but with so many people visiting her grave, they needed to protect Gracie.”

She pulled out her camera, squatting next to him. Her shutter clicked several times.

“Let me see,” he said.

She handed him a good quality Nikon. Her photos were nicely composed, clear.

“What emotion were you trying to evoke?” he asked.

She winced. “I wasn't thinking about emotions.”

He tapped her nose, and she blinked. “Always think about what you want a viewer to feel. Even when shooting pictures of inanimate objects.”

“No one ever said that in any of my classes.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Do you see that branch?”