Through a Magnolia Filter (13 page)

“I know where the old journals are.” She moved into the kitchen and took a set of keys off a rack next to the telephone. “I don't know how far back they go.”

Liam stood. To Abby he said, “Why don't you give me possible interview dates? I'd like a two-hour block of time.”

“Will do.” Abby moved to a pad of paper on the counter and added a note.

Dolley waited for him in the hallway, her hands on her hips. “Don't think this changes anything between us.”

“This is business. That's what you wanted, right?”

He
wanted her thinking about him. About their kiss. “Thanks for the rental agreement. I've sent it on to my producer.”

“Oh. Good.” She blinked, long eyelashes covering her confused stare.

“Lay on, MacDuff.” The phrase seemed appropriate. He waved his arm so she would lead. They were heading into a battle of wills. “I'd like to see these journals.”

* * *

D
OLLEY
TOOK
THE
back stairs, not bothering to see if Liam followed. He was. His scent and footsteps filled the narrow stairway.

What game was he playing now?

She rubbed her temples. He was making her crazy. Her vow of
business only
sounded childish and stubborn.

They moved down the third floor hallway to a recessed door.

“I didn't know there was a fourth floor,” he said.

“It's not for guests.” She unlocked the door and entered the narrow stairway. His scent grew fainter, making her want to turn around and take a sniff. Stupid.

She took the last steps in a rush. Flipping on the naked lights hanging from the ceiling, she moved into the room.

The narrow attic was tall enough for her to stand, but Liam had to duck. Maybe he would hit his head and knock some sense in his hard noggin.

“Shouldn't it be musty and dark up here, with cobwebs?” Liam asked.

“In Fitzgerald House? Cobwebs are not allowed. Marion sends someone up here once a month.”

Old paintings leaned against the wall. Lamps filled a corner next to the chimney stacks. They might be able to use some of the bits and pieces they'd stored here for Carleton House. And there were trunks. Lots and lots of trunks. Steamers in different shapes and sizes had flat or domed lids. Some locked with ornate iron latches. They were made of wood and leather. Her favorites were the trunks with drawers and hidden compartments.

She opened the first trunk. Clothes. Kept opening and closing until she found one filled with Mylar bags.

She started to tug it to the center of the room.

Liam touched her back. “Let me.”

Before she could protest, he picked it up and pulled it to the center. His head rapped against the ceiling. “Damn.”

She winced. She really hadn't wanted him to hurt himself.

Kneeling, she opened the lid. When cleaning out the third floor, they'd tried to stop the papers and photos from deteriorating by placing everything in Mylar bags. She'd always meant to discover what secrets the past contained.

Liam's knees popped as he knelt next to her. “This is amazing.”

“You might like to look at these.” She opened a bag with all the Savannah maps they'd found. Some were still in frames. “We should be wearing gloves, so please handle them by the edges.”

“Wonderful!” Liam gently picked up the plot of the city. “It's dated 1850. Look, another dated 1862. Any chance I could take pictures of these? They're better than what I found in the historical society.”

“Sure.”

She should have remembered there were things here Liam could use. Instead, she'd worried about her attraction to him.

Her shoulders slumped. She wasn't nice. He was here to do a job. Not everything was about her and her needs.

Digging through the trunk, she found a shape that felt like a journal. Maybe they should have taken the journals to the historical society, but this was their heritage. “This should be one.”

He sat, his long legs stretched out next to her. Picking up a bag, he asked, “May I open it?”

“Don't touch the paper.” She looked into his eyes.

And got lost.

She swallowed. His stare dipped to her throat.

“May I?”

What was he asking? Could he kiss her? She'd already explained why that was a terrible idea.

He held up the bag.

She blinked. God, he was asking whether he could open the book bag.

“Of course.” Her voice was as rusty as the light fixtures they'd cleaned for Carleton House.

She shifted, pulling away from the vortex that tugged her close to his lean, wonderful body. Peering into the trunk, she pulled out more bags. She'd always planned to go through the journals, but they'd been busy finishing Fitzgerald House and beginning work on Carleton House. They'd stuffed everything in bags and forgotten them.

By the time she'd emptied the trunk, ten journals, two bags of letters and a pile of household and business ledgers sat between them on the floor.

“May I get the portable?” he asked.

“Portable?”

“Video camera.” Excitement glowed in his eyes.

He glanced at her, and their connection clicked in place like finding the last piece of the jigsaw puzzle. She was afraid to breathe, afraid to move because it might be toward him and not away.

She forced herself to look away. “Portable. Of course.”

His footsteps echoed on the stairs.

She leaned back, drawing in a full breath. Pathetic.

She checked the other trunks, not sure if someone had stored papers elsewhere.

Bingo. Here were books that looked like diaries. She placed them with the growing pile of documents.

Footsteps echoed on the stairs again, a little slower this time. He reappeared at the top of the steps, and the room shrank. How did his personality fill a space? He was usually quiet, watching, listening. Why was she so aware of every nuance of his expression?

Right now his face glowed. He stopped next to her. “Even if nothing ties into my research, I appreciate you letting me look at the material.”

“I should have thought of the journals earlier.” She stared at her feet.

He touched her chin, compelling her to look up. He was smiling, a rare gift to the world and to her. “The timing is grand.”

He pulled his hand away.

She longed for his touch. How messed up was that?

“I'm thankful you remembered,” he said.

She gazed into the depths of his blue eyes.

His smile faded. Something flickered in his eyes, and they darkened.

She didn't know how long they stared at each other. She wanted him to close the distance. Wanted his artist's fingers on her face and in her hair. Wanted his lips, so firm yet soft on her mouth.

“Thanks.” He pulled away, bending to dig in the camera bag.

Her breath whooshed out. Disappointment weighed down her shoulders. He was doing exactly what she wanted—so why did it hurt?

“What can I do to help?” she asked. “Hold something for you?”

He attached a battery and checked settings. “Could you sit behind the trunk?”

“You don't want me in the shot?” she asked, appalled.

“Of course I do.” He fumbled with switches.

“Umm, sure.” She ran a hand through her tangled hair. Then she crouched next to the open trunk.

He peered through the viewfinder. “How long do you think the papers have been up here?”

He adjusted settings on the camera.

“James Michael Fitzgerald arrived in Savannah in the summer of 1830. He built Fitzgerald House in 1837. There was water damage in the 1950s, and there might have been a fire at some point, but when we stored the papers, a lot of the material was still intact.”

“What do you know about James's relatives in Ireland?”

“Not much. He was the second son. I think they owned quarries.”

He shouldered the camera. “I wonder if they ever came to visit.”

She waved her hands at the bags scattered on the floor. “I guess when we go through the books and papers, we might discover whether they did. When we packed these up, we probably should have had everything filmed by the historical society.”

“And why didn't you?” He walked around the room. He must have been looking at how to frame the shot. He was such a perfectionist.

“I guess we were being selfish.” She shrugged. “We didn't want to give it away because it's ours.”

He hit more buttons and pulled the camera off his shoulder.

“Not enough light?” she asked.

“Lighting's lovely.”

“So you decided it wasn't a good shot?”

“The shot was great.” He grinned. “Thanks.”

She scrambled to her feet. “You didn't give me any warning.”

“I didn't want you to tense up.” He pointed to her shoulders. “Like you're doing now.”

“I...” She
was
tensing up. She hated public speaking. Her back felt like there were rocks instead of muscles there. “Well.”

He waved a hand at the papers. “What do you think is the best way to go through the material?”

They kicked around ideas and finally decided the attic was a good place to work. “I'll get Nigel to bring up tables and chairs. We'll need gloves.”

“You'll help me?” he said.

He'd muttered the words so softly she had to lean in.

“I thought I was your research assistant.” She tried to infuse her voice with lighthearted banter. But it just came out breathy.

“I wasn't sure you still wanted to work with me,” he said.

She touched his arm. “That's what I don't want messed up.”

He covered her hand with his. “Did someone hurt you?”

Oh, no. Not going to happen. She was not telling him how guys used her and tossed her away. “Too many to mention.”

“They were fools.” His lilt did funny things in her chest.

“Yes, they were.” She slipped her hand out from under his.

This conversation was not about business.

Standing, she escaped his irresistible pull. It didn't matter that each day it got harder to ignore her fascination with Liam. She had too much at stake to give into a momentary attraction.

It was up to her to stay in control.

CHAPTER NINE

Your photography is a record of your living, for anyone who really sees.

Paul Strand

D
OLLEY
TUGGED
HER
coat tighter. “I thought the forecast called for warmer weather?”

“Warm on January 10 is still frigid.” Bess rubbed Dolley's shoulder as they headed to Carleton House for a final walk-through.

Dolley chewed her lip. Tonight, she would ask her sisters about moving into the Fitzgerald carriage house. She'd chickened out last night when they'd all been together.

“How's the attic research going?” Abby asked.

“Good. Great.” Dolley's hand tapped a staccato beat on her jeans. “We work a couple of hours most nights. We're getting things organized into decades first.”

“I thought you were his photography apprentice?” Bess asked.

“I am, but I'm also his research assistant.” She stuck her hand in her pocket. “He rented time in SCAD's developing rooms. Tonight, I'll be a photographer. I haven't done darkroom work since college.”

“It's probably like riding a bike.” Bess swiped a card against the reader and opened the kitchen door. “I can't wait for y'all to see how Carleton house looks.”

At night, no workers pounded or painted. The silence was—weird. “I should run back and get my camera. I need to update the blog.”

“No.” Bess grabbed her arm. “There's only a few things we need to finalize. You can come back later.”

The official Carleton House opening was three weeks away. The cleaning crew had worked for the last week chasing construction dust.

As they headed to the front of the house, Dolley knelt and ran a hand against the heart of the pine floors. “I haven't seen the floors since they pulled up the protective paper. They're beautiful.”

Bess nodded but shooed them upstairs.

Everything gleamed.

Bess led them into one of the bedrooms.

“Oh, my.” Dolley swallowed. The room was pink. Hot pink. “Is this the color we picked?”

Abby shook her head. “No way.”

“Bad, isn't it?” Bess asked.

“It's awful.” Dolley shook her head so hard her curls whipped her eyes.

“Unless we want a Pepto-Bismol room.” Abby grimaced. “Should we advertise it?”

“I have got to capture this.” Dolley pulled out her phone and took pictures. It was so pink, her stomach twisted.

“We can call it the Pretty, Pretty Princess room.” Bess touched the wall.

“And fill it with toys.” Dolley grinned. “Maybe a play castle.”

“It reminds me of Dr. Seuss,” Abby said. “I'm afraid the Whos will come running out.”

They laughed. Dolley snapped a picture of Abby and Bess bent over, the hideous wall behind them. These pictures were definitely going on the website.

“We could advertise this as the most atrocious room in the inn,” Dolley said.

“Guaranteed to keep our guests awake,” Abby added.

“Or give them nightmares,” Dolley said.

“Daniel already knows this is wrong.” Bess waved them into the hallway. “Come check the others.”

“Did you tell him in bed?” Abby elbowed her.

“Maybe.” Bess winked.

Her sisters shared a knowing look. What was next, a secret handshake for engaged women?

Dolley hung back as her sisters walked down the hall. She sighed, but it didn't release the ache in her chest. Being odd woman out of the Fitzgerald sisters sucked.

They double-checked the paint colors in the other rooms.

“The rest are fine,” Dolley said. “When do we move in furniture?”

Bess checked her phone. “The twentieth.”

“We have guests booked through end of March,” Dolley said.

“It helps to have Liam and his crew here.” Abby looked out the French doors to the balcony. “The wrought iron looks like it has been here forever.”

When Liam's crew arrived, he would move out of the main house. Maybe then she wouldn't wander through Fitzgerald hoping to run into him.

She kept waiting for him to kiss her again.

Abby looked at her and frowned. “You're flushed. Are you getting sick?”

“No.” She redirected her sisters' attention from her to the room. “We haven't bought tables for the balconies.”

“If we move chairs up from the courtyard, we can wait a month or two,” Bess suggested.

Abby nodded.

Dolley and Abby added to Bess's punch list, but Carleton House looked ready to take on guests.

They were pulling on their coats before Dolley got the courage to say, “My lease is up the middle of next month.”

“They aren't turning your place into condos, are they?” Bess asked.

“No.” She buttoned her jacket, not wanting to look in her sisters' eyes. It was embarrassing to ask to move home when she'd been on her own for years. “Since I'm only bidding projects for Jackson, what Liam's paying me just isn't enough to cover the gap. I'm wondering...can I crash in the carriage house for a few months?” The words rushed out. “It would just be while I'm working with Liam. Maybe for February and March. And April, too.”

Abby and Bess stepped in front of her. She looked into their faces, fearing she'd see disappointment.

“Of course you'll use the carriage house.” Abby grabbed her hand. “I love the idea.”

“The apartment's clean.” Bess nodded. “And Daniel and I will help you move.”

“Can you be packed by move-in day, the twentieth?” Abby asked.

“I figured I'd move next month.” Dolley shoved back a curl.

“We've got the opening, my wedding and then St Patrick's Day.” Abby took in a deep breath. “It would be better to move everything on the same day.”

“I guess.” Dolley rubbed her forehead. She might not sleep between then and now, but she could make it happen.

Abby wrapped an arm around her. “It's perfect timing. With you living in the carriage house, you'll be right next to all the action. I can work you like a dog.”

“There's something to look forward to.” But now that she'd asked, she liked the idea of being back at Fitzgerald House. “I'll start packing.”

* * *

A
KNOCK
ECHOED
through the darkroom. Liam hung the last picture before opening the door. “Hallo.”

“Hi.” Dolley peered in. “I'm not ruining anything by letting light in, am I?”

“No.” He held the door open, forcing her to brush next to him. Her warm scent tickled his nose.

Working in the darkroom would accomplish two things, developing Dolley's skills and putting her in close proximity.

But being in a small space with her might be frustrating—at least for him. Less than a week into his campaign to have
her
kiss
him
and his frustration level was spiking out of control.

She took a deep breath but wrinkled her nose. “I haven't been here in...years.”

“Don't like the smell?” For him, it was like coming home.

“It reminds me of metal cleaner.” Dolley shed her coat, hanging it on top of his. She walked over to the drying pictures. “What are you working on?”

“Bonaventure shots.”

She moved around the ones he'd already developed. “I don't remember taking you to this statue.”

“I've returned a couple of times.” Every few days, the cemetery drew him back.

“What would you like me to do?” she asked.

“Would you take a test strip of the picture in the enlarger?”

“Sure, but it's been a while.” She looked over the setup. “Is this the filter you want me to use?”

“Yes.” He set a timer and stepped back to watch her. “Let's try five second increments.”

Her actions were precise as she waited for the bing of the timer. Then she moved the cardboard down so there were five different exposure times. “Done.”

“Go ahead and develop it.” He moved away from the water baths.

“This is the part I liked.” She slipped the blank paper into the developer bath. “What solution ratio are you using?”

They talked about the pros and cons of different chemicals.

“You did your homework before coming here,” he said.

“Of course.” Her smile flashed in the low red light. “I would hate to fail any pop quiz you throw at me.”

“Now I'm going to have to come up with one.” He peered over her shoulder as the picture began to form. “This is where the magic happens.”

“Oh, it's Corrine.” She moved the picture to the next bath and then the next. “How many times have you been back to Bonaventure?”

“Four or five.” He was researching a project out there, but he would tell her about it later.

“I didn't know.”

After running the picture through the final water bath, they stared at the finished product.

“Were you going for regret?” she asked.

“You nailed it.” They were so in sync, why wouldn't Dolley want to take their...connection to the next level?

“What's your recommendation?” He knew the exposure he wanted to try.

She leaned over the counter. “You want the most contrast, right?”

“Yes.” He set his hand on the counter, not hemming her in, but invading her space a little.

Tapping the picture, she sidestepped away from him. “Somewhere between fifteen and twenty seconds.”

“Why?”

“At fifteen seconds, we're able to see the details of her face—see the shadow here?” She pointed to an area behind the statue. “But at twenty seconds, we lose those shadows.”

“Good. We need to burn in this area.” This time he got close because he needed to demonstrate where the burn should occur.

“I was never good at dodging and burning.” She looked over her shoulder at him. Her lips almost brushed his chin.

They both froze. Her eyes dilated. Was that the lighting or desire?

Dolley's breath whispered across his face.
Just a few more centimeters to heaven.

He drank in her scent, her expressive face. Waiting. For Dolley.

“Liam?” Her voice broke the spell.

“Yes?”

She closed her eyes. Her shoulders hunched to her ears. “I...I can't.”

“You can't what?” He shook his head. Was she as out of balance as he was?

“Us.” She bit her lip.

“You could.” He shook his head. “You won't.”

She nodded. “Won't.”

“What are you afraid of?” he whispered. He longed to touch her soft cheek and run his fingers through her messy curls, but he didn't.

“That we won't work out.”

“How can we know if we don't try?” His hands slapped against the counter.

She jerked. “You...you live in Ireland.”

“That's just where I store my things.”

“What?” She scooted to the opposite side of the room.

“I love Savannah. I love your family.” The idea of moving to Savannah took hold and rooted inside him and bloomed. “Why don't we see what happens?”

“I...but...” She shook her head. Her shoulders sagged. “Trust me. We wouldn't work out.”

“Trust you?” He backed away, rejected again. “Grand.”

He turned to the enlarger, when he really wanted to shake her. “Let me walk you through this.”

Locked in a small room for two hours with Dolley hadn't been his smartest idea. It was going to be a long, frustrating night.

* * *

L
IAM
FOCUSED
THE
camera on the letter in front of him. It was water-stained, and the handwriting was faded but legible. It was from Seamus, Michael's son, and had been sent to James's son, also named Michael. The American Michael was the first generation FitzGerald to be born on American soil. They'd still capitalized the
G
in the surname.

He'd hung the family tree Ian had given him in the attic. It was the only way he and Dolley kept track of the duplicate names. There were too many Seamuses and Michaels.

He started to run his hand through his hair but stopped. He wore gloves to protect the aging paper.

They'd made a dent in figuring out the correspondence dates. Hard, because water damage had destroyed the edges of the letters and blurred the writing.

“Find anything new?” Dolley's question had him jerking straight up.

“I think it's a letter to James's son from a cousin in Ireland.” He held it up.

She leaned over his shoulder, her scent wrapping around him. He inhaled. His vow to keep his hands off her made him ache.

“The handwriting is lovely.” She tugged on gloves.

He handed the letter to her, relieved when she moved away.

She scanned the page. “Must be the start of the famine. He mentions that families and young people are starting to leave.”

He nodded. “I can't make out the year, but I believe you're right.”

She smiled at him. Then noticed the camera. “You took pictures?”

“I might use the letters in the film. It's real people talking about the problems in Ireland.” He pointed to the pile of items he'd planned to capture.

“Do you want me to take the photos?” she asked.

“That would be helpful.”

They worked side by side. Other than his desire to wrap his arms around her and lay his lips on that pink mouth, they had a good rhythm.

Once she put the camera away, they sat. Dolley carefully worked two stuck pieces of paper apart. Her curls bobbed as she read the first one. She caught her lower lips between her teeth.

Was she a sadist? Didn't she know he wanted to bite that lip?

Her concentration was a thing of beauty. It was why she was such a good photographer. She waited for the picture to unfold. It was something he hadn't had to teach her. Something he constantly had to remind himself of.