by Nan Dixon
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?”
She nodded.
He pulled out his camera, squatted, angling his body, and waited. The branch swung in the slight breeze and dropped into the frame. Click.
In the next picture he refocused on the bars, giving the photo an ominous feel.
“Depending on whether you’re going for eerie or happy, I’d suggest using black and white or color.” He handed Dolley his camera. “Especially if the branches behind Gracie flower.”
She scrolled through the ones he’d taken. “Your pictures are—sad. Bleak.”
“Good. I was thinking desolate. It would come across better in black and white.”
Her auburn eyebrows snapped together, shadowing her lovely green eyes. “Yes.”
“All great photographs evoke emotions, even when you’re looking at a landscape or cityscape.”
She looked up at him and sighed. “I have a lot to learn.”
“You just have to put your soul into your photos.”
“That’s all.” Her eyes twinkled as she handed back his camera. Their fingers brushed. He pulled away, but he’d felt—something.
“Come on.” She replaced her lens cap and slung the camera over her shoulder. “There’s more to see.”
Dolley kept up a stream of interesting facts, talking about the cemetery and graves they passed and the statues created for the interred Savannahians.
When she talked about bodies that had been moved from another cemetery, he finally asked, “How do you retain all this information?”
“I...just remember things.” She wouldn’t look him in the eye.
He pulled her to a stop and made her face him, holding her hand so she didn’t escape. “You have a photographic memory.”
She stared at their dusty shoes. “Not quite.”
“This is fantastic.” He thought of all the notes he had to take to retain everything she stored easily in her brain. “Do you remember my credit card number?”
“No!” She
tried to pull her hand away. “I make sure I don’t.”
“What do you remember of my particulars?” He was really curious.
She bit her lower lip, changing the color from pink to red. “Your phone number.” She rattled it off. And then added his address and the date he’d first called. “It’s kind of a pain.”
“I wish I had your memory.” He slung an arm around her shoulder. “Maybe I need to change your job title to fact checker.”
“I don’t think so.” She nudged his arm away. “I’m hoping you’ll teach me how to be a better photographer.”
Either she didn’t like to be touched or didn’t like him touching her. He forced a professorial tone into his voice. “And your first lesson was emotions.”
“You want emotions? Let me show you Corrine.”
She led him toward a river.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“The Wilmington River. This is where my great-grandmamma would picnic.”
She stopped in front of a large plot. Lawton. The statue was a beautiful woman sitting in front of her headstone. “Corrine was in love with a man who was not of her class. Her family insisted she marry a man she did not love.”
He checked the date of her death, 1877. There would have been class issues at that time.
“The day of her wedding she rode to the Savannah River and drowned herself.” She raised a graceful hand, pointing to the statue of Jesus at the back of the plot. “Her family was so upset, they buried her with her back to Jesus.”
“How sad.”
She grinned. “It’s a ghost teller’s story. Corrine wasn’t engaged. Her parents weren’t forcing her to marry. Based on letters and her obituary, she was ill, possibly yellow fever since Savannah had an epidemic that started in 1876 and continued into 1877. The statue was carved in Sicily.”
She bumped her shoulder into his chest. “I told you the fake story because I want you to be aware that the tales told in our fine city are not always the truth.”
Dolley pulled the lens cap off her camera. “She’s my favorite statue.”
Liam moved next to her, trying to see what she was framing. In the distance, faint streams of lavender and pink threaded through the clouds. He pulled his camera up to his eye. Would the sunset be too far away?
Dolley waited. And waited. Finally, the sky flooded with color. Her camera clicked away. It was a joy to watch her concentration.
He knelt behind her, wanting to see what she’d done.
Pulling the camera away from her eye, she replayed her photos, tipping it so he could look over her shoulder.
The statue was swathed by the soft sunset as if Corrine were an angel caught in the clouds.
“Peace,” he whispered. “I feel it.”
“Yes.” She stared into his eyes. “That’s what I wanted.”
Dolley was talented and took direction.
But Kieran had been talented, too. Kieran’s problem had been insatiable ambition.
A fiery curl blew across Dolley’s eyes. He brushed it away, but his fingers lingered, fingering the silky texture.
Her green eyes grew as big as saucers.
A cart drove up next to them. “Cemetery’s closing, folks.”
He yanked his hand away as she jumped up.
“I lost track of the time.” Dolley stuffed her camera in her bag, her actions clumsy with haste. “I’m sorry. It’s after five? Really?”
“Well past,” the guard said. “Hop in.”
Shoving her hair off her face, she took the passenger seat, leaving him the backseat. She stared straight ahead.
Fingering Dolley’s silky hair had been feckin’ stupid.
“I’ll be your mentor,” he blurted out. He wanted to spend more time with her.
She turned, a frown plowing a furrow in her forehead. “You will?”
He nodded.
A grin ignited her face. “Thank you.”
His motives for helping Dolley mixed with a budding awareness of her as an interesting, exciting woman.
Of course, they might be working together for months.
He would button up this...attraction and concentrate on improving her skills. For now.
CHAPTER FOUR
It is more important to click with people than to click the shutter.
Alfred Eisenstaedt
DOLLEY HANDED THE clean porcelain wall sconce to Bess. “This one has a chip.”
Bess turned the sconce, found the chip and dabbed enamel on the spot. “Not anymore.”
“I hate cleaning lights.” Dolley picked up a rusty sconce and plopped it on the worktable she and Bess had set up in the carriage house.
This mindless work wasn’t enough to keep her from reliving the moment two days ago when Liam had brushed back her hair at Bonaventure. His fingers had rubbed the strands like they were...precious. Was the pull she’d felt between them the reason he’d agreed to mentor her?
She’d almost reached out and touched his hair. Thank goodness the cemetery guard had arrived.
There was too much at stake. She was sticking to her dating hiatus. She’d given up her day job to work with Liam. Just spending an afternoon together had improved her pictures. He could take it away as easily as he’d agreed to work with her. Nothing was going to screw up her apprenticeship.
Dolley shot a glance at Bess. She needed to break the news to her sisters. Not only was she working for Liam, Jackson had changed her employment status. She blew out a big breath. Already this morning, she’d bid on a project for one of her old clients. That sucked.
With a toothbrush, she loosened the dirt around the base and metalwork. “How many more do we have to clean?”
Bess glanced at the boxes. “I don’t want to depress you.”
“Great.” Dolley dipped her cloth in the soapy water and rubbed gently on the bronze fixture. “Should we take off the patina?”
They both stared at the sconce.
“Mamma had us strip all the Fitzgerald House’s lamps.” Bess chewed on her thumbnail.
Dolley touched her hand. “Let’s find out if we have more metal or porcelain.”
They spread everything on the floor, organizing the lamps by type.
Crossing her arms, Dolley said, “Holy cow, that’s a lot of work.”
“Abby’s just finishing up breakfast. She’ll be here soon.” Bess walked around the lamps and sconces laid out on the canvas. “I would like to have everything bright and shiny.”
Dolley sighed. “Okay, we remove the patina just like Fitzgerald House.”
“How come you’re not working today?” Bess settled back into her folding chair.
“I’ve cut back my hours.” She opened the bronze cleaner, the smell sharp and unpleasant. Pouring a small amount on a clean cloth, she gently rubbed the metal.
Bess frowned. “I thought you planned to wait until January.”
Dolley’s finger tapped the edge of the table. “I’m helping out Liam. Delaney,” she added in a rush. Just saying his name had her remembering the stroke of his fingers in her hair.
“Delaney?” Bess’s reddish-blond eyebrows popped up. “Is he the long-term guest? The Irishman?”
“Yup.”
“How are you helping him out?”
She focused on bringing the lamp back to its original gleam. “Research. And he agreed to take me on as an apprentice.” The words spilled out in a stream.
“Wait.” Bess laid her hand on Dolley’s arm. “Apprentice?”
Abby walked in. “You’re taking on an apprentice, Bess?”
Dolley rolled her eyes. Of course an apprenticeship wouldn’t be about her, right? She was void of creativity.
“It’s Dolley,” Bess explained.
Abby pulled out a chair next to Dolley. “I didn’t know they used apprentices in website design. Is that a new thing?”
“It’s not for website design.” Dolley huffed out a breath. “Liam Delaney is mentoring me in photography.”
Both sisters’ heads twisted, and they stared at her. Their eyes, variations of green and hazel, were wide with surprise.
Their shock hurt.
Abby placed a hand on her back. “You want to be his apprentice?”
“I want to improve my photography,” she said.
Bess rubbed Dolley’s arm. “Is this just for the website?”
Her sisters, the two people she was closest to in the world, didn’t know she wanted to be a photographer. She swallowed. “I want to be...better.” I want to make it my career.
“Then it’s good Liam is here.” Abby bumped her with her shoulder. “And he’s not bad on the eyes. Does he ever smile?”
Dolley frowned. “Not often. Once? That I caught.” And she’d never heard him laugh.
Did that make him romantically tragic, or just tragic?
She took a deep breath. “And I added myself to the B and B’s health plan.”
Abby grabbed a sconce. “Why?”
Dolley shrugged. “Jackson made me an independent contractor.”
“Oh.” Abby’s eyebrow went up. Censure filled that single syllable.
“Cheryl raves about Liam’s accent.” Bess winked.
Dolley pressed her chest. “I could listen to him for hours.”
“Oh. Ooooh.” Bess drew out the last word, pain twisting her face. “Be careful.”
“It’s not like that.” Dolley hated the sorrow in her sister’s eyes. Daniel Forester had done that. He and Bess had dated, but Daniel had pulled the plug and broken Bess’s heart.
“This is purely professional,” Dolley added. “Besides, I’m on a dating hiatus.”
She should tell her sisters she wanted a new career. Dolley bit her lip. A career change that involved travel would affect the B and B and her family.
