Instinctively, she reached into her pocket for the blue stone Joe had given her, just as she’d always done when she was worried or scared, but it was gone. Of course it was, she’d pawned it. A feeling of bereftness swept over her. She longed for him, needed him so. If only he were here. He’d know exactly what to do. This wouldn’t be so hard if they were in it together. When she got upset, he’d tease and kiss her until he made her laugh, just as he’d always done. It was so painful to think of him. It was like touching her fingers to a big, ugly bruise to see if it still hurt and wincing when she found out it always, always did. Why couldn’t she just forget about him, as he’d forgotten about her on Guy Fawkes night?
The clock on the wall struck noon. It’ll be five o’clock in London, she thought. Teatime on a Tuesday. He’d be leaving his office for his home, wherever that was. She wondered what his life was like now. Did he live in a fancy house? Did he wear fine clothes and go about in a carriage? Was he an important man at Peterson’s now? Was he happy? It tore her up to think that every day Millie got to look into his eyes, see him smile, touch him. And she? She would never set eyes on him again. Maybe he was home having a hot meal, or maybe he was at a fancy restaurant somewhere, or …
Wherever he is, he isn’t standing arse-deep in a mess of a shop, covered in polish and pickle brine, the bastard, her inner voice said indignantly. Fiona tried to take her cue from the voice. She tried to feel angry instead of sad; it was easier. She tried to tell herself that she didn’t care where he was or what he was doing, because she hated him. But she didn’t. She loved him. Still. Despite everything. And what she wanted most in the world was for him to come through the door, take her in his arms, and tell her it had all been a terrible mistake.
Fat bloody chance, she thought. With effort, she pushed thoughts of Joe out of her mind. She had work to do and no time to stand around feeling sorry for herself. The walls needed painting. She had no idea where to go to buy paint, but she remembered seeing paint buckets by the curb of the neighboring building when she first arrived. Whoever lived there had had the place freshly painted. Maybe he or she would know where to go. As she stepped outside, a carriage pulled up. The door opened and a tall blond man jumped out, a picnic hamper in his hand.
“Nicholas!” she cried happily. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“I missed you! I know we were supposed to meet on Thursday, but I couldn’t wait.”
Fiona was delighted to see him. His smile alone lifted her spirits. “You look wonderful,” she said. And he did – as ever, handsome and stylish. But perhaps a little too pale.
“And you look like a filthy little ragpicker!” he replied, rubbing at a streak of polish on her chin. “What on earth are you doing?” His eyes roved over her, taking in her rolled-up sleeves, her kilted-up skirts. He looked at the pile of rubbish on the curb, the empty shop, the auction sign still in the window, and frowned. “Hmmm, things not going according to plan, old trout?”
“No, not quite,” she said, smiling at his odd term of endearment. He called her the most horrible names. Old shoe. Old baggage. Old mole. Old stick.
“What happened?”
She sighed. “Well … my aunt’s dead and my uncle’s a drunkard who hasn’t worked in months. The bank’s foreclosed on his shop and plans to auction it. I’ve got an appointment with the bank president to see if he’ll let me take over. I’ve already spent too much of my own money paying off creditors. And it might all be for nothing. The bank could easily turn me down.”
“I see.”
“How are things with you?”
“Smashing!” he said brightly. “I can’t find anywhere to live. And I can’t find a place for my gallery. Everything’s too small, too dingy, or too dear. And just an hour ago I received a telegram that all the paintings I bought – my entire stock – were put on the wrong boat out of Le Havre and sent to Johannesburg. Bloody Africa! It’ll be yonks before they get here. My hotel is noisy. The food is dreadful. And the tea is unspeakable. I can’t understand anyone in this bloody city. They don’t speak English. And they’re beastly rude, too.”
Fiona grinned at him. “I hate New York,” she said.
“I do, too. Despise the blasted place,” he replied, grinning back.
“But when we got off the boat you said –”
“Never mind what I said. I was delirious.” He put an arm around her shoulders.
“Oh, Nick,” she sighed, leaning her head against him. “What a cock-up.”
“A thumping great one.”
She looked up at him. “What will we do?”
“Guzzle champagne. Immediately. It’s the only thing for it.”
Fiona took his things, put them inside the shop, and told him she had to go next door to see if she could find out where to buy paint. He said he’d go with her. As they stood at the door, they heard raised voices – a man’s with a New York accent and a woman’s with an Italian one. It sounded as if they were fighting. Fiona, her hand raised to knock, drew back, but she’d been seen and within seconds a cheerful young man wearing paisley suspenders and a matching tie was ushering them in.
“Come in, come in! I’m Nate. Nate Feldman. And this is my wife, Maddalena.” A striking dark-eyed woman with masses of thick black hair piled up on her head waved to them from behind a drafting table. She wore a paint-stained white blouse and a slate-gray skirt.
Fiona introduced herself and Nick, then said, “I… I was hoping you could tell me where to buy some paint. House paint. I’m working on the shop next door … my uncle’s shop, and I noticed paint buckets outside a few days ago … I hope we’re not interrupting …”
“Oh, you heard the yelling?” Nate said, laughing. “Don’t worry, it’s just the way we work. We yell and scream, then the knives and guns come out, and whoever’s left standing wins.” He looked at Fiona’s uncertain expression, then Nick’s. “I’m joking, you two! It’s a joke. You know … ha ha ha? Now, listen to this idea and tell me what you think …” With his hands, he shaped the outline of a large poster in the air. “There’s a picture of a wagon, and over it, the words: HUDSON’S SELTZER, and there’s a driver, he’s leaning out of his seat and talking to you, the customer. He’s saying, ‘For stomach trouble, try our bubbles, we deliver on the double!’ Look, here’s the picture, show them, Maddie … see? What do you think? Do you think it works?”
“Yes. Yes, I do,” Nick said. “The illustration is very engaging.”
“What about the words? Do you like –”
“Nate, for goodness’ sake! Invite them to sit!” Maddalena scolded.
“Sorry! Please … have a seat,” he said, gesturing to a settee covered with prints and posters. Fiona picked up a poster and moved it aside.
“Excuse the mess,” Nate said. “This is our office as well as our home. We just went into business for ourselves. Opened our own advertising agency. It’s chaos.”
“This is wonderful, Mr. Feldman,” Fiona said, admiring the poster in her hands.
“Nate, please.”
“Nate,” she said. “What a beautiful picture!” The poster read, WHEATON’S ANIMAL CRACKERS – AN ADVENTURE IN EVERY BOX! The illustration showed children in a nursery who had just opened a Wheaton’s box. The crackers had leaped out, changed into real zebras, tigers, and giraffes, and were cavorting around the room with the children on their backs. Fiona knew Seamie would be pestering for a box the second he saw it. “Wheaton’s must be selling animal crackers hand over fist with an ad like this,” she said.
“Um … well,” Nate said sheepishly, “that one hasn’t run yet.”
“None of these have,” Maddie said, coming out from behind her table. “We’ve only been open a week. We’re too new to have clients yet.”
“All of these were done on spec,” Nate explained. “We approached a bunch of companies and offered to do the first ad for free. If it pulls the customers in, they’ll pay us for a second one.”
“Sounds like a hard way to start ou
t,” Nick said.
“It is. But we’ll get real accounts soon,” Nate said optimistically. “We have tons of contacts. Me from Pettingill. That’s the firm where I worked. And Maddie from J. Walter Thompson. It’s just a matter of proving ourselves first, isn’t it, Mad?”
Maddie nodded and smiled at her husband and Fiona saw a hopeful look, but one tinged with worry, pass between the two. Nate turned back to his guests. “I’ve really forgotten my manners today. Can I offer you a drink, some lunch?” he asked.
“Oh! Nate, caro, I… I haven’t been shopping yet today,” Maddie said awkwardly. She turned to Fiona. Her cheeks were flaming. “We’ve been so busy, you see, that I forgot to go.”
Fiona realized that Maddie and Nate were broke. “Oh, that’s all right. We can’t stay anyway,” she said hastily. “We … I… there’s the shop and …”
Nick, ever gracious, stepped in. “Look, I wouldn’t hear of you serving us anything, not when I’ve just arrived on Fee’s doorstep with a whopping great hamper of food and two bottles of the widow Clicquot’s finest. Won’t you come share a bite with us instead? I insist. Really. I bought too much and I can’t bear for it to be wasted. Not when there are all those starving children in … urn” – he waved a hand – “oh, wherever the starving children are these days.”
Fiona urged them to say yes, and finally they did. Back in the shop, Nick opened his hamper and pulled out caviar, lobster salad, chicken in aspic, smoked salmon, bread, fruit, and pretty little cakes. The hamper contained china plates, silverware, and crystal glasses for four, but there was food enough for twice that number. They used the counter for a table and as they ate, they talked. Nate and Maddie wanted to know all about Nick and Fiona and what they planned to do in the city. Then Nate lectured Fiona on the new science of advertising, on its power, its importance, and the necessity of getting one’s name embedded in the public’s consciousness. He told her she must advertise when she got the shop open again. She told him she would be their first paying customer and Nick said he would be their second.
As they were eating, the boys came back with a huge bag of doughnuts, which Fiona took away from them until they’d eaten some proper food. Ian raced upstairs for more plates. Seamie hugged Nick and told him how glad he was that he wasn’t dead. “Don’t ask,” Fiona said at Nick’s horrified expression. Seamie called him Father and Fiona had to explain to Nate and Maddie that it wasn’t what it looked like. Mary came down, having fed Nell and put her down for a nap, and made Nick’s acquaintance as he handed her a glass of champagne. Alec came in from the garden with a finished window box and marveled at how good the shop looked.
“Thank you, Alec,” Fiona said fretfully, fixing him a plate. “I hope I’m not just cleaning it for the next owner.”
Mary shushed her worries and Maddie, finished with her lunch, looked at the walls and said a creamy beige would look a lot nicer than the stark white that was on them now. She gave Fiona the address of a local paint shop and the name of the color she had in mind and Ian and Robbie volunteered to get it. She said the walls would have to be washed before they could be painted. She took a bucket Fiona had filled with soapy water, rolled up her sleeves, and started in. Fiona, touched, told her she didn’t have to do that, but she shrugged and said if she didn’t, she’d have to go back to work with her husband, and frankly, she’d rather wash walls. Feigning offense, Nate picked up a rag and began to polish the door handle. Nick, enthusiastically incompetent, grabbed the mop and started pushing it around, but only managed to make the floor dirtier.
As they laughed at him, Fiona felt the burdens she carried on her slender shoulders lighten a bit, and for the first time since she had arrived in New York she felt happy, truly happy. Maybe things hadn’t worked out quite as planned, and maybe she didn’t have an uncle to help her, but she had the wonderful Munros, especially Mary, who was so encouraging. And having her dearest Nick with her and her new friends – all of them following their own dreams – cheered and inspired her and made her take heart. If Maddie and Nate could risk everything on their business, if Nick could try and make a go of a gallery, then she could make a go of this shop.
Chapter 26
“Good afternoon, Mr. Ellis, I’m Fiona Finnegan …” Too mealy-mouthed, Fiona thought. She paced nervously, her boot heels echoing on the marble floor of the bank president’s antechamber. There was cold, shiny marble everywhere she looked – underfoot, on the ceiling, everywhere but on the walls; they were covered with murals of old Dutch merchants. One group was unloading a ship. Another was setting up a shop. A third was buying Manhattan from the Indians for what looked like two bracelets and a necklace. She tried again. “I’m Fiona Finnegan. Good afternoon, Mr. Ellis …” Still not right. “Mr. Ellis, I presume. I’m Fiona Finnegan. Good afternoon …”
“Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like to sit down, Miss Finnegan?” Mr. Ellis’s secretary, a Miss A. S. Miles, according to her nameplate, asked. “He may be a minute.”
Fiona jumped at the sound of her voice. “No. No, thank you,” she said, giving her a jittery smile. “I’ll stand.” Her hands were cold and her throat felt tight.
She was wearing her best clothes – a chocolate skirt and a pinstriped shirtwaist – waiting for them to make her feel confident. That’s what Nick said good clothing did. She wore her long navy coat over the outfit, with a rose-patterned silk scarf tucked into the collar. Her hair was twisted up in an approximation of a style Nick had invented for her one afternoon on the boat when he was bored. The twist wasn’t perfect – she’d been too anxious to fuss – but it would do.
Over the past week, she’d put nearly three hundred dollars of her own money into her uncle’s shop. Some of it had gone for things like a new meat cooler, paint, and new shelves. Some had gone to pay off the rest of his creditors. She hoped that clearing his debts would impress First Merchants and show them she was serious and capable.
She was staring out the window into the busy thoroughfare known as Wall Street when she heard Miss Miles say, “Miss Finnegan? Mr. Ellis will see you now.”
Her stomach writhed like an eel. She walked into Franklin Ellis’s office, a room appointed with dark wood paneling, Hudson Valley landscapes, and massive mahogany furniture. He was standing at his credenza. His back was to her, but his black suit, macassared hair, and the way he held an index finger up while he finished reading a document, gave her the impression of a severe and humorless man.
If only Michael were here, she thought, already intimidated. If only she didn’t have to do this alone. She’d asked him to come with her last night – begged him – but he’d refused, the tosser. Even if he didn’t want to set foot in the shop, he could’ve come to the bank with her. What did she know about any of this? Nothing! All she was sure of – because she’d looked at his payment book – was that her uncle’s building had cost $15,000. Four years ago, he’d put $3,000 down and taken out a thirty-year mortgage at six percent for the remainder. His payments were $72 a month. He’d stopped paying in November and now owed the bank $360, plus $25 in penalties. If Ellis asked about profits and percentages, if he wanted to know how much of her anticipated income the mortgage represented, or what her operating expenses were, she was sunk. I am going to make the biggest bloody hash of this, she told herself. He won’t listen to me. He won’t take me seriously. He won’t…
Franklin Ellis turned around. Fiona smiled, extended her hand, and said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Fiona. I’m Finnegan Ellis.” Oh, bloody hell! she thought. “No, I – I mean – I’m –”
“Have a seat, Miss Finnegan,” Ellis said in clipped tones, gesturing to a chair in front of his desk. He ignored her outstretched hand. “I understand you’re here to discuss one hundred sixty-four Eighth Avenue.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, trying to recover. “I have enough cash to pay you the three hundred eighty-five dollars my uncle owes. And I’d like you to consider letting me take over the responsibility for running his shop.”
W
ith effort, she calmed herself, focused her mind, and methodically began to make her case. Opening a small leather portfolio she’d borrowed from Maddie, she took out all the receipts from her uncle’s vendors showing his balances paid and presented them for Ellis’s inspection. Next she sketched out her plans for modest advertising: a half page in the local newspaper to run for three consecutive Sundays, because Sunday’s edition was cheaper to advertise in than Saturday’s. She showed him the ad – a fetching pen-and-ink sketch of the shop done by Maddie and Nate extolling its superior selection and service. The sketch would serve a double purpose; in addition to using it as an ad, she planned to have flyers made out of it with a coupon good for a free quarter pound of tea with any purchase of a dollar or more.
As she talked about her plans for the shop, Fiona completely forgot her nerves. She didn’t see Ellis’s eyes flicker to his watch. She didn’t see them travel over her bosom. She didn’t know that he wasn’t even listening to her; he was thinking about his dinner plans. She didn’t correctly read the expression on his face. She saw interest where there was only mild amusement – the sort one would feel while watching a performing dog bark out answers to sums.
Believing she had his attention emboldened Fiona. She talked on about the improvements she’d made: the new paint, the window boxes, the pretty lace valance for the window. She told him all about her ideas to trump the competition by offering home-baked goods, better-quality produce, and fresh flowers. She had even planned for a delivery service, figuring that if she could save the neighborhood women a bit of time at no extra charge, they’d shop at Finnegan’s exclusively.
“So you see, Mr. Ellis,” she concluded eagerly, her cheeks flushed, “I believe I can run my uncle’s shop profitably and make the required payments in full every month.”
The Tea Rose Page 29
