The Tea Rose Part 27

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 a been a terrible mistake.

Fat b.l.o.o.d.y 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."

"How are things with you?"

"Smas.h.i.+ng!" 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. b.l.o.o.d.y 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 c.o.c.k-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 ma.s.ses 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 he.'

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 works?"

"Yes. Yes, I do," Nick said. "The ill.u.s.tration 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 ill.u.s.tration showed children in a nursery who had just opened a Wheaton's box. The crackers had leaped out, changed into real zebras, tigers, and giraffe; 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 "Urn ... 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" 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 out," Nick said.

"It is. But we'll get real accounts soon," Nate said optimistically. '"I 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, pa.s.s 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 ... um" -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 gla.s.ses 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 gla.s.s 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 the: 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 pus.h.i.+ng 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 Nev. 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 boo: heels echoing on the marble floor of the bank president's antechamber There was cold, s.h.i.+ny marble everywhere she looked-underfoot, on the ceiling, everywhere but on the walls; they were covered with murals of ok Dutch merchants. One group was unloading a s.h.i.+p.

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 s.h.i.+rtwaist-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 payoff 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 ma.s.sive mahogany furniture. He was standing at his credenza. His back was to her, but his black suit, maca.s.sared hair, and the way he held an index finger up while he finished reading a doc.u.ment, 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 t.o.s.s.e.r. 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 antic.i.p.ated income the mortgage represented, or what her operating expenses were, she was sunk. I am going to make the biggest b.l.o.o.d.y 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, b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l! 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."

With 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 Sat.u.r.day'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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 compet.i.tion 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."

Ellis nodded. "How old did you say you were, Miss Finnegan?" "I didn't, but I'm eighteen."

"And have you ever run a shop before?"

"Well ... I ... not exactly ... no, sir, I haven't."

"I appreciate your efforts on behalf of your uncle, Miss Finnegan, but I'm afraid you're a bit too young and inexperienced to take on the responsibility of a business. I'm sure you'll understand that I have the bank's interests to consider and I feel that the safest course of action in light of the present circ.u.mstances is still an auction."

"Begging your pardon, sir, but that doesn't make sense," she argued. You're going to lose money on the auction. I'm offering to make up the back payments and continue to meet the terms of the loan. That's a six-percent profit. Surely, you'd rather make money than lose it .... "

"Our interview is concluded, Miss Finnegan. Good day," Ellis said icily not pleased to have his business explained to him by an eighteen year old girl.

"But, Mr. Ellis-"

"Good day, Miss Finnegan."

Fiona gathered her papers and put them back in her portfolio. With dignity befitting a queen instead of a crushed young woman, she rose and offered her hand again, waiting this time until Ellis took it. Then she left his office, hoping her tears wouldn't fall until she was outside of it.

She was beaten. All her work of the last week was wasted. And the money she'd spent!

Christ, she'd as good as thrown it away. How could she have been so stupid to think a bank would actually listen to her? She dreaded going home. She knew Mary would be waiting for her, hoping it had gone well. What would she tell her? She was counting on her. They all were. And after she broke the bad news, then she could begin what she'd dreaded the most-looking for a place to live, a job.

Watching as the building was sold. Watching as her uncle became homeless, lost to the streets, a wild, muttering gutter drunk.

She fastened the clasp on her portfolio. Her head was down and she was unaware of the elegantly dressed man sitting in the leather chair just outside Ellis's door, his ankle resting on his knee. Tall, fortyish, and remarkably good-looking, he eyed her with interest and appreciation. He stubbed out the cigar he was holding, rose, and walked over to her.

"Ellis turned you down?"

Fiona, still having difficulty holding her tears in, nodded quickly. "He's a bit of an old woman. Have a seat."

"I beg your pardon? "

"Sit. I overheard you. Your ideas are good. You're on target with the differentiation."

"The what?"

"Differentiation." He smiled. "Like the word? I coined it myself. It means setting yourself apart from the compet.i.tion. Offering things they don't. I'll see what I can do." He disappeared into Ellis's office, slamming the door behind him. Fiona, stunned, continued to stand exactly where he'd left her until Miss Miles told her to sit down.

"Who is that?" Fiona asked her. "William McClane," she said reverently.

"Who?"

"McClane? Of McClane Mining and McClane Lumber and McClane Subterranean. Only one of the richest men in New York," she replied, in a tone that suggested Fiona must be a b.u.mpkin not to know such a thing. "He made his first fortune in silver," she said in a hushed, girlish voice. "Then he went into logging. Now he's working on plans for New York's first underground railway. Rumor has it he's going into electricity and telephones, too."

Fiona had only the vaguest idea what a telephone was and no idea at all what electricity was, but she nodded, pretending she did.

"He owns First Merchants, too. And" -she leaned in closer to Fiona"he's a widower. His wife died two years ago. Every society lady in town is after him."

Mr. Ellis's door opened again, silencing their conversation. Mr. McClane came out.

"You've got your shop," he briskly informed Fiona. "See Ellis about the details. And spend a little more on the advertising. Take a whole page if you can and run the ad on Sat.u.r.days, not Sundays, even if it costs more. That's when most of the men in your neighborhood get paid. You want your name fresh in people's minds when the money's there, not after it's gone."

Before Fiona could get a word out, he had tipped his hat to her and Miss Miles and left, leaving her standing there in his wake, staring after him, whispering the words, "Thank you."