Proper Irish (Jaded Lily #1)

by Zeia Jameson

  “Gretchen said the decorations and catering were better than anything they’d ever organized on their own,” Rachel commends me over the phone while I’m on my way to meet the mayor’s wife at the Mansion on Forsyth Park. I can’t believe Rachel’s not even going to show up for the meeting with the mayor’s wife. This is our biggest event of the year. You’d think the owner of her own event planning business would want to rub elbows with the mayor’s wife to possibly drum up more high-quality business for the future.

  “Let me know how the meeting goes with Mrs. MacNamara. Mind your p’s and q’s—”

  “Excuse me?” I interrupt. “Mind my p’s and q’s? I cannot believe you just said that to me. And I find it a little appalling how you can tell me how wonderful my work is in one breath and how little faith you have in me in the next—”

  It’s Rachel’s turn to cut me off. “Don’t get defensive. I know you’ll do great,” she says with a little condescension in her tone. “But Mrs. MacNamara is, you know, particular when it comes to details. Let her do most of the planning. You take notes and nod. God forbid we do anything to offend her and lose this gig.”

  I roll my eyes. I know plenty about Mrs. MacNamara after working with her last year. Particular is an understatement. To appease Rachel so I can end this phone call, I simply reply, “I understand. I’ll be fine. I have to go. I’m here and meeting with her in less than ten minutes. I’ll call you back later today.” I hang up before she replies. I see Kerry at the far side of the ballroom and wave. We walk toward each other until we meet in the center. I exhale loudly. “You ready for this?” I ask Kerry.

  She shrugs. “As ready as I can be.” We smile lightly at each other, trading sympathetic looks. We both know these next two hours are going to be painful.

  “You know what? Now that I think about it, Tillie Monaghan had rhododendron centerpieces at her last event. We can’t do that either.” Mrs. MacNamara sharply juts her hip out and raises her fingers to the bottom of her chin. It was the fifth time she’d changed her mind regarding flowers. Everything had to be an original idea. God forbid she copied any details of anyone who’d had a black-tie affair in the last eighteen months. “Marigolds!” she exclaims wildly as she spins on her six-inch Jimmy Choos. She snaps her fingers at her assistant, Roger. “Roger, go through the notes and tell me there are no marigolds.” The tone of her voice is desperate. After a few minutes of Roger scrolling over the screen of an iPad, he shakes his head. “I see no mention of marigolds listed.”

  I’ve seen this list that Roger keeps. It’s intricate. An account of every decoration detail of every ball, gala, wedding reception, and benefit, right down to the size of the etching on the thumb of the silverware.

  Mrs. MacNamara claps. Her smile grows with victory. “Marigolds it will be, then!”

  I nod and make notes. Matilda is going to die of laughter when I ask her for marigold centerpieces. I even see Kerry purse her lips at the absurdity of the idea. But if anyone can make it happen, it’ll be Matilda.

  It’s been nearly three hours, and my notebook has more lines of words scratched through than it does legible writing. The woman changes her mind like the sun changes position throughout the course of a day. Meticulous isn’t the word; it’s more like neurotic. The responsibility of a hostess planning a gathering around here keeps you in certain social ranking. You can be quickly cast out just by an improper choice of champagne. Even if you are the mayor’s wife. Mrs. MacNamara turns to me. “Okay. I believe that is everything. Let’s meet again next week so I can approve designs. Roger?”

  Roger moves his fingers swiftly across the screen. “Um. Next Tuesday morning at ten thirty.” He looks to Kerry, who is much more casually scrolling through her own tablet.

  “We have an appointment at ten and noon. Could we meet at eleven and make sure we keep it to under an hour? Or we could do the afternoon. We’re open all day after three.”

  Roger’s eyes grow wide. We all know Mrs. MacNamara likes to settle all business-related meetings before noon so she can begin her day drinking at the club with her social circle. We also all know that there would be no way she’d be able to keep her quality control meeting to under an hour. Mrs. MacNamara slits her eyes at Kerry and then at Roger. Roger quickly looks down at his device in panic. A few seconds pass. “I’m sorry, Mrs. MacNamara. That is the only time we have available next week. You and the mayor are out of town after Thursday.”

  Her scowl floats back and forth between Roger and Kerry. Finally, she straightens her shoulders, lifts her chin slightly, exhales, and says, “Very well. Tuesday at three it is.”

  I ask Kerry to take some time to respond to emails and return phone calls while I travel straight away to Ladybug’s. I envision the bellow Matilda will release when I tell her about the marigolds idea. Marigolds. Dyed green. Help us all. I’m lost in thought until I realize I’m in front of the tattoo shop where that asshole biker guy disappeared into after he called me a stupid girl and, yes, though be it indirectly, made me fall. I think of how angry I was when I saw him again at Wedge and how Morty told me he was someone I really didn’t want to mess with.

  You can’t just laugh at me when I’m face down in the street and get away with it, pal. I don’t care how much of a tough, murderous biker gang member you may be.

  Okay, maybe I care a little. But this is going to gnaw at me unless I do something. I pull open the door of the shop with force, and I nearly knock myself to the ground, not expecting the door to give so easily. The guy at the counter is looking down, shuffling through papers, when he hears the bell of the door ting and probably also the small grunt I made while trying to keep my balance. His left pierced eyebrow cocks up, and his nose scrunches to relay that he thinks I’ve opened the wrong door. I pass over the threshold and smooth my dress and then my hair. I march with boldness toward him. When I reach the counter, I place a palm on top and clear my throat.

  “I’m looking for a guy who works here. The one with all the arm tattoos,” I say waving my free hand over my arm as if to say “arm tattoo” in sign language. I don’t know why. In case this guy is deaf or doesn’t speak English? He continues to stare at me for a second with the same look on his face. For a moment I think he may actually be deaf or foreign and my universal sign for arm tattoo wasn’t descriptive enough. I think on how to make myself clearer when he looks down at his own sleeveless and thoroughly inked arm.

  Oh. Right. This is a tattoo parlor, Stella. It’s a commonality among the brotherhood. He peers back to my face, switching the toothpick he has in his mouth from left to right. I can’t help but admit I’m a little intimidated. Perhaps this was a mistake. But I continue with more information.

  “He’s about this tall.” I raise my hand about a foot above my head. “Darkish sandy-blond hair that is long enough for a small mohawk.” I raise both hands over my head to form a triangle. Fuck. I feel like I’m playing the most terrible game of charades ever. “Short beard?” Of course I motion my hand to my chin and draw my fingers down the length to a point. I must look like an idiot. I feel like one.

  The guy behind the counter still hasn’t offered any helpful retort. He hasn’t said one word. He just continues to fiddle with that damn toothpick. I want to poke him in the eye with it to make him say something. I think of something else to say to add to the description. Then it hits me. I bounce a little in excitement over what I think will be the detail to solve the mystery. The guy behind the counter scrunches his face more, tilts his head to the right, and twists his face even tighter. I continue regardless of his opinion of me.

  “He has a really thick accent of some sort. Scottish or Irish maybe?”

  “Padraig,” is all he says.

  “Uh, what?” I have no idea what Padraig is. Is that a name? Is he telling me to get the fuck out in another language?

  “His name is Padraig.” He leans on the counter with his elbows. “But you, dear girl, certainly want nothing to do with him. Don’t know your business with him, bu
t if it’s about that father of his . . .”

  “What? No. It’s not that. I don’t know his father . . .” I was getting worked up.

  “Then, what on earth would a highfalutin girl like you want with Padraig?”

  I felt insulted by his words for some reason. “Look, is he one of your employees?”

  I point to the door and look in that direction and then turn back to him. “He called me stupid at the crosswalk a few days ago and made me lose my balance and fall. Then he laughed at me and came in here. By the time I was able to come back to confront him, the place was locked up.”

  “Sounds like Padraig.” His face softened slightly. “I’m sorry he did that to you. He doesn’t care for . . . upper-class people. He likes to torment them.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I am sorry, really, but I don’t know you, and that’s none of your business.”

  “Well, I intend to make it my business. I want an apology, and I will come back every day and annoy you until I get it.”

  He rolls his eyes at me. “Fine. Make your bed. I’m not sure where he is, but my guess is down by the water next to the Waving Girl. He likes to go there a lot.”

  I nod a little in disbelief that I got him to give up information so easily, based on his earlier solemnness. “Thank you.”

  I turn to head out the door when he says, “Don’t come crying to me if he hurts your feelings.”

  My initial thought is to go straight to the Waving Girl to see if I can find him. Padraig. It’s a name I’ve never heard before. I repeat it the way the guy at the shop said. The enunciation of the syllables rolls off the tongue easily. Padraig. It gives me goosebumps, but I don’t know why exactly.

  I want to go find him.

  But I have business to take care of first. I head into Ladybug’s to find Matilda at a craft table, showing a few young girls how to weave a basket pattern out of sugarcane. She turns as I come in and then asks the children to continue without her.

  “Stella! I wasn’t expecting you today. I don’t recall us having an appointment.”

  I shake my head. “No, this is impromptu. But Mrs. MacNamara has an idea for her centerpieces that I think you are going to hate me for. I wanted to give you plenty of notice.”

  “Of course I could never hate you.” She pulls a pen from her hair bun and grabs a notepad near her register. “Lay it on me.”

  I proceed to explain the marigold idea, and she listens astutely, never making any change in her expression. When I’m done, she looks up from her notes to me, stares for a moment, and gives me a sympathetic grin. “You poor girl.” I take in her words, and then we both burst into laughter.

  Once I’m done with Matilda, I make my way to the waterfront. I may be too late, but I’m hoping to find Padraig there. It’s about a ten-minute walk from Ladybug’s to Bay Street. From Bay Street, there’s a steep, narrow staircase that leads down to a brick path adjacent to River Street, aptly named such, as it runs parallel to the Savannah River, only a few yards away. From the top of the stairs, I lean into the iron railing and peer down in the direction of the Waving Girl, a renowned historic statue in the riverfront Morrell Park that honors a woman who flagged ships to port during the turn of the nineteenth century.

  I immediately see him sitting on a bench alone. Just as I begin to descend the stairs, a woman with a basket approaches him. I don’t know the woman personally, but by the scarf tied around her head, the baggy monochromatic linen clothes, and the woven basket full of palmetto leaves twisted to look like long-stemmed roses, I know she is what the locals call a panhandler.

  Panhandlers hang out at the most sought-after tourist spots in Savannah, with the majority of them circulating on and around River Street. Some of them utilize other artistic abilities to make money: playing a trumpet on the side of the street or painting watercolors of the different angles and lighting of the Talmadge Bridge, which spans majestically over the river into South Carolina. But for the most part, the panhandlers do one thing: twist palmetto leaves into the shape of roses and sell them for a dollar a stem.

  The woman approaches Padraig, and he looks up at her. I expect him to react the way most people do—shoo her away with a hand gesture and a “no, thank you.” Instead, he moves to one side of the bench and invites her to sit. She does, and they face each other. They engage in conversation, and I observe their profiles while I continue down the stairs, firmly gripping the railing, praying I don’t slip while performing two tasks at once. Padraig talks and then she talks. Padraig smiles and then laughs while she’s explaining something, utilizing her hands to enrich the details of her story. He laughs. Although I can see only one side of it, his face seems soft and calm. Nothing like the two times I’ve had interaction with him. He looks . . . beautiful.

  I make it to the bottom of the stairs and begin walking the path that leads to River Street. I have no plan. I’m not going to go over there and interrupt to lecture him on manners while he’s clearly occupied. And I’m not going to stick around and wait for one of them to get up and leave. I keep walking, keep staring at their interaction. I’m intrigued by and engulfed in their encounter.

  I run into a magnolia tree and let out a grunt. Shit. I take a quick glance and see that they are both turning in my direction to discover the source of the commotion. I quickly turn so my back is completely toward them, give myself a quick brush off, and walk toward River Street as quickly as my legs will take me.

  My taxi pulls up into the half-circle driveway of the mayor’s house. It’s a modest-sized home in comparison to most of the other houses in the neighborhood of Ardsley Park. The front yard is perfectly landscaped, and a few large magnolias stand tall around the perimeter, providing ample shading as if they were strategically placed there. It’s highly possible that they were. I tip the driver and make my way to the large double doors at the front entrance of the house. Before I can push the doorbell, a short, stout woman—aged around fifty, if I had to guess—opens the door. She is wearing a black smock dress with a white apron tied around her waist, giving me the impression that she is a housekeeper.

  She smiles and waves me in. “Miss Rosencourt, I presume?”

  I nod as I enter the house.

  “Come. Have a seat in the parlor. Mrs. MacNamara will be with you momentarily. I’m preparing tea. How do you take it?”

  I want to decline the offer of tea. But that would be a grand gesture of impoliteness, and I cannot risk offending Mrs. MacNamara.

  “Cream and sugar, please.”

  “Wonderful. Have a seat here and make yourself comfortable.”

  She walks away, not awaiting a response. I gaze around the room. A stiff-looking high-back sofa and a piano bench are my options for seating. I chose not to sit and instead peer out the French doors that lead into a beautiful, lush garden. The greenery dotted with splashes of color from all types of flowers is a magnificent sight. A great deal of work has been put into it. I wonder who is responsible for the upkeep. I try to envision Mrs. MacNamara out there with tools, elbows deep in topsoil, and I chuckle to myself.

  “Stella, hello! Thank you so much for agreeing to meet me here. I just finished up a conference call that I forgot I had scheduled.” She approaches me and gives me a polite one-armed hug. I return the hug.

  We were supposed to meet at the venue at three. However, Mrs. MacNamara called Rachel less than an hour ago, with a location and time change, which left me scurrying to get here by eleven. I also had to call the client I was meeting at noon, while I was in the cab, and shift our meeting back because I knew I would be here well over an hour. And while the client seemed fine with it, I felt unprofessional having to do that. It’s bad business, and Rachel should not have put me in that position. But I guess whatever Mrs. MacNamara wants, Mrs. MacNamara gets. I presume she won’t be missing drinks with the ladies this afternoon after all. Swell.

  “It’s not a problem at all,” I lie, putting on my best fake smile. “I brought all of the samples, if you are
ready to take a look.”

  “Absolutely. Let’s go into my office.”

  “Will Roger be joining us?” I ask, looking around for her right-hand man.

  “No. Roger has been reassigned.”

  Ouch. The repercussions of forcing your boss to schedule a meeting she didn’t want to schedule. Harsh. I wonder what exactly reassigned means. Is he a butler now? Stable boy?

  “It’ll be just you and me today. Come now, let’s get started.” We walk down a long, wide hallway. As we pass a room on the left, I look in, out of unconscious curiosity, and I swear I see Padraig sitting there, one leg crossed over his other knee, reading a hardback. Just before I lose sight of the room, he looks up at me and scowls. A panic rises in my chest. What the hell is he doing here? I shake my head quickly as I continue to walk. I must have been hallucinating. There’s no way he’d be here.

  After we spend two and a half hours going over the samples for the event, Mrs. MacNamara offers me lunch, which I’m sure is not a sincere invitation and is only a bullet point of courtesy out of some etiquette book she follows. I halfway consider accepting just to see her response. Instead, I respectfully decline and tell her I have another meeting soon. She calls for a cab, leads me back to the parlor, and tells me Helga will inform me when it has arrived.

  As I wait on Helga, I take another gander at the garden. I am lost in thought when I feel a heavy presence behind me only a half a second before I hear, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

  The force of his words startle me, and I turn with my defenses up. Padraig is standing in the doorway of the parlor, with a terrifying look plastered on his face. My confusion gets the best of me, and I reply, “I could ask you the same thing, couldn’t I?”

  He steps quickly toward me, and I back up until my shoulders hit the French doors. He doesn’t stop until he’s inches from my face. “That is none of your fucking business, but I have more reason to be here than you.” His nostrils flare. “You and that bitch make a mockery of my family. And if that isn’t bad enough, you have to do your stupid party doodling here? I have had about enough of this shite!”