The Tea Rose Part 44

He did not understand that one could go a day without Beluga or French champagne and live to tell the tale. Chastened by his collapse, he agreed to follow Dr. Eckhardt's instructions to the letter-every one, that was, except the no-champagne edict. Weak, sick, he had nonetheless sat up in his bed and defiantly declared he was a man, not a barbarian, and if this was how he was expected to live, he would rather die. Eckhardt had finally given in, convinced the mental anguish he was inflicting upon his patient would do him more harm than a few gla.s.ses of sparkling wine.

Readying herself for the walk back to Chelsea, Fiona tried to accept the situation. She and Nick would have to start looking at more properties, that was all there was to it. But her heart kept reminding her of the graceful lines of the cast-iron balconies, the soaring windows that let in so much light, the lovely gilded mirrors, and the roses ... oh, the roses! She could just see the backyard full of women in white dresses and broad-brimmed hats taking tea. A tearoom in that house would be a success, she knew it would. It couldn't possibly fail.

But it already has, she told herself. Sighing, she decided she'd better get going before the butler called the police on her-a task she was sure he would relish. When she was halfway down the steps, the door opened again. She turned. ''I'm going/' she said. "No need to get shirty."

"Miss Nicholson will see you," the butler said.

"What?" she asked, confused. "Why?"

"I am not in the habit of discussing my employer's business on the stoop," he replied frostily.

"Sorry," she said, bounding back up the stairs.

The butler closed the door behind them and ushered her into a dark foyer wallpapered in a morbid shade of burgundy. "Follow me," he instructed. He led her down a long hallway, hung with portraits of forbidding-looking men and women, through a set of ma.s.sive wooden doors and into a parlor every bit as gloomy as the foyer. "Miss Finnegan to see you, madam," he said, then disappeared, closing the doors after him.

The curtains were drawn. It was dark and it took Fiona's eyes, used to the bright sunshine, a few seconds to adjust. Then she saw her ... sitting across the room on a straight-backed divan. One jeweled, blue-veined hand rested atop an ebony walking stick. The other stroked a spaniel that was lying in her lap. She wore a crisp black silk dress with a ruff of white lace at her throat. Fiona had been expecting a doddery old dear, but the pair of gray eyes now a.s.sessing her were piercing. And the expression on the lined face, crowned by a sweep of silver hair drawn back into a neat bun, was sharp.

"Good afternoon, Miss Nicholson," Fiona began nervously. ''I'm Fiona-" "I know who you are. You have an inquiry concerning my property?" she said, gesturing to a chair with her walking stick.

"Yes, ma'am," Fiona said, sitting down. "I should like to rent the property. I want to open a tearoom on the bottom two floors-I own a tea business, you see-and my friend would like to rent the top floors. He's going to open an art gallery." Fiona explained her and Nick's plans to Miss Nicholson in detail.

The woman frowned. "My building's in terrible condition. Can't you rent another?"

''I've been looking, but I haven't found anything as wonderful as your place. It's a shame to let a lovely house like that just die, Miss Nicholson. It's a bit of a wreck. but it has good bones. And the roses ... oh, you should see them! Hundreds and hundreds of blooms. In ivory and pink and yelllow.

They would absolutely make the place. No one else in New York would have a tearoom with tea roses in the backyard. I just know people would come."

The woman's face softened at the mention of the roses. "Had them sent from England," she said. "Fifty years ago. Planted them myself. My father's gardener wanted to do it, but I wouldn't let him."

Fiona was just beginning to take heart, just beginning to think she was making progress, when Miss Nicholson's eyes narrowed. "How do you know about those roses?" she asked.

Fiona looked at the floor. "I went inside," she said sheepishly.

"You trespa.s.sed."

"I did," she admitted. "There was a loose board and-"

"Wilc.o.x," Miss Nicholson said contemptuously. "He must be rich from that loose board by now. Not a week goes by that some fool doesn't offer to take the house off my hands. Usually for a pittance. How much money do you have behind you, Miss Finnegan?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. Only about a thousand dollars. I've just plowed a fortune back into my business. I'm trying to make a go of a new kind of tea, a scented tea, and it's costing me. But it's doing well," she quickly added. "And profits from my original line are strong. I just know I could make a bundle with this tearoom, too, Miss Nicholson. I've already got the cook in place, all I would need is a wait staff. After the renovations are done, of course. I'm prepared to pay for them myself, but I was hoping the rent might reflect the building's current condition and ... "

As she talked on, Fiona noticed Miss Nicholson was listening intently. She hasn't thrown me out yet, she thought. Maybe I'm winning her over. Maybe she'll give me a chance. But before she had even finished speaking, Miss Nicholson abruptly cut her off, saying she had no interest in renting the building and bid her good day.

Fiona was sorely disappointed, and angry, too. She felt the woman had toyed with her, had allowed her to build her hopes back up, only to dash them again. She stood stiffly, drew a calling card from her purse and placed it on a marble-topped table. "If you should change your mind, you can reach me at this address," she said, forcing herself to smile. "Thank you for your time." She had no idea if the woman had heard her. Her gaze was directed at a painting hanging over her fireplace.

Fiona walked to the parlor doors, but before she reached them, Miss Nicholson suddenly said, "Why are you putting so much effort into a business, Miss Finnegan? Why don't you marry? A woman as beautiful as you are must have many admirers. Haven't you a sweetheart? Someone you love?"

"I have."

"Why don't you marry him?"

Her gray eyes held Fiona's. It was as if she could see inside her.

"I can't. He married someone else," she said quickly, mortified at admitting this to a stranger.

A bitter old woman, at that. ''I'm sorry to have intruded, Miss Nicholson. Good day."

"Good day," the old woman said, a ruminative expression on her face. "What cheek!" Fiona fumed as she stalked off down the sidewalk. "Prying into my affairs. Asking me about Will and why haven't I married him. It's none of her b.l.o.o.d.y business."

Then she stopped short, realizing with a sense of despair that it was not Will she had been thinking about when she answered Miss Nicholson's question. It was Joe.

Chapter 46.

The single window of Kevin Burd.i.c.k's office was grimed with soot. The walls were covered in paint that might've been white once but was now yellow from age and tobacco smoke. It was a still, hot summer day and the air inside the room stank of grease and sweat.

"I want you to offer her money, Mr. Burd.i.c.k," William McClane Junior said: "Five thousand ... ten ... whatever it takes. Just get her to drop my father."

Burd.i.c.k, a private detective, shook his head. "Not a good move. What if she doesn't take the bait? What if she takes offense instead and runs right to your father? It won't take him long to figure out who's behind the offer."

"You have a better idea?"

"Indeed I do," he said. His wooden chair creaked loudly as he leaned back in it. "The best way to handle this would be for me to get something on this girl ... this" -he consulted his notes- "Miss Finnegan. Something of an unsavory nature. Then you go to your father with the information under the pretext of concern. He breaks it off, grateful to you for telling him, and no one's the wiser as to the true nature of your involvement."

Will Junior smiled. The man was right; his way was much safer than trying to buy the girl off.

Burd.i.c.k clasped his hands and put them behind his head, exposing saucer-sized sweat stains under his arms. ''I'll need some time, of course. And half of my fee up front."

"That won't be a problem," Will Junior said, reaching into his breast pocket. As he pulled out his wallet, he saw a fly crawl over the remains of Burd.i.c.k's lunch-a rank corned-beef sandwich and a wilted pickle. He felt his stomach lurch.

"How's the subway plan going?" Burd.i.c.k asked.

"The mayor still hasn't decided. Our plan is clearly the better of the two, but how often have you known the city fathers to make a smart choice? It's anyone's guess as to what will happen." He pushed the money across the desk. Burd.i.c.k counted it, then stuffed it in his pocket.

"You really think your father's relationship with this woman will hurt your chances?"

Will Junior snorted. "Of course not. It's just what I tell him."

"Then why wreck his romance? What do you care who he's f.u.c.king? Eventually he'll finish with her and move on. Am I right? From what you've told me, she's not his sort of people. It's not like he's going to marry her."

"That's the problem, Mr. Burd.i.c.k. He might. He seems to have lost his mind."

Burd.i.c.k nodded. "I follow you," he said. "You don't want any stepbrothers. Or sisters."

"Exactly. She's young. She'll have babies. Probably quite a few. She's Irish, after all. She'll outlive my father. He'll leave all his money to her and her brats and I'll never see a penny of it. And that just won't do. Congressmen don't make the kind of money industrialists do."

Will Junior already had an expensive existence to finance -the Hyde Park house, the apartment in the city, all the servants, his growing family, Isabelle's insatiable appet.i.te for new clothes, his own appet.i.te for pretty actresses. And it would only get worse.

"I need my father's money to get to the White House, Mr. Burd.i.c.k. I'm not going to stand by while some gold-digging b.i.t.c.h gets her hands on it," he said, standing up to leave.

"She won't," Burd.i.c.k a.s.sured him.

"I hope you're right."

Burd.i.c.k belched. "Trust me."

FIONA WAS SO EXCITED, she was practically dancing down the sidewalk. "Come on!

Hurry up, would you?" she urged her uncle, tugging at his arm. "Nick, Alec, you get behind him and push and I'll pull. Maybe that will get him moving."

"Leave off! I'm walking as fast as I can," Michael said, shaking himself free of his niece's grasp. "Acting like a lunatic, you are."

''I'm going to call it The Tea Rose. After the roses. Just wait until you see them! Now, don't forget what I told you, Uncle Michael. You have to use a little imagination ... "

"Jaysus, I heard you the first five times! Calm down, Fiona!"

But she couldn't calm down. Two days ago, Raymond Guilfoyle, Esperanza Nicholson's lawyer, had walked into the shop and changed her life. Fiona's heart had raced at the sight of him; she'd hoped he had come to tell her Miss Nicholson would rent her the shop after all. He had not.

Instead, he informed her that his client wanted to sell her building. For two thousand dollars. A mere fraction of what it was worth.

"I beg your pardon?" she'd said.

"I was as surprised as you are, Miss Finnegan," Guilfoyle said. "And I don't mind telling you that I strenuously advised against this. The house is worth ten times the price, even in its current condition, but Miss Nicholson doesn't listen to me. Or anyone else. She is her own counsel." He'd left a contract for her to sign and advised her to have a lawyer of her own read it.

Fiona had immediately gone to First Merchants to arrange for a loan, one large enough to cover the purchase price and renovations, only to be told by Franklin Ellis that he could not sanction it. "It's highly unusual to lend this amount to a young unmarried woman, Miss Finnegan," he said, adding that if her uncle was willing to act as guarantor and put up his shop as collateral, he would reconsider.

Fiona had been ready to burst with anger. She had proved herself to this man. She had rescued her uncle's shop, made it more profitable than it had been, and opened her own tea shop.

Why did he need anyone's signature on a loan but her own? For a second she'd been tempted to go to Will, but he was away on business, and besides, that's probably just what the man expected her to do-go crying to Will. His pride had been bruised when Will overruled him on her account. Now he had a chance to injure her pride. Well, she wouldn't let him. She could fight her own battles. Michael would guarantee the loan. All she had to do was show him the house.

Finally they rounded the corner and the house came into view; thirty two Irving Place.

"There it is!" Nick said gleefully. "The big one. Right across the street." Michael stared at it.

"b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!" he finally said. "That is it?" His tone was one of horror, but Fiona, lovestruck at the very sight of the place, didn't notice.

"Isn't it wonderful?" she said. "Let's go in. Be careful, Alec, there's a lot to trip over."

"It looks like someone tossed a bomb in here," Michael grumbled as he entered the foyer. "I thought you'd done well to get a house in Gramercy Park for two thousand, but now I wonder if it's not Miss Nicholson who got the better end of the deal." He walked around, inspecting the rooms, an unhappy look on his face.

Alec went into the backyard. He'd come to see the roses. Nick went upstairs to measure his rooms.

"Just who were you planning to serve tea to here, la.s.s?" Michael asked, brushing dust off a mantel. "The dead? They're about the only ones who'd appreciate the decor."

Fiona glowered at him. "You have no sense of possibility," she said. "Just imagine the walls painted cream, soft chairs, and tables covered with china and silver."

Michael still looked skeptical.

"Come on," she said, taking his hand and leading him out into the garden, where Alec was examining the roses. "Now ... just imagine coming into the yard in June with the roses in bloom and white lace tablecloths and pretty teapots and fancy cakes and lovely women in summer hats ... "

Michael looked at the roses. He also looked at the crumbling brick walls, the rusted iron sundial, the tangle of weeds clotting the path. "Who's going to clear all this out?" he asked.

"Alec. With two or three lads."

"And the renovations? You'll need more than two or three lads for that." "I know that," she said impatiently. ''I've already got a carpenter in mind, as well as a plasterer and painter. They'll bring the men they need with them."

"And I suppose you're going to come down here every day and oversee a dozen workmen?

Maybe put on a pair of overalls while you're at it and pick up a hammer?"

"I am going to come down here every day, but no, Uncle Michael, I'm not going to put on overalls. They don't suit me. I thought Frank Pryor, the carpenter, would make a good foreman," she said through gritted teeth. Why was her uncle always so difficult? Why was he never agreeable to her plans? Never behind her? Why was everything a b.l.o.o.d.y fight with him?

"What about the money? The four thousand dollars you want to borrow will cover the price of the building plus your renovations, right? What about everything else? Like the silverware and the china you'll need. And tablecloths and trays and the waitresses' wages and G.o.d knows what else."

"I can use some of my own money for that. Remember the shop? And TasTea?" she asked sarcastically. "They do produce income, you know. And Nick will help, too."

"With what? His good looks? He's broke, la.s.s! You told me so."

"His money's due from his father's bank soon. He told me his fund's worth over one hundred thousand pounds and he expects at least two thousand pounds every quarter. It's just a matter of another week or two. He's going to pay me rent for the upper two floors and help with the cost of their renovation. As for the things I need, I don't have to buy them new. Nick says I can get china and silver at auction houses and secondhand shops cheap. He's going to take me."

Michael scowled. "This is a waste of time and money," he said. "You've got one of the richest men in New York after you and all you can think of is peddling tea. What's wrong with you?

McClane 'll marry you soon and this'll all be for naught. That's what you ought to be doing-figuring out how to get a ring on your finger. Not messing about in this s.h.i.t heap!"

Fiona's eyes sparked with anger. "For your information, Will hasn't asked me to marry him,"

she said hotly. "Nor has anyone else. I've got myself to look after and a brother to raise and n.o.body's paying my bills but me."

Michael flapped his hand at her. "Why don't you fix up the house and rent out the floors? It would be a decent income without all the bother of a tearoom."

"No!" Fiona thundered. "Have you listened to anything I've said, you b.l.o.o.d.y man? A tearoom will help build my tea business. I've already explained all this!"

They were shouting now. Michael told her he wasn't risking any shop of his over such a foolish venture. Fiona said he wouldn't have his shop if it weren't for her. Telling her she couldn't hold that over his head forever, he stalked back into the house. She was on his heels, badgering. She wanted this building, needed it, felt she nearly had it in her hands, and now he was going to take it away from her. Alec, who'd heard the whole fracas, stood in the doorway behind them, puffing on his pipe. He motioned Michael over.

"Alec, can't it wait?" he asked testily.

"It cannot."

Michael followed him into the backyard. Fiona hung back in the doorway, listening, waiting for her chance to go at her uncle again as soon as Alec finished with him.

"What is it?" he asked, exasperated.