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Home is where his heart is...but what about hers?
Family was always a foreign concept to Liam Delaney. Until research into one of his documentary films brings him to Savannah and Dolley Fitzgerald’s B and B. Dolley’s passion for life and photography is infectious. When she becomes his apprentice, they’re the perfect team in every way. He’s finally found the home he’s always wanted, and it’s all because of her.
The only problem is that his dream is of a home and family, while Dolley craves adventure. They may be at odds, but Liam knows they can make both of their dreams come true together. He just needs to convince her...
Liam pulled her close. They fit perfectly.
He tasted wine and Dolley, all in one spicy kiss.
Someone moaned. Maybe it was him.
The past month had been leading up to this one perfect moment.
Her head tipped back in surrender. Her fingers gripped his hair.
How had they waited this long?
“Wait.” Her word was muffled against his mouth. “Stop.”
He pulled away, gasping. “Incredible.”
“No.” She shook her head. “No. That shouldn’t have happened. It can’t happen.”
“But...” His fingers tightened on her arms.
She stepped away, her hand covering her mouth. “If we keep going, everything will be ruined. Ruined.”
Dear Reader,
Welcome back to Fitzgerald House. If you haven’t visited before, Fitzgerald House is a bed-and-breakfast set in Savannah’s wonderful historic district. The three Fitzgerald sisters, Abigail, Bess and Dolley, own and operate the expanding B and B.
In A Savannah Christmas Wish, Fitzgerald House book two, you briefly met Liam Delaney, an Irish photographer and documentary maker. Liam stays at the B and B and shares Christmas with the Fitzgeralds. Through a Magnolia Filter, Fitzgerald House book three, overlaps with book two. Don’t let that worry you. The books can be read as stand-alones! In the beginning of this book, Bess and Daniel aren’t together. I had a blast writing the Christmas scene from Liam’s and Dolley’s perspectives. I’d love to know what you think about seeing the scene through a different set of eyes. You can contact me through my website, www.nandixon.com.
Dolley wants what Liam has: to travel the world for a career in photography. Liam longs for roots, family and a home—everything Dolley has but wants to give up.
This couple is one of my favorites (don’t tell the others!). Liam has a swoon-worthy Irish accent and needs love and family. And spunky, brilliant Dolley deserves love and to have her talent recognized.
If you’d like to see some of the incredible Bonaventure Cemetery statuary, check out my Pinterest page. I create a board for each of my books: www.pinterest.com/nandixonauthor.
Enjoy Savannah!
Nan Dixon
NAN DIXON spent her formative years as an actress, singer, dancer and competitive golfer. But the need to eat had her studying accounting in college. Unfortunately, being a successful financial executive didn’t feed her passion to perform. When the pharmaceutical company she worked for was purchased, Nan got the chance of a lifetime—the opportunity to pursue a writing career. She’s a five-time Golden Heart® finalist, lives in the Midwest and is active in her local RWA chapter and on the board of a dance company. She has five children, three sons-in-law, one grandchild, one grandchild on the way and one neurotic cat.
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To Mom and Dad always.
Just like Dolley, I never shared my dream of becoming a writer. I hope you would be proud.
Mom, you took a chance and left everything and everyone you loved in England and followed your heart to America. You were amazing. To my wonderful, fabulous family, thank you for supporting my writing. Lily—you are a bright light and I can’t wait to meet Harper!
Thank you to my Harlequin team for believing in this series and guiding me through the publication process: Piya Campana, Megan Long, Victoria Curran, Deirdre McCluskey and all the others whom I don’t even know.
I couldn’t have envisioned this book without my critique group challenging me to dig deeper. Thank you, Ann Hinnenkamp, Leanne Farella, Neroli Lacey and Kathryn Kohorst. And my Golden Heart sisters keep me sane—Dreamcatchers, Lucky 13s, Starcatchers and the Unsinkables. And my writing community—MFW, you’re the best.
And last, this book is for the group that started it all—my sisters. Mo, Sue and Trish.
Contents
COVER
BACK COVER TEXT
INTRODUCTION
Dear Reader
TITLE PAGE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
EPILOGUE
EXTRACT
COPYRIGHT
CHAPTER ONE
Use a picture. It’s worth a thousand words.
Arthur Brisbane
LIAM DELANEY WAS an orphan. Again. He laced his hands together and waited for the priest to bury his godfather. A sigh whistled between his lips. At thirty, being alone shouldn’t matter. But it did. Was it wrong to want a home, a family? To belong?
The wind caught the priest’s deep voice and swirled it round the cemetery. Latin. English. The languages blended in the breeze.
Ignoring the words, Liam listened to the priest’s tone for any hint of sorrow at the passing of the man in the coffin. He heard none. No surprise that. He’d lived with the man for eleven long years.
This day couldn’t end soon enough. He was ready to escape Kilkee for the final time. Leave this reminder of his childhood and catch a plane—anywhere. Just so he wasn’t in Clare, Ireland.
As a distraction, he plotted how he would film Seamus FitzGerald’s funeral. With a wide angle, he’d pan from the crumbling dark stone wall through the gray-and-white crosses and sinking headstones. While the priest droned, he’d linger on the yellow warbler perched on a cherub statue and let its sweet, clear song play. The camera would swing to the Celtic cross marking his godparents’ graves. The towering cross lorded over the monuments of the other FitzGeralds buried near.
Seamus’s wife had died twenty-five years ago. Liam had only known her through pictures he’d found in the manor. Photographic evidence Seamus had once been happy.
When Seamus buried his wife, he’d buried his smile.
After pausing the camera on the cross, he’d pan to the eight mourners gathered round the open grave. The priest. The housekeeper. The mortuary man. The groundskeeper. Three strangers, one young and two who must be Seamus’s chums. And him, the unloved godchild. Standing alone.
Compared to memories of his parents’ funeral, this service was stark. For his da and mum there had been flowers, music, tears and hordes of people. Liam had stood next to his scowling godfather, grieving. He hadn’t realized he would never be hugged again. A lad of eight needed hugs.
He’d learned to expect no affection from the man in the coffin.
A gust of wind fluttered the flower petals in the arrangement straddling the yawning hole. A bee flitted from the single funereal wreath. His camera would follow the bee as it left the daisy to circle Father Patrick’s head.
The priest intoned, “Because God has chosen to call our brother, Seamus James FitzGerald, from this life to himself, we commit his body to the earth, for we are dust and unto dust we shall return.”
Liam would shift the camera frame to the housekeeper’s face. Wind tugged strands of gray hair free from her bun and ruffled her black skirt. He’d track the tear slipping down her lined cheek in a harsh unforgiving close-up.
Why would anyone shed a tear for Seamus?
Cut.
This day was such an un-Irish, un-Seamus fall day. It was a chilly ten degrees for October, but sunlight lit the Kilkee countryside.
The man he’d lived with from the time he was eight until he’d escaped with his cameras at nineteen had just been laid to rest. Instead of sorrow, he felt—empty.
Here lies an unhappy man. Liam wanted to engrave the words on the cross.
The graveside service concluded. The small group waited, the silence broken by the warbler’s joy-filled tune.
Liam refused to add any bitter words to the priest’s platitudes, and the mourners eventually shuffled away from the yawning hole.
A young stranger placed a meaty hand on Liam’s sleeve. He was large enough to play American football. How had he known his godfather?
Squinting against the sun, the man said, “Mr. Delaney, I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you.” Liam turned to leave.
The man’s hand tightened on his arm. “I’m Seamus’s solicitor, Ian Lachlan.”
Liam shook Ian’s outstretched hand.
“When you can make the time, I’d like to speak with you,” Ian said.
Behind Ian, the housekeeper, Mrs. Needles, waited. Liam nodded in her direction.
“Are you staying at the manor?” Ian asked.
Absolutely not. He rolled his shoulders. “I’m at the inn.”
Ian tugged out a card. “Please, call me at your earliest convenience.”
Liam tucked the card in his pocket. “I planned to motor back to Galway today.” And find somewhere else to go. Somewhere he felt welcome.
“But Seamus’s will?” The solicitor frowned. “Your godfather has specific requests for you. You must stay.”
Requests? Why should he do anything for that curmudgeon?
Ian glanced back at Mrs. Needles. The priest joined the housekeeper. “Could we meet this afternoon?”
Reluctantly, Liam said, “Aye.”
He accepted condolences and words of sorrow. He listened to a recounting of Seamus’s last days from Mrs. Needles. Apparently, he made the right noises because neither the priest nor the housekeeper looked appalled.
What could his godfather want now?
He wanted to be anywhere but Kilkee.
* * *
“I DON’T WANT IT.” Liam leaned forward in his chair and set his bitter coffee on Ian’s desk. “I don’t want anything from my godfather.”
“But Seamus loved the house.” Mr. Lachlan’s chair squeaked as he leaned forward. “The will stipulates the manor passes to you.”
“My life is no longer here in Clare. I’ve a flat in Galway.” He hadn’t set foot in Kilkee for almost five years.
“But the house was built in 1785. It’s a treasure.”
“The house is drafty and dismal. Unless Seamus loosened his pocketbook, it needs repairs that will cost more than I’ll earn in the next ten years. Sell the bloody place.”
“Oh, no.” Ian’s thumb tapped the papers on the desk. “Why don’t you wait to make that decision? Recover from your grief.”
Liam wasn’t grieving. The only grief remaining was the lingering wisps of sorrow for his parents.
“Mrs. Needles has committed to stay through year end. My office handles Seamus’s financial affairs. We could continue that plan,” Ian added. “And there’s some money that goes along with the manor house.”
“I’ll wait a while.” He didn’t want to deal with decisions on the manor. “But I doubt I’ll change my mind. Keep up his arrangements.”
He could sell the mausoleum next year. Seamus couldn’t have left him enough money to keep him here. There wasn’t enough money in all of Kilkee to tie him to his childhood nightmares. “The only thing I’d like is my godfather’s cameras.”
As a child he’d never been allowed to touch the Hasselblad or Rolleiflex.
Ian shifted in his seat. “About the cameras.”
Liam’s shoulders sank. Were they gone? Had Seamus been that spiteful? “What did he do?”
“It’s not what Seamus did.” Ian rocked forward, and the chair let out a long screech that clawed up Liam’s spine. “He wants you to do something.”
“What?” Liam spit the word out.
“A few years ago, your godfather started working on his family tree.” Ian leaned back and the darn chair squealed again. “I helped him with the software and some research. He traced a branch of the FitzGerald family to Savannah.”
“Savannah?” Where was that?
“Savannah. It’s in Georgia,” Ian said. “The family runs a B and B there.”
“Georgia? By the Black Sea?”
“No. America.”
America? “Did Seamus leave the cameras to these relatives?”
“No. No.” The chair squeaked again.
Liam was bringing an oil can if he met with Ian again.
“He had letters he wanted to give to his American relatives, the Fitzgeralds,” Ian said.
“American relations?” Ian wasn’t making any sense. He’d never heard of any relatives.
“Seamus found letters from his great-great-great-uncle James in America to James’s brother, Michael, who stayed in Ireland. James was the second son and decided to make his fortune somewhere other than at the Irish quarries. Michael stayed here.”
Liam’s head reeled from all the relationships. “I need a road map.”
Ian pulled out a family tree and spread it on the table.
“James moved to America before the famine, around 1830. His brother, Michael, stayed in Clare.”
“Why was Seamus so interested in these... Americans?” He took a sip of his now-cold coffee.
“It seems James did well for himself, first with shipping, then banking and real estate. The family was able to hang on and prosper after their civil war.”
Liam waited. “And?”
“Seamus talked about visiting the family. Showing them the letters, but his doctor said no.”
“My godfather wanted to meet them? He hated people.” Liam couldn’t believe Seamus would pursue something this crazy. “Did he lose his marbles in the last few years?”
Ian shook his head. “He was of sound mind.”
Liam paced to the window and stared at the pub across the street. A pint might help him swallow this strange tale.
“His faculties weren’t impaired.” Ian was being kind.
Liam bet the solicitor had felt the sting of Seamus’s tongue more than once in their working relationship. “This doesn’t affect me. I’m not related.”
Ian frowned. “Seamus wants you to take James’s letters from America back to his relatives.”
“Why bother?”
“Because it was a dying man’s wish.” Ian handed him a file. “I’ve copied the pertinent facts for you and included the material Seamus put together on the family.
“The will is specific.” Ian took a deep breath. “If you don’t take the letters to the Savannah Fitzgeralds, you don’t get the cameras.”
“You’re kidding.” This was Seamus’s final payback for Liam refusing to run the quarries. The bastard knew all Liam wanted was the cameras. “Can’t you just mail the letters?”
“They have to be delivered. By you.”
Liam swore. “And if I refuse?”
Ian held up his hands. “I can’t authorize Mrs. Needles to release the cameras.”
Liam pushed away from the desk, pacing the small office. Bugger Seamus. He didn’t need more cameras. He had plenty.
But the cameras were his childhood’s forbidden fruit. The golden apple just out of reach.
“When do I have to bring these letters to my uncle’s relatives?”
Ian smiled. “You have six months.”
Six months. He crossed the pond a couple times a year to meet with his producers in New York. Maybe Savannah was close enough to swing over for a day.
Ian pushed the file across his desk. “Take a look at the information. I certainly wouldn’t mind visiting the family.”
Liam flipped open the file. In front was a printout of an article with the title Fitzgerald Family Expands B and B to Include Carleton House. Four smiling women stood, arm in arm.
Family. He swallowed back his longing. “This is the only way?”
Ian nodded. “Yes.”
He looked at the Fitzgeralds. “Bollocks. I’ll do it.”
“Good.” Ian pushed a piece of paper toward Liam. “We’ll make it nice and tidy. Then Mrs. Needles can release the cameras and anything else you want.”
“I just want his cameras.” Liam dashed his signature on the line.
He didn’t want to stay in Kilkee any longer than required. “I’ll go up there now.”
“I’ll notify Mrs. Needles.” Ian loaded Liam down with a box of papers and folders. “The Fitzgeralds’ copies are in this envelope. I’ve had copies made for you, too. There’s also a copy of Seamus’s will.”
Ian held the door and walked Liam to his car. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“Sure.” Not if he could help it. He wanted to be free of this place. And he definitely didn’t want to head to the manor. But he turned the car up the cliff road.
The house overlooking Kilkee Bay hadn’t changed. The blue-gray stone manor had dark, tiny inset windows framed with tan limestone. The faded red door wasn’t inviting. The roof was a sorrowful gray slate. Seamus had boasted all the stone had come from FitzGerald quarries.
Liam’s chest tightened as he parked in the drive. The loneliness of his childhood weighed down his shoulders.
The house could have been quaint or even elegant. It was neither. It was his worst horror. A place where he’d grieved his parents and no one had cared.
The flagstone drive, also from the quarries, muffled the strike of his shoes. He stopped in the courtyard, glaring at the house.
The door pulled open with a dull pop.
“Come in, come in.” Mrs. Needles waved him inside. “I’m sorry for your loss, Master Liam.”
“It’s just Liam.” No one had called him Master Liam since boarding school. “Thank you for your sympathy, but you worked for my godfather. You know we weren’t close.”
“Oh, how proud he was whenever one of your books came out.” She eased off his leather jacket and hung it on the tree before he could protest. “Mr. FitzGerald bragged on how he’d taught you everything you knew about photography.”
“He followed my career?” Liam blurted out.
“Oh, he did. Loved to boast about you down at the pub.” She patted his arm. “He wasn’t as keen on the documentaries, but he watched them all the same.”
This didn’t make any sense. When he hadn’t stayed in Kilkee, he and Seamus rarely talked.
“Seamus did love photography,” Liam said. The only thing he’d loved. And his godfather had made him slave long hours in the darkroom.
“He was proud of you. Come on back to the kitchen.” She tugged on his elbow. “I’ve just brewed a pot of tea.”
“I hadn’t planned on staying. I’m only here for the cameras.”
She ignored his reluctance, leading him down the dim, narrow hall. The lemon polish on the shining wood didn’t mask the musty smell of the old house.
“I’ve everything packed in a box and a few of your school things Mr. FitzGerald saved.” Her eyes twinkled. “You must have been a terror in school. There’s a number of notes from headmasters.”
She pushed open the kitchen door. Bright yellow curtains graced the windows.
“I can’t believe Seamus sprang for something new in this mausoleum,” he spat out.
She winked. “My mince pies got me those curtains.”
A peat fire burned on the grate, the pungent scent warming the room. Mrs. Needles poured two mugs as he settled in a chair in front of the hearth. Then she piled a plate with raspberry tarts and shortbread cookies.
This wasn’t the house he remembered. For once he felt...welcomed.
He took a bite of a crisp cookie. Buttery sugar melted in his mouth. Then he popped a tart in his mouth, the crust flaky and the jam sweet. “These are tops. If you’d been housekeeper when I was a child, I don’t think I’d have gotten in so much trouble at school.”
“If I’d been housekeeper, you would have behaved. I raised three boys from lads to men. I’m a grandmother three times.”
He let her ramble on about her children and sipped his strong black tea, feeling strangely at ease in a house he hated.
She walked into the breakfast room and came back with a box. “Are you sure you don’t want to look around the place? Identify things you’d like packed up? Maybe stay the night?”
“Thanks, no. I’m at the inn.” But for once, he was tempted to linger.
She pointed at the empty plate. “How about another cup of tea and a few more biscuits?”
“I’d like that.”
* * *
“ONCE MORE WITH FEELING,” Dolley called, reducing the f-stop on her camera.
Damian, the bar owner, rolled his eyes, but picked up a martini glass and pretended to hand the bright blue drink to Dolley’s coworker, Anne. On the dark wood bar sat two more cocktails, one electric pink and the other neon green.
Dolley made sure Anne, Damian, the drinks and the wall of gleaming bottles behind the bar were in focus. She snapped away. “Smile.”
Anne’s and Damian’s smiles were forced.
“Come on, think of something fun,” she suggested. “Like vacations or...sex.”
They both grinned. Exactly what she wanted. She captured a few more photos and then pulled the camera away. “Perfect.”
“Finally.” Damian dropped his elbows to the counter and heaved a sigh. “I’ve got thirsty customers to serve.”
Dolley caught a few more shots of Damian as he worked. He was so darn cute. And married. Oh, well. “You’ll have more customers once I update your website.”
She hoped the last pictures of Damian turned out. His dimpled grin would pull in tons of female customers.
“I can’t wait to see it.” Damian put the martinis he’d made for the photos on a tray, adding a clear martini. “Here. For your trouble.”
Anne grinned. “Thanks.”
Dolley grabbed her jacket. “I’ll send the website link in a couple of days.”
She and Anne took the tray out to the patio. It was a perfect October night in Savannah.
“I’m jealous you get to design websites and take pictures for them.” Anne sipped the bright blue drink. “Oh, this is delicious.”
“You could, too.”
“Have you seen my client list? Georgia Gravel Company. Chatham Reclamation.” Anne shook her head. “I’ll let them take their own pictures, thank you.”
“You have no sense of adventure. You could climb the gravel piles, wade through garbage.”
“Not happening.” Anne shook her head hard.
Dolley tasted the neon-green drink. “This one’s apple.”
“Let me try.” Anne took a sip. “That’s good.”
“Anything new at the office today?” Dolley asked.
“Be glad you worked from home.” Anne twirled her glass. “Jackson was on a rampage. We weren’t meeting deadlines. Clients were mad.” Anne shoved her gorgeous blond hair over her shoulder.
What Dolley wouldn’t give to have straight hair like her friend. Instead, her curls looked like she was auditioning for the lead role in Annie. “Glad I wasn’t there.”
“There has to be somewhere else to work.” Anne slumped in her chair.