Through A Magnolia Filter. Nan Dixon

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СКАЧАТЬ when I checked the sisters and Savannah out, I was intrigued.”

      “Sisters?” His producer raised her eyebrows. “How pretty are they?”

      “Not in that way.” Although Dolley’s face was...engaging. He’d toyed with the idea of including her family in the documentary, but didn’t know how the story would unfold or if they would fit his premise. “What did you think of the title, Savannah’s Irish Roots?”

      She smiled and nodded. “We’ll test it.”

      That was the best he could ask for. “Good.”

      “Since you’re this side of the pond, why don’t you spend Christmas with us?” Barbara asked.

      “I’d rather be in Savannah than up here in the cold.” He shivered.

      Barbara shook her head. “You shouldn’t spend Christmas alone.”

      “Holidays don’t mean much to me.” He couldn’t let them. “Even when I was in boarding school, Seamus usually left me there.”

      “The old scrooge.” Her tone was incensed. “You deserved better.”

      “I survived.” He crossed his legs. He’d learned how to fit in and ingratiate himself with the other students. “School chums invited me home for the holidays.”

      “That’s just wrong.” Barbara sighed. “Come to my house. You should be around people who care about you.”

      “I’ll think on it.” Now that he had his approval, he wanted to immerse himself in the Irish stories of Savannah and dig into the research.

      And he wanted to meet his shirttail relatives, the Fitzgeralds. How should he play this?

      It was boarding school all over again.

      * * *

      DOLLEY PULLED THE cork on another bottle of wine, and it opened with a pop. The tart aroma mingled with the pine of the Christmas tree in the corner. Evergreen boughs on the mantel and the spicy appetizers added to the incredible smells filling the library.

      It wasn’t Dolley’s night to host the wine tasting, but since Abby’s fiancé was back in town, she’d volunteered. Abby had jumped at the chance to spend time with Gray. Her sister hadn’t even noticed Dolley’s new dress.

      Dolley had planned to volunteer anyway. Mr. Liam Delaney was checking in tonight. The voice. She tugged on her hem. The black dress hugged her curves but kept creeping up. It was probably better for clubbing than for the B and B, but—Liam Delaney. Enough said.

      Online, she’d found a wealth of information on their guest. When she grew up, she wanted to be Liam Delaney. He was a documentary filmmaker and a photographer. Envy shot through her. His body of work was amazing. He’d traveled the world, linking his photography to his films. She planned to pick his brain about his career, without being creepy.

      She checked the flames under the chafing dish and opened the last bottle of wine.

      Her one claim to photography fame was the picture of her mother. And she hadn’t even told her sisters she’d won the contest. Somehow the words just wouldn’t leave her mouth.

      Abby and Bess were so talented. One picture was nothing compared to what her sisters had accomplished in their careers, Abby in the kitchen and Bess with her landscaping.

      A honeymoon couple walked into the library, arm in arm. The newlyweds had stayed at Fitzgerald House for the last few days.

      “How was your day?” Dolley asked.

      “We kayaked off Tybee Island.” The bride massaged her upper arm.

      “Did you get to the salt marshes?” Dolley asked.

      The groom nodded. “Almost had to pull Gretchen across the bay. There was a little chop, but we got there.”

      Now she remembered their names. Gretchen and Denny.

      The couple headed to the wines and food. Tonight’s offerings were from Germany: a Riesling, a pinot gris and pinot noir. She sampled the red. Not bad. She checked the cards Abby created for the appetizers. Then she took a plate and added pork turnovers, pretzels, warm German potato salad and barbequed kielbasa. She skipped the sauerkraut crepes.

      Checking the food layout one more time, she headed to the foyer. Her heels echoed on the marble floor. She would let the guests enjoy their wine and keep an eye out for Liam, the last guest checking in tonight.

      She skirted the foyer table. Her sister, Bess, had designed a tower of poinsettias shaped like a Christmas tree. The red-and-pink leaves sparkled with glitter. Another Christmas tree twinkled in the front window. They’d decorated seventeen trees in the House this year, a new record.

      She took a seat at the Queen Anne secretary they used as a reception desk.

      The front door opened, and she started to stand.

      It was another honeymoon couple. They waved and headed toward the library.

      Dolley sank back into her chair. What if Mr. Delaney didn’t show? That would hurt. He’d eventually asked for a discount, but they were still going to clear a tidy profit from his stay. She’d held firm that they couldn’t discount rooms during the St. Patrick’s Day festivities. They had to maintain their prices during high season.

      Finishing her dinner, she returned the plate to the packed library. Cheryl, a B and B employee, restocked the food. They smiled at each other. Dolley bussed a tray of dirty dishes to the kitchen.

      Might as well check the reservation line messages. She put a hold on a room and returned the call, entering the credit card information. Then she pulled this year’s reservation data down into a spreadsheet. For fun, she created a comparison graph with the prior year’s reservations. These cool facts would be nice to show at their next sister meeting.

      She pushed back a curl that kept falling in her eye. What next? Pulling out her bag, she settled behind the desk. She would work on photo cards, her creative contribution to the gift shop scheduled to open in January.

      She glued pictures on a pale blue fold-over card stock, hoping the result was classy and contemporary. They would sell the cards as six-packs. Each pack included a picture of Fitzgerald House and the rooms the guests saw most: the formal dining room, library and sunroom. All photos she’d shot. The rest of the packet varied, with shots of the gardens or guest rooms. By the time she’d glued all the pictures, she’d made ten packs.

      She checked her watch. Almost eight o’clock. Mr. Delaney was supposed to have been here by six. This was getting ridiculous. She’d never waited at the reception desk for a guest.

      The front door opened, and there was a swoosh of nylon rubbing nylon. A lean man with dark wavy hair lugged two large suitcases across the foyer. Mr. Delaney?

      “Let me help.” She grabbed a roller bag.

      “Thank you.” He turned, his gaze catching hers, his eyes a brilliant blue that almost looked purple. “I’m checking in.”

      Hurrying around the desk, she asked, “Liam Delaney?”

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