The Tea Rose Part 35

"Hylton!" his son hissed now. "What the h.e.l.l are you doing here?"

''I'm about to dine, dear boy. I'm a member now. Didn't you know? Just got voted in."

"Then I'm d.a.m.n well resigning! I won't patronize a club that allows the likes of muckrakers like you and her" -he hooked a thumb in Nellie's direction "in it."

''I'm the muckraker," Nellie said primly. "Peter doesn't deserve the t.i.tle." Will Junior ignored her. "You both think you can just go around sticking your noses into other people's business and splas.h.i.+ng it all over the place, don't you? Anything goes, as long as you get fodder for your d.a.m.ned rag!"

Peter, a short, fat man given to bright clothing and gold jewelry, recoiled, pulling his stubby-fingered hands to his chest like a chipmunk. "My word! Hopefully the dining room's a little more civilized," he said, moving off.

'Nellie watched him disappear into the dining room-a room whose occupants together were worth more than the gross national product of many countries. Whose power and influence shaped political and financial policy at the national and international levels. The envy in her eyes was palpable. "How come Hylton can get into this club and I can't?" she asked Will.

"Because he comes from a prominent family, believe it or not, and he's a man," he said.

"That's debatable," Will Junior fumed. "He's as swishy as a silk dress." "He's got a wife and children. They live in New Jersey," Nellie said.

"I don't blame them," Will Junior said. "Will you join us for dinner, Dad?" ''I'm afraid I can't.

I'm expecting guests. Carnegie and Frick."

''I'll be eager to hear how it went. I'll stop by your office first thing tomorrow. Bye, Dad," he said. He turned to Nellie. "Miss Bly, " he said icily.

As he departed, the maitre d', looking thunderous, advanced on them.

"Miss Bly, I've told you a hundred times, ladies are not allowed in the Union Club," he said, taking her elbow.

She jerked it out of his grip, finished her drink, and placed the gla.s.s on the bar. "Thanks for the Scotch, Will. Looks like your ghoul here's throwing me out of this mausoleum."

"Miss Bly! I insist you depart the premises this instant! "

"All right, chuckles, keep your hair on. I can see when I'm not wanted."

"Hardly, Nell," Will said, smiling. He watched her leave, grousing at the hapless maitre d'

every step of the way. When she was gone, he looked around at the interior of his club. Mausoleum!

He'd never thought of the Union in quite that way before, but Nellie had a point. Two elderly men shuffled by in dinner jackets, shouting at one another because they were both hard of hearing. Am I going to be here when I'm seventy? he wondered. Creaking around, gumming my dinner, haunting the place like some ghostly old fart?

He glanced at the other men around him-friends and colleagues-as they cl.u.s.tered by the bar or moved into the dining room. They spent their evenings here, not at their homes. Because there was no reason to. There was no love, no pa.s.sion in their marriages, no warmth in their beds. He knew this; there had been none in his, either. They gave their hearts to their businesses, not their wives; that's why they were all so d.a.m.ned rich.

If it was that sort of arrangement he wanted, Will knew he could easily have it. His sister and his late wife's friends had taken it upon themselves to match make. If he went along with their designs, he'd find himself married to the same sort of woman his wife had been-socially eminent, old money, well-bred -with the same dull, unsatisfying marriage he'd had. His new wife would be his social equal. A partner. At best, a friend. She'd endure his s.e.xual demands uncomplainingly, as Anna had, but she'd never demonstrate an ounce of desire or pleasure, because it wasn't proper. s.e.x was coa.r.s.e and vulgar and only for making children. If he wanted a romp with a woman who enjoyed lovemaking, he'd take up with a mistress, as he had done many times in the past. He and his wife would have separate lives, separate bedrooms.

But, by G.o.d, if Fiona were his, he wouldn't stay in a separate bedroom.

He'd make love to her every night, then fall asleep beside her, breathing in the sweet smell of her. He'd kiss her awake every morning and watch the life come back into those amazing eyes, watch her face crinkle into a broad, beautiful smile just for him. What would that be like? he wondered. To spend your life with a woman you were madly, pa.s.sionately in love with? He'd never known. He was forty-five years old and he had never known what it was like to be in love. But he did now. Nothing, no one had ever touched his heart as she had.

The door to the bar opened again and Will saw Carnegie and Frick walk through it, their long robber-baron faces somber enough to knock the romance out of Cupid. And suddenly he had no wish to discuss subways.

"Robert, would you do it again?" he had asked his brother. A week ago. In this very room.

"Do what?"

"Ask Elizabeth to marry you. Even though ... I mean, with all that happened."

"Even though she died?" Robert said gently. "Even though the love I felt for her seems to have ruined me for any other woman? Yes, I would. Without hesitation." Then he'd leaned forward and covered Will's hand with his own, a rare gesture between them. "You've followed your head your entire life, Will. It's time to follow your heart. You deserve that. At least once in your life.

Everybody does:"

Chapter 34.

Fiona, hands on her hips, stared at the mountain of wooden chests piling up on the sidewalk.

A deliveryman handed her a piece of paper. She read it and signed it. Then she closed her eyes and inhaled. She could smell it, even through the lead-lined wood. Tea. Warm, rich, and beguiling. There was nothing like it.

"You're mad, you know that?" Michael said, suddenly appearing from behind Millard's wagon. "That's fifty b.l.o.o.d.y chests of tea! Fifty! Where the devil are you going to put it all?"

"In one sixty-six. Right next door. It's clean and dry in there. There's nothing to scent the tea, since it was only a fabric shop, not a stable or some other smelly thing. You know all this. I told you I spoke with Mr. Simmons and that he gave me a good deal on the rent," she added impatiently.

"I thought it was just talk! I didn't think you were serious."

"Could you help the men move it inside, do you think? Instead of standing here carrying on?"

She glimpsed her brother scrambling up the chests. "Seamie! Come down before you fall!"

"Aw, Fee!"

"Fiona, that's five thousand pounds of tea sitting there," Michael said, following her as she went to yank her brother off the chests. "Five thousand pounds! You've spent a bleeding fortune!

Who do you think you are? An Astor? A Vanderbilt? Well, you're not-"

"Not yet," she corrected him. "Seamie! I said come down!"

"Catch me, Uncle Michael!" Seamie yelled, launching himself straight at his uncle.

"Who the h.e.l.l ... ooof!" he grunted, stumbling backward with an armful of five-year-old.

"Jaysus, lad! Almost knocked me straight on me a.r.s.e, you did!"

"Might've shut you up for five minutes," Fiona said under her breath. To her brother she said, "Go inside and wash up for supper."

Brus.h.i.+ng dust from his s.h.i.+rt, Michael resumed his rant. "What I want to know is who is going to pay for all of this?"

"We are. Millard's gave us ninety days instead of thirty. That's plenty of time."

Michael shook his head. "Hardly! Why did you have to buy fifty crates all at once?"

"I wanted to buyout Millard's entire stock of Indian tea. So no one else could get their hands on it. I told you that already, too. You don't listen to me."

"Two months from now we'll still be sitting on this, owing Millard's hundreds of dollars -"

Fiona cut him off. "No, we won't! Between the shop and my tearoom and the wholesale accounts -"

"What tearoom?"

"The one I'm going to have. I've already started hunting for a location."

"And what wholesale accounts?"

"Macy's. Crawford's. Child's Restaurants ... "

"They've ordered from you?"

"Well, not yet." Michael rolled his eyes. "But they will!" she insisted. ''I've got appointments with their buyers next week. I know they'll buy the tea as soon as they taste it. I just need a name for it. And some packaging I can show them. If you'd just help with the chests and let me go in to Nate and Maddie ... "

"Too many b.l.o.o.d.y big ideas," Michael groused, pulling a pair of work gloves from his pocket. "It's that William McClane who put them in your head. Next thing you'll go and buy us a whole bleeding tea plantation."

Fiona ignored the comment. She wished he hadn't mentioned Will. She had enjoyed his company so much and the fact that he hadn't called on her again saddened her, though she scolded herself for even having expectations. She told herself it was daft to think someone of his stature would be interested in her; she wasn't even good enough for a Whitechapel costermonger. Losing Joe had done more than break her heart-it had shattered her confidence, making her feel unattractive and unworthy. Feelings that Will's apparent lack of interest only served to confirm.

Michael, finally tired of haranguing her, grabbed a dolly from the delivery wagon and wheeled it over to the tea chests. Fiona returned to the shop where her friends were waiting. Nate was chewing on the end of a pencil, his brow furrowed, as he contemplated the drawing Maddie had spread out on top of the oak counter.

Fiona took a look at it. "Oh, Maddie!" she cried, delighted. "It's beautiful!"

"Do you like it?" Maddie asked, flus.h.i.+ng with pleasure.

"I love it!"

''I'm so glad. I was uncertain about the background. I wanted to ask Nick his opinion. He has such a good eye. He's coming soon, no? For supper, you said?"

"Yes, he is," she replied, turning around to look at the clock. She frowned when she saw it was already six-thirty. "He was supposed to be here by now. I wonder what's keeping him," she said.

She was worried. He hadn't looked good the last time she saw him, but he'd said he felt fine. He'd told her not to fuss. She fretted too much, she knew she did. About Nick, Seamie, everyone. It drove them mad, but she couldn't help it. She'd lost too many people not to worry about coughs and colds and little brothers climbing too high.

"Maybe it's the painters," Maddie said. "He said he was having them in this week. To do the walls. Remember? Maybe they're keeping him."

"You're right. He did say that. He'll probably be along any minute."

Relieved, Fiona turned her attention back to her friend's ill.u.s.tration.

Maddie had created a captivating scene of an Indian procession. Bejeweled maharajas on white elephants led the parade, followed by sari-clad women bearing baskets of tea leaves and children cavorting with parrots and monkeys. The maharajas held a banner aloft. It was blank.

"Will something go here?" Fiona asked, pointing to it.

"The tea's name," Nate said. "We need to give it one. We need to create a brand."

"A brand?"

"Yes. We have to teach the public to ask for your tea the same way they ask for a root beer, say, by ordering a Hires, or for soap by asking for a bar of Ivory. We have to convince them that your tea is better than the stuff sitting in a crate at their grocer's."

"How do we do that?"

"By brainstorming, to start with. Here, take some paper, and here's a pencil. Here, Mad, here's one for you. Let's start by writing down everything good about your tea, all of its qualities, to see if there's something there that would make a good name or a catchy slogan."

The three started scribbling, tossing words and descriptions at each other. "Brisk ... malty ...

biscuity ... " Fiona said.

"Biscuity?" Nate echoed.

"It means a good aroma from a properly fired leaf."

"Too specialized. Keep going."

"Urn soothing ... invigorating ... " Fiona said.

"Well which one?" Nate asked.

"Both."

"How can it be both?" "I don't know, but it is."

"Coppery strong ... bold " Maddie said.

"Refres.h.i.+ng restorative " Nate said.

The three friends kept on this way for a while, calling out anything they thought might be good, until they'd filled up their sheets of paper with words, but they still didn't have anything they liked. Stumped, Nate sighed, tapping his pencil against the counter. His eyes roved over Maddie's paper, looking for something they'd missed, then he looked at Fiona's notes.

"Hey!" he said. "What's this you've written, Fee?"

"Nothing, just scribbles."

"No, it's good. As a matter of fact, it's great! Look, Maddie."

In the lower left corner, she had written the words "delicious" and "tasty." Then she'd scribbled out "tasty" and had written "tasty tea," then "tastea," then she'd played around subst.i.tuting the "tea" for "ty" on a few other words, like "raritea" and "qualitea."

"I think we've got something here," he said excitedly. "How about this ... TasTea-a qualitea ...

with great affordabilitea ... no, that's wrong, the last part. Urn ... what else could we do? Propertea, subtletea, personnalitea, honestea, hostilitea ... "

"Hostilitea?" Fiona said. "Oh, that's appealing, Nate." "No ... no, specialtea!" Maddie shouted.

"That's it, cara!" Nate yelled, kissing his wife. "Let's see ... TasTea ... TasTea ... a qualitea ...