Chapter 4
four
MAGS
No matter how many times Mags counted the loose change in her purse, it didn’t miraculously multiply.
She’d scrimped all week to have enough to buy a meal and at least one drink at Murphy’s with her friends, but alas, fabric was a lot more expensive than when she was only buying stranded embroidery cotton, and her last purchase had left her woefully short.
Work was going well, at least. By the end of the week, she should have her first-ever order complete, and once she got paid, she could breathe a little easier. The client was a bit snobby, but Mags could admit that the middle-aged woman had excellent taste.
She wanted a tailored blazer. Mags allowed clients to pick the fabric color within reason, preferring soft, muted earth tones over jewel tones. However, the embroidery design and placement were all Mags. No discussion. No give.
Embroidery was her art, and no one would tell her how to express it. Plus, by meeting a client personally, she was able to determine what would work best for them.
She’d heeded Mirren’s advice and took teaser progress pictures along with doodles and sketches for the website and shared them on TikTok.
She was slowly growing a fanbase. People especially loved the videos in which she walked viewers through a particular stitch or explained how historical prints and architecture inspired her designs.
Mags just needed time and patience. Success would be hers eventually. Time and patience.
The only negative besides her growling tummy was the image of the tiny, brown tabby kitten she’d found dead on the top of the stairway outside her door that morning. The poor thing had been partially mangled, its wee neck bent cruelly.
Mags could only surmise that she’d foolishly left the back entrance open, and some predatory animal had, for whatever reason, dragged its prey up the stairs. Thank God the gallery’s back entrance was solid metal with a security pad.
She shuddered imagining what would have happened had her carelessness opened up the Smith Gallery to criminals.
As it was, she’d had to wrap the kitten in a scrap of leftover cloth and detour into one of the city’s parks to bury the poor thing, albeit shallowly, before she made the one-mile trek to the gym she was a member of.
The gym wasn’t a looker and far from the fashionable one she used to take classes occasionally with her friends, but it was cheap and had showers. So on the days when she craved a full shower and not the cloth baths she took in the gallery’s bathroom, she went there.
They had a few spin and yoga classes. The best part was that the locker room had small lockers to rent for cheap, where she could keep a set of toiletries.
Her eyes lit up when Ciar’s dad’s pub came into view.
Murphy’s had been kind of a rite of passage for her and her friends, and it still felt like coming home.
The creak of the wooden floors, the clink of pints being drawn, and the smell of Ciaran Murphy’s famous crab cakes always made her smile over the nostalgia.
Nowadays, Ciaran worked less in the kitchen. Ciar’s Russian Aunt Alya had taken over since she and her daughters had moved permanently to Dublin. Word on the street, which was really just her friends’ text group, was that Ciar and Ciaran were fighting over the chef.
Ciaran seemed to be winning, but the girls were of the opinion that Alya was secretly sweet on the older Murphy. Time would tell.
She pushed through the heavy wooden door, mentally reminding herself of all the lies she was currently working, and smiled as she spotted her group by the bar.
And there it was, the first blow of the evening. Jonathan had a leggy model wrapped around his waist, her curtain of straight, fake blonde hair hanging perfectly down her back like a curtain.
He was no longer her obsession.
Not her problem.
She instantly gave herself a little mental pep talk. Be yourself, Mags. Enjoy this time with your friends. Do not let Jonathan O’Faolain dictate your happiness.
Mags waved when she heard “Mags!” “About time,” and “You made it!”
She gave hugs all around, with the exception of Jonathan and his…date. She did, however, force herself to smile and extend a hand in greeting.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Margaret.” Petty, but she refused to give Jonathan’s waste of space her nickname.
And…wait for it…Miss Model smirked as she rudely looked Mags up and down while giving her fingertips in what must have been the world’s limpest excuse for a handshake.
“Jasmine,” she chuckled. “Right. The designer. I wouldn’t have guessed.”
As digs went, her jab dug in nice and deep. Mags knew she wasn’t looking a hundred percent, but she was tired and hungry.
She could feel her friends stiffen. Gray took a step forward, ready to, most likely, snatch the woman from Jonathan and toss her out the door. Jonathan looked stunned. Whatever. Jonathan had a type.
Mags just smiled and said, “Right. My style’s not for everyone, that’s for sure. Nice to meet you, Jasmine.” She quickly turned to Blair before her smile faltered into a grimace and signed, “Do we have a table, or are we just hanging at the bar? I don’t mind either way.”
Blair, Bébhinn, and Gray took the hint and turned to face Cormac, Ciar’s uncle, to shout out their drink orders.
“Just water with lemon for me, Mr. Murphy,” Mags grinned. “And where’s the other Mr. Murphy hiding?”
“Yeah, well, be thankful the good brother will be serving you today, Miss Morrow. Ciaran can’t go an hour without haranguing the new cook—too much salt on the chips, too much batter on the cod, mash on the pie isn’t whipped enough. The man is embarrassing himself.”
“Aunt Alya isn’t a cook, Uncle, she’s a trained chef for the love of God.” Ciar leaned against the bar and rolled his eyes. “You and Dad are being selfish pricks keeping her here. I’ve told her she would make triple at Gray Eyes.”
“Gray Eyes doesn’t have your dad, babe. Let it go,” Gray teased, elbowing her husband in the side.
“I bet if I walked into that kitchen right now, I’d find Ciaran and Aunt Alya in a compromising position,” Jonathan joked.
Jonathan had come closer to the group, leaving Jasmine sitting on a stool by herself. While Daniel was busy telling Cormac that he swore his brother’s lips looked like they’d been kiss swollen when he’d come in for a pint last week, and everyone hooted with laughter, Jonathan leaned close.
“Mags,” he started. “I’m sorry about—”
She cut him off, no longer interested in hearing him apologize for his poor choices yet again. “It’s fine. It meant nothing to me.”
Cormac dragged a bar rag around her glass of water. “No rum and Coke today, Mags?”
“Eh, I’ve got a few hours of work left when I get home, and alcohol isn’t the best incentive.” Which was true, but she would have gladly thrown one back if she had the funds.
Jonathan tried to get her attention when Bébhinn announced that everyone should place their food orders before they found a table.
Thankfully, Mags’ phone screen lit up with a call from her mom, saving her from the group's scrutiny over her lack of a food order as well.
Backing away from the group, she said, “No food for me, Cormac. I was a glutton and ate way too much breakfast.” Before the inevitable questions of what she stuffed her face with, she quickly added, “Hey, Mom's ringing, I’m going to step around the corner to hear her.”
Congratulating herself on the smooth exit, she rounded the corner to the restrooms. She answered, “Hey, Mom, you’re up bright and early.”
“I’m sorry to bother your friend time, sweetheart, but I have such exciting news, I couldn’t wait to tell you,” her mom said, clearly excited.
“Oh, my God. Tell me, tell me, tell me!” Mags was already chanting “be healthy” over and over in her head.
“One month, six weeks at the most, and your dad and I can come home.”
Mags heard her mom squealing and clapping her hands, and her dad laughing in the background. “No way, Mom. Finally. Holy shit! Finally. So, what does this mean? Are you healed? Do you feel healed? Do you have to do anymore treatments?”
“I have to do one more round of treatment, but my doctor said my scans are already good. He just refuses to take any chances. And yes, I feel healed,” she laughed, “and so happy. I’ve missed you and your sister horribly. I can’t wait to hold you in my arms again.”
“Me too, Mom. It’s been hard having you so far away, but we’re down to weeks now. We can make it a few more weeks. And Dad? Did he turn in his manuscript? Or the first half, I mean?”
“He did, and the university press’ publicist loved it.”
Mags felt her heart soar and the weight of bricks fall from her shoulders. Her financial struggles were nothing compared to what her parents had been going through, and it seemed like her family’s toughest times were finally moving behind them.
“Are you getting Ciaran’s famous crab cakes for lunch or a juicy burger and fries?”
“Can a girl not order the cakes and the burger? Geez, Mom, you know I’m always starving.
I already ordered, and the food can’t come soon enough.
Oh, and Ciaran probably isn’t cooking the food today, since Ciar’s aunt Alya kind of kicked him out of the kitchen a few weeks ago. ” She smiled when her mom giggled.
Mags hung up after she and her parents said goodbye. She still had a grin on her face when she whirled around to find Jonathan leaning on the wall behind her. She gasped in outrage at his listening to her private conversation, but fear quickly followed.
“What the hell, creeper?” She stepped to the right, prepared to go around him, when his hand snaked out and grasped her forearm, stopping her retreat.
“What the fuck is going on, Mags?” Jonathan demanded.
He loomed over her shoulder. Not a bit of mirth showed on his face. Stray beams of sun highlighted his white hair like a damn halo, distracting her and sparking flames she’d been doing so well extinguishing.