“I’m sure we’d know if anything was wrong. Mags has never been a person to whine in silence,” Daniel joked.
Before Jonathan could ask Bébhinn anything else, his dad and Bran poked their heads in to announce that their car was waiting, and their moms were leaving Triskelion now.
Sunday, he swore to himself, Sunday he would get some answers.
four
MAGS
No matterhow 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 thewooden 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.
