Her aversion to the phone had caused him to resort to telegrams, which he fired off to the west with blistering regularity.
Her one and only answer had been brief and to the point: STOP NAGGING.
Imagine, Rogan thought as he unlocked the elegant glass doors of the gallery. She’d accused him of nagging, like some spoiled, whiny child. He was a businessman, for God’s sake, one about to give her career an astronomical boost. And she wouldn’t even spare the time to pick up the damn phone and have a reasonable conversation.
He was used to artists. Sweet Mary knew he had dealt with their eccentricities, their insecurities, their often childish demands. It was his job to do so, and he considered himself adept. But Maggie Concannon was trying both his skill and his patience.
He relocked the doors behind him and breathed in the quietly scented air of the gallery. Built by his grandfather, the building was lofty and grand, a striking testament to art with its Gothic stonework and carved balusters.
The interior consisted of dozens of rooms, some small, some large, all flowing into the next with wide archways. Stairs curved up fluidly to a second story that housed a ballroom-size space along with intimate parlors fitted with antique sofas.
It was there he would show Maggie’s work. In the ballroom he would have a small orchestra. While the guests enjoyed the music, the champagne, the canapes, they could browse among her strategically placed works. The larger, bolder pieces he would highlight, showcasing smaller pieces in more intimate settings.
Imagining it, refining the pictures in his mind, he walked through the lower gallery toward the office and storage rooms.
He found his gallery manager, Joseph Donahoe, pouring coffee in the kitchenette.
“You’re here early.” Joseph smiled, showing the flash of one gold tooth. “Coffee?”
“Yes. I wanted to check on the progress upstairs before heading into the office.”
“Coming right along,” Joseph assured him. Though the two men were of an age, Joseph’s hair was thinning on top. He compensated for the loss by growing it long enough to tie in a streaming ponytail. His nose had been broken once by a wayward polo mallet and so listed a bit to the left. The result was the look of a pirate in a Savile Row suit.
The women adored him.
“You look a bit washed-out.”
“Insomnia,” Rogan said, and took his coffee black. “Did yesterday’s shipment get unpacked?”
Joseph winced. “I was afraid you’d ask.” He lifted his cup and muttered into it. “Hasn’t come in.”
“What?”
Joseph rolled his eyes. He’d worked for Rogan for more than a decade and knew that tone. “It didn’t arrive yesterday. I’m sure it’ll be along this morning. That’s why I came in early myself.”
“What is that woman doing? Her instructions were very specific, very simple. She was to ship the last of the pieces overnight.”
“She’s an artist, Rogan. She probably got struck by inspiration and worked past the time to post it. We’ve got plenty of time.”
“I won’t have her dragging her feet.” Incensed, Rogan snapped up the kitchen phone. He didn’t have to look up Maggie’s number in his address book. He already knew it by heart. He stabbed buttons and listened to the phone ring. And ring. “Irresponsible twit.”
Joseph took out a cigarette as Rogan slammed down the receiver. “We have more than thirty pieces,” he said as he flicked an ornate enameled lighter. “Even without this last shipment, it’s enough. And the work, Rogan. Even a jaded old hand like me is dazzled.”
“That’s hardly the point, is it?”
Joseph blew out smoke, pursed his lips. “Actually, it is, yes.”
“We agreed on forty pieces, not thirty-five, not thirty-six. Forty. And by God, forty is what I’ll have.”
“Rogan—where are you going?” he called out when Rogan stormed from the kitchen.
“To goddamn Clare.”
Joseph took another drag on his cigarette and toasted the air with his coffee cup. “Bon voyage.”
The flight was a short one and didn’t give Rogan’s temper time to cool. The fact that the sky was gloriously blue, the air balmy, didn’t change a thing. When he slammed the door on his rental car and headed away from Shannon Airport, he was still cursing Maggie.
By the time he arrived at her cottage, he was at full boil.
The nerve of the woman, he thought as he stalked up to her front door. Pulling him away from his work, from his obligations. Did she think she was the only artist he represented?
He pounded on her door until his fist throbbed. Ignoring manners, he pushed the door open. “Maggie!” he called out, striding from the living room to the kitchen. “Damn you.” Without pausing, he stamped through the back door and headed for her workshop.
He should have known she’d be there.
She glanced up from a workbench and a mountain of shredded paper. “Good, I could use some help with this.”
“Why the hell don’t you answer the bloody phone? Why have the damn thing if you’re going to ignore it?”
“I often ask myself the same thing. Pass me that hammer, will you?”
He lifted it from the bench, hefted the weight a moment as the very pleasant image of bopping her on the head with it flitted into his brain. “Where the devil’s my shipment?”
“It’s right here.” She dragged a hand through her untidy hair before taking the hammer from him. “I’m just packing it up.”
“It was supposed to be in Dublin yesterday.”
“Well, it couldn’t be because I hadn’t sent it yet.” With quick, expert moves, she began to hammer nails into the crate on the floor. “And if you’ve come all this way to check on it, I have to say you don’t have enough to do with your time.”
He lifted her off the floor and plunked her down on the workbench. The hammer clanked on concrete, barely missing his foot. Before she’d drawn the breath to spit at him, he caught her chin in his hand.
“I have more than enough to do with my time,” he said evenly. “And baby-sitting for an irresponsible, scatterbrained woman interferes with my schedule. I have a staff at the gallery, one whose timetable is carefully, even meticulously thought out. All you had to do was follow instructions and ship the damn merchandise.”