“I’ve met the two partners,” Theodosia said. “And I have to tell you, those types of men can come across strong.”
“So can Mr. Devlin.”
As Julie said Devlin’s name, Theodosia glanced across the room at him. Interestingly enough, Devlin was waving his arms at Harvey Bateman as if trying to drive home a point. Whatever it was, Bateman wasn’t buying it. His face was red as a Roma tomato as he glowered at Devlin. Then, he poked a finger just inches from Devlin’s face and shouted, “A deal’s a deal. Take it or leave it!”
Interesting, Theodosia thought. The more she saw of these people, the more she realized this team was fraying at the seams. The excitement of a fashion launch should have them all jumping for joy. Instead, they were at one another’s throats like slavering dogs.
And now this—an actual shouting match between Harvey Bateman, the money guy, and Mark Devlin, the designer.
Who didn’t seem one bit Zen anymore. Perhaps he needed his prayer beads back?
14
“Does that happen a lot?” Theodosia asked Julie. “The fighting?”
Julie hunched her shoulders together. “You have no idea. The thing is . . . Mr. Devlin designed most of the Lemon Squeeze Couture collection. Which was a gigantic amount of work. I mean, like, twelve-hour days. And then because he did all the sketches, he had to supervise the fabrication and production. So now he thinks he should be paid a whole lot more money.” Julie hugged herself protectively. “This has been an ongoing battle ever since I came on board.”
“And I’m guessing it’s not even close to being resolved,” Theodosia said.
“I don’t think it will ever be. Mr. Bateman is awfully tight with money.”
Theodosia studied Devlin, who was still arguing with Bateman but had now assumed a haughty attitude.
“So Devlin is one unhappy camper?”
Julie twisted her hands together, looking even more uncomfortable. “He goes off on these wild tangents. I guess he thinks his creative persona deserves to be catered to. On the other hand, he’s not nearly as fierce as Mr. Bateman.”
Theodosia sensed a problem brewing. “Bateman’s got a bad temper?”
Julie drew a deep breath. “Mr. Bateman is . . . well, let’s just say you don’t want to be around him when he’s in one of his ugly moods.”
Theodosia sensed that Julie had more to say. “Has Bateman ever had one of his ugly moods around you?” she asked.
Red blotches appeared on Julie’s face and tears glistened in her eyes. “Yes,” she said in a shaky whisper.
This struck Theodosia as rather ominous. “Bateman doesn’t actually get violent, does he?”
Julie swallowed hard. “He’s been known to. I heard . . . well, it’s really more of a rumor . . . that Mr. Bateman slapped a girl who used to work for Lemon Squeeze.”
“Do you know who the girl was?” Theodosia wondered if it might have been Nadine.
Julie shook her head. “No. I guess she was fired before I came on.”
“Julie,” Theodosia said, putting a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “You don’t have to put up with that kind of toxic workplace. You don’t have to be subjected to angry outbursts and intimidation, or take crap from anyone.”
Julie nodded and shook a hank of hair out of her face. “That’s what I keep telling myself. The problem is . . . I’m just a lowly, unpaid intern trying to gain some practical experience. I can’t apply for a real job until I can list something tangible on my résumé.”
“You’re positive you want to work in fashion?”
“It’s all I’ve ever dreamed about,” Julie said. “Based on my sketches and a BA in fashion merchandising from the University of South Carolina, I was able to ace out two dozen other people to get this internship. Is it the ideal situation? No. But I’m determined to stick it out for the experience. Besides, where else am I gonna work?”
“Let me think about that,” Theodosia said. “See if I can come up with a few ideas.”
* * *
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Theodosia and Drayton were speeding down Tradd Street, back in their Historic District neighborhood.
“That had to be the strangest visitation I’ve ever attended,” Drayton said. “Makes me wonder what’s in store for us at tomorrow’s funeral.”
“Maybe they’ll load Nadine’s casket onto a horse-drawn carriage?” Theodosia said.
“Or rent the birds for a second day.”
“Cheap, cheap,” Theodosia quipped. Then, “Did you get a chance to meet Mark Devlin, the designer?”
“No, but someone pointed him out to me.”
“What was your impression?”
“That he looked like a groupie for the Dalai Lama.”
Theodosia turned onto Archdale, one of the fancier streets, and rolled down her window, the better to take advantage of the warm spring weather. “Pretty out tonight,” she said. Spring had finally made its glorious appearance in Charleston. Gardens were in full bloom, and everything felt fresh and wonderful.
Drayton caught her mood.
“Look how elegant and peaceful the big homes are,” Drayton said. “I love driving by at night and catching glimpses of libraries and parlors and grand dining rooms through a crack in the curtains. It’s like a wonderful old-fashioned stereopticon.”
“Don’t remember those,” Theodosia said.
“Neither do I. But it’s a fanciful image.”
“Vintage-y,” Theodosia said. “Like this whole part of town.”
“You see that corner house? The Queen Anne style with the wraparound porch? That’s the old Porter home, built in the mid-eighteen hundreds by Alexander Porter, owner of a clipper ship line.”
“You could serve as the duly appointed historian of the Historic District,” Theodosia said.
Drayton smiled. “I thought I already was.”
Theodosia felt herself relax as she drove along. With the scent of magnolias and crepe myrtle riding on the wind and a faint skim of fog starting to drift in from the Atlantic, everything felt dreamy and ethereal. Old-fashioned wrought iron streetlamps were encircled with a slight haze, and the air felt rich as silk.
“Want me to swing by and pick you up for the funeral tomorrow?” Theodosia asked as she pulled to the curb in front of Drayton’s house. He lived in an impeccably restored brick home that had been built by a Civil War doctor.