Shoe Repair

By Siondalin OCraig

Cat Tiorney discovers a leprechaun who can repair her best shoes and create even more magical ones. Even more interesting, the little man stashes leprechaun gold in a most unusual place. But once she’s paid him with her body, can she save him from a St. Patrick’s Day curse?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Changeling Press
• Release date: Feb 24, 2023

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Chapter One

Monday, March 13th

I pushed the button for the fifth floor with my car key, not risking a chip to the fresh cloud-gray gel encasing my perfectly tapered squoval fingernails. As I rode up in the elevator, I pulled a tissue from my mini black crocodile handbag and polished the brass name plaque next to that fifth-floor button -- the one that read CLT Designs in tall thin-lined letters.

That’s me, CLT, Catherine macLeti Tiorney, and my interior design firm is totally the bomb. We’ve already done over most of the banks and insurance office lobbies in Legerfield, and let me tell you, there are a lot of them. And now they’ve all got my signature look: sleek, slick, clean, and icy-elegant. When I am done with a room, you can hear the click of your stilettos on the marble floor echo off the glossy walls. One giant polished metal feature in every room, next to the sign with the client’s name on it (and of course the CLT logo), perfect for taking selfies.

When the elevator dinged its brass-bell ding and the door slid open to a tiny vestibule of floor-to-ceiling steel, there’s only one way to go: through the wide glass door with CLT Designs painted on it in metallic silver. And boom, there it is, the sharp click of my shoes on the marble floor, the steel reception desk, the chrome-and-glass coffee table on a tiny white sheepskin rug next to a single sculptural steel chair, topped with a single black satin cushion. The air is still, silent, and smells faintly of fabricated night-blooming jasmine. In other words, this room screams CLT.

The shoes generating that gorgeous click-click-click are the most amazing thing James -- James Carbill that is, my almost-fiancé -- ever bought for me. He had them custom made in Spain by the shoemaker to the royal family when we were there on a trip that had something to do with one of his family foundation’s charitable projects. I had no idea what that was all about, but I did immediately recognize the most amazing shoes I’d ever seen, worn on the feet of some of the most hideously boring diplomats you could ever imagine. We were forced to stand around with these people for photo opportunities before we could shop and sit on the beach and drink that fabulous Spanish wine. At least I was able to make conversation by asking them where they got their shoes.

The pair James bought for me have pointed toes, a low-cut vamp, and three-inch stiletto heels, all in the most beautiful kidskin leather in a pale shade of wisteria with a touch of dove grey. Shoes should have just enough color to draw the viewer’s eye down along my legs, and these were spot on. I’d be wearing them Friday night, so today I had left my usual Louboutins in the car in the parking garage and wore these beauties up to the office to make sure they’d be at just the right place between brand-new and worn-in.

Sharon stood up from her chair behind the steel desk as I breezed by. Sharon is a necessary component of running my rapidly escalating business, but I nevertheless feel my face squinch into a frown every time I’m forced to become aware of her presence. She’s five-foot-four, or a good three inches shorter than me in bare feet, and those clods she always wears -- practical shoes she calls them -- may as well be bare feet in terms of their aesthetic impact. In fact, bare feet with a nice pedi would be an improvement.

Sharon has twenty or thirty pounds on me, too. But that’s not the problem; really, it’s those clothes. They give me a headache. Tweeds and mixed prints just blaring obsolete vibes like shabby chic or, heaven help us, vintage. She prattles on about weekend finds and mending and tailoring. It’s disgusting, really.

But Sharon knows how to answer the phone and do all that stuff people do on computers and she doesn’t plague me with questions about raises or how to do things. She just does things, and my business runs. So, until I can figure out how to write down a dress code -- I’m thinking like, Just Wear Grey -- I have to tolerate this moving mess of color and pattern intruding on my sleek, shiny world.

Mr. Carbill’s office called, she said, following me down the hall, reading from a notepad. The limo will be here at seven sharp on Friday. He will wear the charcoal tux rather than the black, as you requested. Dinner reservations are set at Salvatore’s for after the reception, along with the mayor and the trustees. He wants to know if you want flowers.

James Carbill, heir to his family’s industrial fortune, is just the right height for me (six-foot-three, which leaves him two inches over me when I’m in heels), slim build, chiseled jaw like the male models in Vogue, and he is no doubt going to propose to me very soon. He is just waiting for the moment to give it that perfect Instagrammable context. I am guessing that moment is going to be our dinner after this museum gala reopening on Friday. I’d spent a lot of time selecting the right shade of gray nail gel to show off what would of course be an impressive ring. By inviting the Mayor and the Trustees of the Legerfield Art Museum to Salvatore’s, I’m sure James is trying to make it more of a dramatic, public proposal. A tiny voice inside my head suggested that he could be signaling that this was not going to be the night, but I shut that voice right down. I was not going to think about that.

Friday had to be the night. True, James is on the museum board of trustees, and his family foundation funded a good chunk of the renovation and re-opening. And I admit that his connections in the finance world have been helpful in opening doors for the banks and businesses in the area that I’d elevated with my signature style. But the Art Museum redesign was my biggest contract to date. The opening gala will be my triumphal moment, when CLT Designs busts out of mid-size-New England city Legerfield and onto the national and even the world stage.

Sharon had been sending press releases and gala invites to every social media influencer and interior design mag in the industry. Oh, Sharon went to Parsons, so she sent invites out to her little school friends, too. But obviously James will want to cap off my big night by putting a ring on my finger after my huge success. I can’t see it happening any other way.

I frowned more deeply as I pushed open my office door. James knows I don’t wear corsages.

He didn’t mean for you. He meant for the Museum.

Now that frosts me. He also knows damn well that I don’t do botanicals.

Sharon looked at her notes, uncomfortable. The message was that some of the trustees thought the space looked a little… -- she winced --empty… for purposes of the reception.

That’s because the museum trustees are idiots who have no idea what space is supposed to look like, I practically exploded. Now what’s the site report?

Sharon looked for a moment like she was about to press the point and make an argument in favor of the flowers, then thought the better of it. "Electricians will be done by mid-morning. Painters decided on one more coat on the moldings to make sure they had the level of gloss you wanted, and they are ready to roll in and do that right after the electricians are done. The marble folks will do one last polish of the