by Maggie Finn
The Little Café at Clover Cove
A Clover Cove Novel
Maggie Finn
Copyright © 2019 Maggie Finn
Kindle Edition
This edition published by Eleven Press 2019
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or places and organisations is purely coincidental.
ISBN 9781911297154
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Welcome to Clover Cove
A Note from Maggie
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
From the Author
Welcome back to Clover Cove! The Little Café at Clover Cove is the third book in the heart-warming series set in the prettiest, most romantic village on the west coast of Ireland!
Molly Maguire’s life is romantic enough: she makes delicious cakes and her café has the most beautiful view in Ireland, Clover Cove’s windswept beach. So why would she need a man? Besides, Maggie has bigger problems. The café is failing and the bank is threatening to shut her down, which would mean heartbreak for Molly, especially as she has just fallen in love with a gorgeous, but mysterious surfer.
If Maggie closes the café, she will have to leave Clover Cove and go back to work for her ex, handsome celebrity chef Marcus. Can Molly and her friends find a way to save the Little Café in Clover Cove? Or will she have to choose between true love and future of Clover Cove itself?
The first book in the Clover Cove series, ‘Love Comes to Clover Cove’ can be found here.
The second book in the series, ‘A Secret in Clover Cove’ can be found here.
If you’d like to be kept up to date on all the new releases and happenings in Clover Cove, sign up for the Clover Cove newsletter. You’ll also get access to the Maggie Finn member’s area where you’ll find exclusive content and extracts. Subscribe here.
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A Note from Maggie
Food is romance – and vice versa. At least that’s how it works for me! Somehow, I always associate food with affairs of the heart. Certainly it’s one of my favourite things to curl up with a heart-warming romance novel (possibly with some chocolate) or a romantic movie or rom com (popcorn) and it’s no accident that many first dates are held in restaurants; eating is one of life great pleasures and haven’t you heard the phrase ‘a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach’?
Food is used as a theme by a lot of my favourite romance authors – Debbie Macomber, Bella Andre, Marie Force, Nancy Thayer and Barbara Freethy, and on our side of the pond, Veronica Henry and Jenny Colgan – often where meals bring a family together, which I love. I also adore rom-coms, but one of my favourite romantic films is ‘Chocolat’ (the original book version is pretty good too!), wherein the heroine uses delicious morsels to stir up passions. Ireland may not have the gourmet reputation of Paris or the healthy-eating credentials of California, but we do know how to do comfort food. Perhaps it’s because of the weather: hot chocolate beats a mojito when you’re sheltering from a downpour. And perhaps that’s why romance is such a big thing in the Emerald Isle – that, and the hills, the crashing waves and the poetic temperament…and the handsome men with the green eyes!
Molly, our heroine and owner of the little café in Clover Cove lives and breathes cooking and her cakes are to die for – but that doesn’t mean that everything’s plain sailing, especially when it comes to love affairs. But when you have a passion, that passion can help steer you through choppy seas. You’ll have to read on to see how it all works out for Molly, but I hope you enjoy reading The Little Café at Clover Cove as much as I did writing it.
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Thanks for reading!
Maggie
Chapter One
For Molly Maguire, the mornings were the best. Rain, shine or grey drizzle, Molly would roll out from under her quilt, pull on her home-knitted socks and clamber down the ladder from her cozy bed. The fact that Molly lived in a tiny flat in the eaves right above the café where she worked might have been a cause for depression in many, but the rare passer-by at that time – a seagull settling on the roof, perhaps, or a cat returning from the hunt – would have heard Molly singing along to her tinny old radio.
After padding down the narrow stairs from her living quarters to the café kitchen, Molly always tuned to Puffin FM, the local station based in Kilmara; reception wandered depending on the weather, but their house-brand of 80s and 90s cheese-pop was perfect for her early morning karaoke as she pottered about, measuring flour and butter while the shower warmed upstairs. Over the years, Molly had adjusted to the vagaries of the old building’s plumbing. No sense in sitting around in the bathroom waiting for the water to reach the right temperature – not that it ever made it much past ‘tepid’ – when she could be downstairs doing something more useful, like getting the morning’s bread in the oven.
Dough kneaded, tins filled and oven door clanged shut, Molly raced back up to the flat, jumped in and out of the shower, dressed in a denim shirt and striped apron and then back down to take the bread out: perfectly risen, perfectly brown.
‘Don’t worry,’ she whispered to the bread as she tipped it out onto the cooling racks. ‘It’ll be better today – just you wait and see.’
Lately, this had also become part of her routine, the point in the morning that a rare cloud passed over Molly’s sunny disposition. In the last two months, the oven-warm loaves had become symbolic of the café’s success – or otherwise – in Molly’s mind. If today brought enough customers to order three loaves-worth of sandwiches, she reasoned, then it would be a good day. There were plenty of other things on the menu of course: flans and pies and delicious cakes and salads, but the sandwiches were a good rule of thumb. If Molly was left with enough for her morning toast or, as was the case all too often over the past couple of months, had an untouched unsliced loaf still in the pantry, then the chances were that she hadn’t had enough customers.
‘It’ll be fine,’ she said again, as if that settled the matter. ‘You’re a doer, not a worrier, Molly Maguire’, that’s what her mother had always said. Worrying never helped anything. But deep down, Molly was still nagged by the downturn. Rainy weather, overseas holidays, seasonal fluctuations, they all played their part in lowering the café’s visitors, not to mention the fact that since the bypass had been built, Clover Cove had lost at least half o
f its tourism. Even an optimist like Molly could see that things were definitely on the wane. It wasn’t even the money that bothered her. The idea that she might have to close the café never really entered her mind; no, the main thing was that Molly hated waste. Her bread was delicious. Fluffy soft with a crisp crust. She hated the idea that something so good might have to be thrown away.
Sighing, Molly finished chopping vegetables for the beef stew she would leave simmering on a low heat while she popped out for the day’s supplies. Molly prided herself on always having fresh ingredients in the café – and there was no excuse with Port Quinn just down the road, where she could buy farm-fresh fruit and veg and fish straight off the boats.
Giving the stew one last stir, she headed out to her battered minivan. Pausing on the driveway, jangling her keys, Molly looked out at the bay, the slightest sliver of excitement in her heart. This was another of her routines lately. The café was just beyond the harbor, perched above the beach which was the perfect position to take in the spectacular view of Clover Cove. The downside was that it wasn’t the sort of place you might casually drive past and stop to get a cream tea. You had to have made the decision to come to Clover Cove first, then you had to stroll down to the harbor. Otherwise, Molly’s Café might as well have been on the moon.
She watched the waves lapping at the shore, back and forth. Back and forth. She spotted a pair of grey seals bobbing a little way out, but apart from that, the beach was deserted.
‘Not today, huh?’ she whispered to herself. Disappointed, she turned back to the van. Still with the bright green livery of the Irish Post Office, it billowed smoke on cold mornings and most of the warning lights on the dashboard were permanently lit, but it still kept going as long as Molly spoke to it the right way early in the morning.
‘Come on Miguel, show me some love,’ she purred as she turned the ignition key. Molly couldn’t remember when or why she had christened the van Miguel, but it had stuck – and he seemed to like it, because after a brief cough, the engine spluttered into life.
Molly drove without the radio: that too had stopped working about a year ago. Raff, Clover Cove’s last remaining fisherman, who also stood in as handyman and general fixer-upper, had looked at it, but his idea of electronic engineering was to bang the side, poke about with a screwdriver, then suck his teeth. ‘Japanese, you see,’ he’d said, as if that explained everything.
Instead, Raff had jerry-rigged an old Walkman into the van’s speakers. Those old tape cassettes were hard to come by these days, but Molly had an eclectic mix of forgotten boy bands and seventies disco to hum along to as Miguel followed the swooping coast road down into the town.
Port Quinn was just waking up as Molly turned down Church Hill, carefully negotiating the tight corners. She waved to Frank the postman as he struggled to push his bicycle up the hill and nodded to Guard Noah, the policeman, standing outside the station, his tunic still not buttoned. Luckily Noah was distracted, talking to Leah Lynch and her dog Cain, which was a relief; the policeman had spoken to Molly twice before about her left headlight, which was still cracked and taped after an argument with the stone bollard on the corner of Leife Street. Port Quinn was gorgeously pretty, especially on mornings like today when the sunlight slanted down through the slim gaps between the sugar-cube cottages, but it was hazardous for modern traffic. The Port had been planned – if planned was the word – as a fishing village and for a hundred years it had brought in sardines and shrimp by the ton, hauled out by hand and horse power. The streets, therefore, zig-zagged back and forth to save the breath of those long-gone fishermen and their ponies, which made modern-day Port Quinn an assault course of hairpin bends and awkwardly placed walls. It was rare to see a local vehicle without scratches on their doors and dents on their bumpers. It didn’t stop Guard Noah from issuing tickets, though.
Molly parked Miguel in front of Shelby’s store and walked inside; she could tell Rory, the owner, had only just opened his doors as the tables out the front were empty of their fruit and veg.
‘Hello? Anybody home?’ she called, just as a burly man emerged from the back of the shop carrying a box piled high with carrots.
‘Ah, just what I need,’ smiled Molly, picking a bunch from the top. ‘Reading my mind, as usual Rory.’
‘Always aim to please, Mol. And it’s a pleasure to see you this fine morning, so it is.’
Rory was from Belfast in ‘the North’ and most of his statements ended with ‘so it is’. Molly had always found it amusing, although as a Dubliner, she found the Western Irish ticks equally quaint, beginning their sentences with ‘so’ and ending them with ‘is it?’ whether or not a question was required.
Molly bustled around the store, squeezing avocados, smelling tomatoes, piling her selections up on the counter. When she was finished, she dusted off her hands and pulled out her purse. ‘So what do I owe you?’
‘Ah, so why don’t we run a slate now? I think I can trust you,’ said Rory with a smile. For half a second Molly considered the offer, but almost as quickly dismissed it.
‘No, no,’ she said, handing Rory some notes, ‘I’ll pay as I go, keeps things straight in my head.’
Rory shrugged. ‘An honest woman you are,’ he said, ‘But the offer’s always there, so it is.’
‘Thanks Rory, I appreciate it.’
Molly loaded the van. There always seemed to be more boxes and bags than the day before. Molly tried to fight the feeling, but there was a creeping suspicion that what she was doing was getting on top of her. She knew Rory meant well, but she was unsettled by his offer – and not a little embarrassed, too. Port Quinn, like Clover Cove, was a small world and shopkeepers were often the first to hear news; shoppers liked to pass the time of day while they were getting their potatoes weighed. For Rory to offer credit he must have heard rumours that Molly’s Café was struggling. Which it was, but that didn’t make it any the less mortifying.
‘Miss Maguire.’
Molly turned so quickly that she hit her head on the roof of the van. Through the pain, she saw Guard Noah standing over her and her heart sank.
‘Ouch,’ she said, straightening up, rubbing the sore spot, ‘You shouldn’t sneak up on people.’
‘And you shouldn’t be driving this vehicle,’ said the Guard, the word ‘vehicle’ dripping with disapproval. Noah was tall and very good-looking, far too handsome for a policeman. People in the village always whispered that he could have been a movie actor, but Molly had always thought he looked more like a sportsman; a footballer or a basketball player. He certainly seemed to enjoy sticking to the rules.
‘Yes, the light,’ said Molly quickly, ‘I spoke to Marlon at the garage and he said he needed to order a part. End of the week, he said.’ This wasn’t strictly true, but Molly knew Marlon would back her up, should the policeman bother to check.
‘Marlon at the garage doesn’t set the laws of the land, Miss Maguire,’ said Noah. ‘The law says you need to have two functioning headlights.’
‘I will get it seen to, I promise.’
‘Think of this as a last warning.’
‘You giving the girl a hard time, Noah?’ Rory was carrying the last box out.
‘Just doing my job,’ said the policeman. Rory smiled and pushed the box toward him.
‘Well make yourself useful and put this in the van.’
Molly could see Noah waver, then he did as he was told. Part of keeping the peace, she supposed, was keeping the people on your beat happy: and that couldn’t be an easy task. Noah set the groceries down, then turned back to Molly.
‘End of the week,’ he said. Rory winked at her and slapped the top of the van.
The van’s engine coughed twice as Miguel sullenly pulled the extra load up the hill leading out of the Port.
‘Come on, Miguel,’ she said, reaching out to stroke the dashboard. ‘We need all hands to the pumps right now. It’s bad enough I need to mend your light. I can’t afford your engine.’ The roaring beneath the bon
net almost instantly calmed. Grinning, Molly kissed two fingers and pressed them to the dash. Even old postal vans needed love.
She did, however, spend the rest of the journey thinking of ways she might reduce costs or maximize sales to pay for Miguel’s inevitable repairs. Trim the menu? Use cheaper ingredients? Raise prices? The bottom line was that she needed more customers and that was where Molly stumbled. She was a great cook, she knew that, but marketing? You might as well have asked her to fly a rocket to the moon.
As she parked at the side of the café, Molly’s heart gave a little bump.
He’s here, she thought. Out on the waves, she could see a tiny figure sitting astride an unseen surfboard. As she watched, he dipped forward, then popped back up on his feet, slicing across a breaking wave, back and forth just below the lace-edged tip, before almost casually dropping into the green water and out of sight. Molly held her breath for a count of two, three… then relaxed as a dark head appeared on the other side of the rolling waves.
Molly had been watching the surfer for the past few months. She didn’t know his name, hadn’t even spoken to him as far as she knew, but he had become Molly’s own personal mystery.
He would appear early in the morning, play about in the water for half an hour, then disappear again. The curious thing was that Molly never saw him leave. She would become distracted by a customer or something would need her attention on the stove, and by the time she looked back, the surfer would be gone. She was pretty sure he didn’t use the harbor road, never saw him cross the beach and she would definitely have remembered if he had visited the café. So where did he go?
Molly knew it was stupid obsessing about a man she had never seen on dry land; she’d never even seen his face. But watching out for him was a welcome distraction and it always put her in a good mood, which had to be a good thing, right? Smiling to herself, Molly opened the van’s doors and unloaded the groceries.
