by Maggie Finn
She liked this part of the day, when she could arrange all of her ingredients, always thinking how she could include each one into a pie or a cake or a salad, dreaming up new combinations and twists on old favorites. Molly wasn’t sure anyone noticed all that much, but the regular customers kept coming back, so it couldn’t be too bad, could it?
As she pushed through the back door on the final journey, a box of fruit and veg in her arms, a jar of passata jammed under her chin, Molly tried to nudge the back door shut with her hip; and felt everything slip sideways.
‘Uh oh,’ she whispered as an over-full punnet of blueberries teetered on the edge of the box. Plop, went one, then – plop – another. In that split second, Molly could tell the whole lot were going to spill onto the floor… unless. She made a lunge for the counter, scattering the fruit across the work surface in a dark blue wave. Her acrobatic dive had saved most of the berries, but too late Molly realized she had forgotten about the passata. She just had time to watch as, in slow motion, it rolled sideways and…
SMASH!
The jar exploded on the hard tile, spraying thick tomato sauce in every direction. Molly instinctively shrieked and jumped backwards, but took the full force of the juice over her legs and body. It was like a vegetarian version of that horror film, Carrie.
‘Ewww!’ she moaned, grabbing a dishcloth and dabbing hopelessly at the gloopy mess. Molly was soaked with the heavy red sauce – and she knew it wouldn’t be long before it began to reek.
Sighing, Molly peeled off her sodden shirt and leggings, dumping them in the sink. Taking a mop and broom from behind the door, she swept up the worst of the mess, making sure she got every last piece of the glass which – small mercies – had mostly been held together by the screw-top lid and label.
‘Need a hand?’
Molly let out a squeak of surprise, dropping her dustpan with a crash. There was a man standing in the café, peering over the counter with a concerned look on his face. A handsome man, Molly corrected herself. A handsome man in a wetsuit. No, a handsome man half out of a wetsuit; it was rolled down to his waist, revealing a buff torso and strong arms.
‘I, ah…’ stammered Molly as she realized two things: one, the handsome man looking at her with a concerned look on his face was the surfer – the surfer. And two, most importantly, she was only wearing her vest and pants.
‘Oh my,’ she gasped and ducked down under the counter. Scuttling sideways crab-like, Molly crossed to her cupboard and yanked out a clean apron, pulling it over her head.
‘Uh, hello?’ said the surfer. ‘Are you okay down there?’
Slightly more respectably dressed, Molly jumped back up like a Jack-in-the-Box.
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine,’ she said, forcing a nonchalant expression as if she always spent the mornings hiding under a desk.
‘It’s just I was passing and I heard a crash and a scream and…’
‘No, no,’ said Molly quickly. ‘Everything’s grand. I just dropped something and, well, it exploded.’
The surfer smiled. It was a lovely smile. Lovely even teeth. Not that she was taking note of things like that.
‘Tomato sauce?’
‘Tomato – what?’
‘Tomato sauce,’ the surfer repeated. ‘Did you drop a jar of tomato sauce? Only it’s all over…’ He finished the sentence by gently pointing at Molly’s face.
‘No. Really?’
She turned and bent down to look at her reflection in the door of the microwave. There was a zig-zag of red across her face, like David Bowie during his mad chef period. Moaning, Molly snatched up a handful of kitchen roll and wiped it off the best she could.
‘How’s that?’ she asked.
‘Better,’ grinned the surfer. ‘Much better.’
Their eyes met and Molly felt a crackle of electricity. Oh my, she thought. Oh my.
The surfer’s grin widened, then he pushed damp blonde hair from his face. ‘Well, uh,’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘while I’m here, do you think I could have a…’ he looked up at the chalkboard behind the counter. ‘A hot chocolate?’
‘Of course,’ said Molly, snapping out of her trance. ‘Right away.’
As she turned around to the drinks machine, she winced.
‘Ooch,’ she hissed, hopping on one foot.
‘What’s the matter? Are you hurt?’
Molly looked down. ‘I think I missed a piece of the glass.’
‘Here, sit on this,’ said the surfer, scooping up a chair and bringing it across to the side of the counter. ‘I did a first aid course last year. I’m not much use if you need brain surgery, but I should be able to handle a cut.’
He knelt down, gently cradling her heel as he peered at Molly’s foot. Again, she felt that electric shiver as he touched her.
‘A-ha. Here’s the culprit,’ he said, holding up a thin sliver of glass. ‘Do you have a first aid kit?’
Molly nodded, passing him a box she kept next to the stove; that was one of the things the health inspectors were very hot on. If you didn’t have steri-strips and dressings and bandages of all sizes, you might as well have rat poo in the fridge: they’d shut you down in a heartbeat.
‘Now this is going to hurt me more…’
There was a hiss and Molly yelped. ‘Sorry,’ he smiled sympathetically, waggling a can of antiseptic spray. ‘Stings a bit, doesn’t it? Worst’s over though. Just stick this fella on…’ He gently lowered her foot to the ground and Molly tried not to show her disappointment.
‘That’ll hold it for today,’ he said, straightening up. ‘It’s only a little nick. But make sure you take the dressing off before bed, let it breathe.’
Molly hoped he hadn’t noticed her blush at the mention of bed.
‘Thank you so much,’ she said. ‘Oh, I was making you a drink, wasn’t I? It’ll definitely be on the house now you’ve saved my life.’
She turned, splashing the milk into a jug then heating and frothing it with the jet from the coffee machine – a coffee machine that had been so expensive, she thought of the price every time she used it.
‘Cream?’
The surfer laughed. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Whipped cream,’ said Molly, flushing slightly. ‘Would you like whipped cream on it?’
‘No, just as it is,’ he chuckled. ‘And you’d probably better make it to take away.’
‘Oh no, have I been keeping you from something?’ said Molly, handing him the cup. ‘Your girlfriend?’
He laughed again.
‘It was good meeting you, Molly.’
‘Moll…? How do you know my name?’
That perfect white smile flashed again.
‘It’s above the door,’ he said.
Molly waited until he was out of sight, then banged her head on the counter. What was I thinking? ‘Your girlfriend?’ Well, that’s the last I’ve seen of him, she thought, surprised at how much the notion upset her. Sighing, she turned back to the kitchen, or ‘the disaster area’ as she was beginning to think of it. She pulled her sodden clothes out of the sink, blushing at the memory of the surfer seeing her in her pants, then blushed again as she remembered his touch. And it was only then she realized she hadn’t even asked his name.
Chapter Two
Sean popped his head around the office door. The boss’s secretary was sitting at her desk; Stacey gave him a nervous smile. Sean raised his eyebrows and mouthed ‘is she in?’
Stacey pursed her lips and leant back in her chair. Swiveling to the front, she gave a short nod, then beckoned with both hands. Quickly, Sean scooted through the office, throwing his hold-all to Stacey, who tucked it out of sight under her desk. It was a routine they had down to a fine art. The hold-all contained his wetsuit. Later, he’d wash it out and hang it up in the gents, but right now it wouldn’t be good to be caught with a bag full of sand and sweaty rubber: Caroline didn’t approve of surfing, thought it distracted Sean from his ‘true path’, whatever that was.
As he moved
across to his desk, Sean exchanged a silent high-five with Keith, the senior designer, and semi-ironic salutes with the rest of the team, then slid into his chair. WestTec Creative was officially a ‘branding agency’, but what that meant in the real world was they designed websites, magazines, even made promo films every now and then. They were successful, well thought of, an industry leader – in the area at least – but Sean knew the air of seriousness in the office was nothing to do with dedication to the job.
The fact that the whole office was hunched in front of their respective screens told him that Caroline was in her office and she was alone. If the boss had been in a meeting, the staff would be much more relaxed, chatting, maybe even listening to music, but when Caroline was ‘sitting on her throne’, there was always a chance she might sweep into the office, barking orders and making demands.
With a glance toward Caroline’s office door – firmly shut for now at least – Sean fired up his computer and opened a new search window, typing in ‘Molly’s Café Clover Cove’. He drummed his fingers impatiently, scrolling down the list of suggestions. Nothing. That was weird. Frowning, Sean clicked onto the second page, then the third. Finally, on the fourth, he found an article from a local paper, The Kilmara Examiner. ‘Cooking Up A Storm’ ran the headline. Sean tried not to groan at the pun.
An inventive new eaterie has opened in Clover Cove, and it’s quickly become the hub of the community, writes chief reporter Daniel T Brennan. Molly’s Café is the passion project of Dublin-born owner Molly Maguire, who came out to the coast after a successful career as a chef in some of the capital’s best restaurants, most notably under celebrity chef Marcus Colfer at five-star bistro Biblio. ‘I’ve always dreamed of having my own place,’ says Maguire, ‘A warm and welcoming place to visit where you can get amazing food without paying Michelin-star prices.’ Molly’s Café specialises in home-baked bread and the owner’s favourite: Portuguese custard tarts.
Sean stopped at the picture of Molly, a typically cheesy promo shot of her grinning and holding up a tray of the aforementioned tarts. Local papers didn’t have much imagination. Sean didn’t mind though; the photo had captured Molly’s dark eyes and her twinkling smile and…
He looked up from the screen to see a stony face.
‘Caroline,’ he said, clicking off the page.
‘Nice that you could join us, Sean,’ she said with a wintry smile. ‘Do you think you could spare me a few minutes in my office?’
Caroline didn’t wait for a reply. He jumped up and followed her down the corridor, noting the sympathetic look from Stacey as he passed.
‘Close the door,’ said Caroline, sliding into her executive chair behind her polished walnut desk. Sean did as he was told and waited.
‘Do you think this is easy for me?’ asked Caroline.
‘I’m sorry? Do I think what’s easy?’
‘Being your boss.’
Sean didn’t answer; this was one of Caroline’s rhetorical questions. Wearily, he sat down in the chair opposite her. The guest chair was lower than Caroline’s; presumably something she had learned from one of the many business books on her shelves. Power Moves, How To Sell A Million, Business Strategy For Winners, each well-thumbed.
‘Well, it isn’t easy,’ said Caroline. ‘When Dad stepped down, someone had to take over the business. What was I going to do? Let it die?’
Sean’s anger briefly flared. ‘Let it die’; the phrase was clumsy, badly-chosen. His mind jumped back to that awful afternoon in the consultant’s office, a kindly old man who had explained their mother’s dementia was like a car on a slow incline with the brake off. He remembered his father’s face: pain and love entwined. Then his da’s chin lifting with dignity and determination as he announced he would be looking after Mum full time – for all the time she had left.
‘WestTec’s not an injured bird, Caroline,’ said Sean, controlling his voice. ‘It’s a business.’
Sean saw her eyes narrow.
‘Barely. That’s why I’m running this thing, not you.’
Sean bit his tongue. He knew it wouldn’t do any good to correct her on the timeline, to point out he had done as much if not more to keep the business afloat. His sister was a good woman at heart, but since their Dad had retired, WestTec had become the focus of Caroline’s life and Sean knew from bitter experience that she didn’t react well to having her ‘vision’ questioned.
‘And you’re running it very well, Sis,’ he said, ‘But you don’t need to be so rigid about everything.’
‘You mean we should all turn up twenty minutes late with wet hair? Is that your idea of being professional?’
‘Surely the important thing is the results, not the method. As long as we do good work, please the clients and get repeat business, what does it matter what my hair looks like?’
‘What does it matter?’ snapped Caroline. ‘That’s just indicative of your whole attitude to life, Sean! No discipline, lackadaisical, happy to just let things slide.’
Sean felt another flare of irritation. Don’t rise to it, he told himself.
‘I work hard, Caroline. And our team out there in the office, they all do. But work isn’t everything.’
Caroline barked out a laugh.
‘That’s fine for you to say, isn’t it? When someone else is paying for your… your lifestyle.’
Sean ran his hands through his damp hair.
‘You don’t have to do this, Sis. I know you think you’re holding the whole thing together single-handedly, but you do have me and Keith and Stacey…’
‘Oh, I should hand it all over to you? Let you run it into the ground?’
‘Into the ground…?’ he began, then he stopped, noticing the files open on her desk, print-outs of projected profit and loss charts.
‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’ He shifted his position to look at them. ‘I thought things were good, we’ve had the Aero account and we’re super busy on the Hammond project.’ He looked up at her. ‘Aren’t we doing well?’
‘You see,’ said Caroline, flipping the files closed. ‘That’s exactly what I’m talking about.’
‘What is?’
‘Lack of ambition, Sean. Yes, we’re doing well for a small design outfit in a small town on the far side of Ireland, sure. But don’t you want more?’
‘More?’
‘Yes, Sean. More.’
Caroline walked around to sit on the edge of the desk in front of Sean, her face softening. ‘WestTec is Dad’s company. He built it up through the Nineties, mainly on goodwill; leaflets for the Women’s Institute, posters for the Farmer’s Market.’
‘Nothing wrong with helping the community.’
‘No, no, of course not. And we both know Dad made the company in his image. Friendly and warm and generous. But the world has changed, Sean. No one wants posters or leaflets anymore. They want websites, they advertise through social media, everything’s online; if you want to connect with customers you have to be where they are. WestTec needs to move with the times.’
‘Well, you’ll get no argument from me there. No point in clinging to the past.’
‘Great, then you understand.’
‘Understand what?’
‘That we need to think big. We want the WestTec name to stand for something. In Dad’s day, we were known for integrity. People knew we’d add value to their brand, that what we did was real, not the usual advertising smoke and mirrors.’
‘We still do that, don’t we?’
‘Sure, but we want to be known for that all over Ireland, all over Europe. With digital marketing, we can even reach out to the Far East; China’s the biggest developing market in the world. WestTec can be a part of that.’
Sean looked at Caroline, saw the light in her eyes. It was part ambition, sure, but there was also an excitement there he hadn’t seen in his sister in a long time. Caroline hadn’t always been this stick-in-the-mud grouch. Back in her twenties, she had been a free spirit, a hippy chick with glitt
er on her cheeks, running off to Ibiza or Ko Samui to dance under the moon. When she blew back into town, she’d regale Sean with tales of hidden beaches and mountain-top shamen, dazzling him with her worldliness and adventures. In fact, crazy though it sounded now, it had been Caroline who had turned Sean onto surfing. She’d come back from Sydney’s Northern beaches, swept up in her dippy theories of being one with the earth and the sea. Until she had left it all behind.
Sean smiled.
‘You know, this is good to see,’ he said.
‘What is?’ frowned Caroline, instantly defensive.
‘It’s good to see you so excited about this,’ he gestured toward the files on the desk. ‘Whatever your plans are, we should do it.’
‘You’re with me?’ she asked, clearly surprised.
He could hardly blame her for that, he supposed. Caroline was right: being a graphic designer hadn’t been Sean’s dream in life and he knew he often made it obvious. But sometimes life dealt you a hand and you had to play it. If anyone knew that, it was Caroline.
‘Sure, Sis. I’m always with you, you know that.’
She smiled then and for a moment, that crazy girl with beads and a tan peeked through.
‘Thanks Sean,’ she said. ‘Because I need you on this.’
‘You do?’
‘Sean, you’re the real creative here. You have real talent, real talent.’
It was the first time he could remember his sister ever giving him a compliment. Well, not since the hospital, anyway. That was when everything had changed.
‘Thanks,’ he nodded and stood up, walking to the door.
‘So we’re focused? Eyes on the prize?’
Sean laughed.
‘Sure sis. Eyes on the prize.’
‘And stay away from that beach, huh?’
‘Never entered my head.’
But Sean was thinking about the beach, he was thinking about the cove and the little café up on the rocks. And something Caroline had said had given him an idea. An idea that made him smile.
Chapter Three
