The Little Cafe at Clover Cove: a heartwarming romance series set on the beautiful west coast of Ireland

by Maggie Finn

  ‘I was going to bring flowers,’ he said, handing her a little paper bag. ‘But as it’s a business meeting, I thought I should bring biscuits instead.’

  Molly peeped inside to find a box of expensive artisan cookies.

  ‘Thanks,’ she stammered. ‘Sorry, I don’t have much experience with business meetings. Didn’t know the etiquette, so I baked.’

  Sean raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes,’ he said appreciatively. ‘Now you mention it, something smells amazing.’

  ‘Just the bread. And some little cakes. And a pudding.’ She blushed. ‘Like I say, didn’t really know, so I covered all the bases.’

  The pastries were lined up on the café counter on color co-ordinated plates. There was enough to feed the entire village.

  ‘Well it looks like it’s going to be the best meeting I’ve ever been to,’ said Sean, selecting a finger-sized éclair. ‘They’re usually held in some airless office and you’re lucky if you get a Polo biscuit.’

  ‘Well, would you like tea with that? Kettle’s just boiled.’

  ‘Sounds good. Mmmm…’.

  Molly looked up to see Sean smiling beatifically. ‘This is…amazing,’ he sighed. ‘Seriously, Molly, this is delicious.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ said Molly, slightly embarrassed. It was only some choux, filled with a raspberry mousse and topped with piped crème anglais. Nothing special.

  ‘Molly, I eat in a lot of restaurants,’ said Sean. ‘It’s part of my job to wine and dine clients and I’ve never been served anything this good for dessert – or any course, come to that.’

  ‘Oh. Well, thanks.’

  Molly stepped into the kitchen, glad to have the excuse to hide her blushes. What’s going on? She thought. Molly had worked in some of the top kitchens in the country, this wasn’t the first time she’d had compliments about her pastries, but somehow it felt super-important to have Sean’s approval.

  ‘So how do you like it?’ she called, immediately wincing again. She felt so awkward. What was she thinking, inviting a complete stranger into her home? Sure, it was the café, but she did live here too. Her mother would have thought it very forward. Well, perhaps not her mother, but most mothers.

  ‘Milk, no sugar,’ said Sean, hefting a large folder under his arm. ‘Can I put this down on the table?’

  ‘Oh yes go ahead, if you can find space,’ said Molly, emerging with a tray of tea things. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just a few ideas I have jotted down. Don’t worry, it’s just a mood-board right now, I just find it’s better to start with some visuals as a jumping-off point for the brainstorm, otherwise it all gets a bit woolly.’

  Molly nodded, but she had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Mood-board’? ‘Jumping-off point’? If she hadn’t already felt uncomfortable, she now felt horribly out of her depth. She rattled the tea pot as she picked it up, spilling a few drops of tea on the pristine tablecloth.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ she said, turning to grab a sponge, but Sean put his hand over hers.

  ‘Molly, don’t worry,’ he said softly, giving her a warm smile. ‘Just sit. It’s you I’m interested in, not the tea.’

  Molly felt the air still, as if someone had clicked their fingers and stopped time. She could see his eyes, a deep blue, but flecked with purple like the ripples on a mussel shell. She could see his hair falling over his brow, the shape of his hands and the curve of his neck.

  And then – click – her tea cup was rattling and Sean was talking as if nothing had happened.

  ‘…tell me a little bit about how you came to be here and what your vision for the café is,’ he was saying. ‘It’ll help with getting the image right.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, feeling the breath moving in her throat again. ‘Oh yes, of course.’

  So she told him about Audra and her unusual upbringing and her early love affair with cooking, then her days in the boiling heat of Dublin kitchens and her move to the coast to find her own space, to make cakes and bread and pies the way she wanted to. She didn’t mention Marcus. She wasn’t sure why.

  ‘Great,’ said Sean. ‘That’s a useful start.’

  She watched as he opened his big folder and brought out his boards, propping them up on the table. At first Molly didn’t know what she was looking at. It seemed as though Sean had brought in a child’s art project; the ‘mood board’ was just a load of images cut out of magazines and newspapers glued to a backing board. Then she saw that the pictures were loosely related. A group of women sitting together laughing, a fancy teapot, an armchair with cushions, a pile of books. Sean obviously saw her confusion because he laughed. ‘Don’t worry, this is just a collection of ideas, it’s meant to stimulate discussion. We’re looking for feel here; what do you want your café to feel like? Where do you want it to be? What do you want it to have?’

  I want it to have less of this guff, thought Molly, but then reminded herself that Sean was only trying to help. Go with it, she told herself. It can’t hurt, can it?

  ‘Warm, friendly,’ she said cautiously, feeling slightly silly. ‘I want people to think of the café as the place they come to have a chat and meet friends.’

  ‘Good,’ said Sean, writing the words down on a big white pad, ‘What about the food?’

  ‘Delicious cakes, warm bread straight from the oven, good local ingredients, healthy, but tasty.’

  Sean nodded, ‘Excellent,’ he said, holding up the pad. ‘Do you see? You used the word “warm” twice. That’s obviously important to you.’

  ‘Yes – yes it is,’ said Molly, sitting forward. Maybe it wasn’t all guff after all. ‘That’s right. I want Molly’s Café to be warm and open and welcoming.’

  Sean showed her another board, this one a compilation of the inside of various restaurants from fast food joints to twee tea shops. ‘So just free thinking here,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you think about what you see.’

  Molly pointed a picture of a high-street chain. ‘That’s the devil,’ she said. ‘Faceless, cookie-cutter, no personality.’

  Sean grinned, still writing notes. ‘The devil, you say? Okay. What else?’

  ‘Now, this one,’ said Molly, tapping an image of a chintzy tourist trap covered in lace doilies and Welsh dressers, ‘This is too far the other way. This doesn’t feel honest or organic, it’s like a cartoon version of what Ireland should look like.’

  She was beginning to enjoy this. It was fun talking about her fantasy version of Molly’s.

  Sean pulled out another board: a sketch of the inside of a coffee shop. It had a long counter with high wooden stools lined along it, a big shiny coffee machine like a space ship at the back and, crucially, there were people queuing out the door.

  ‘Oh no, I don’t like that,’ she said. ‘It’s like a Starbucks. Far too slick and polished. It’s like someone’s put image over content. And I hate queues, I want people to sit down, take their time.’ She shivered. ‘I’d never eat here, it’d make me feel sick.’

  She bent forward, looking closer. Behind the counter, there was a beautiful woman in an apron with ‘Molly’s Café’ in curly writing printed on it. She was holding up a smartphone.

  ‘And this girl? She’s far too perky, she looks like she just stepped out of some teen movie. What’s she supposed to be doing?’

  ‘She’s sending pictures to social media, spreading the word.’

  ‘Oh no, I don’t like the internet. And she looks a bit sly. Don’t trust her.’

  She expected Sean to laugh, but instead he went quiet. Molly looked at him.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Hmmm,’ he said. ‘That, uh, that was my idea of how Molly’s Café might look.’

  Molly looked again. Now it was obvious; it wasn’t an image torn from a magazine. Sean had carefully drawn this by hand.

  ‘Oh, I…’ she stammered, ‘I didn’t mean to… it has some nice bits.’

  Sean let out an uncomfortable cough and turned his notepad toward her. ‘Well, “it’d make me sick to go
here” seems fairly conclusive.’

  Molly looked at the boards propped against the wall. He’d obviously spent ages on this – the sketch alone must have taken hours.

  ‘Ach Sean, I’m so sorry. You’ve gone to so much effort.’

  ‘No, no,’ he said, offering her a weak smile. ‘It’s all part of the process, I thought… I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.’

  ‘No, I like some of it. I like the color of apron. Not sure about the logo, though.’

  Sean groaned and clapped a hand over his eyes.

  ‘What is it?’

  He pulled out another board. It showed the exterior of Molly’s building, with Miguel parked in front. The words ‘Molly’s Café’ in that same curly writing were printed on the sign above the door and on the sides of the van.

  Molly couldn’t help but giggle.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, one hand over her mouth, ‘We’re not really seeing eye-to-eye on this, are we?’

  Sean shook his head. ‘No, not really. Which is a shame, because I was also going to show you this.’

  He flipped down a final board. It was covered with graphs and pie-charts.

  ‘What’s all that?’

  ‘Statistics. When I’m doing a project like this, I always do market research, see what’s working in other outlets and services. This is what it told me.’

  Molly squinted at the confusing numbers and columns.

  ‘You mean all this told you that people want that?’ she pointed to Sean’s sketch of the café.

  He nodded sadly. ‘The surveys all say that consumers want something “slick” as you put it. They don’t want to sit around chatting. They want to grab their coffee, check their email and go. And they want an upmarket environment, something aspirational that they can get on social media and tell their friends about.’

  ‘Well they’re all wrong,’ said Molly decisively.

  ‘They’re wrong? But this is thousands of people telling researchers what they want.’

  Molly shook her head. ‘Well maybe they’re telling these researchers what they think they want to hear. If you’re putting people on a conveyor belt, they might as well not get out of their cars.’

  Sean gave a twisted smile. ‘Funny you should say that. Twenty-five per cent of people did say they’d prefer a drive-through.’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  Molly puffed out her cheeks. It was madness. Why wouldn’t you want great cakes and great chat somewhere they know your name, like that old sitcom? She leant across the table and grabbed the olive bread she’d baked.

  ‘Look at this,’ she said, pulling it apart. ‘It’s crusty, but chewy inside. It’s rustic, honest.’

  Sean smiled. ‘I think I’d better try it,’ he said, reaching for it, then letting out an appreciative ‘Mmm…’

  ‘See? And I do that with everything I sell here. My cakes – they’re tasty and rich, my pastries – a little retro maybe, but also modern and light and healthy.’

  Sean held up his hands in surrender.

  ‘I know, Molly, it all looks fantastic – it all tastes fantastic – I’m only telling you what people have said to researchers.’

  But Molly wasn’t finished.

  ‘And this croissant. Do you know how hard it is to get the pastry this flaky and rich? There’s half a pat of butter in this – more!’

  Sean gave a half-smile. ‘Maybe don’t tell people that one,’ he said.

  ‘But it’s important, Sean!’ she cried. ‘I make awesome food. Bread, cakes, soups, stews. People who taste them want to come back and when they come, they want to stay, they sit down and talk to friends, they even chat to strangers. And not via the internet either, like face-to-face. I mean, everyone’s always going on about social media, but what’s wrong with good old-fashioned word-of-mouth?’

  ‘Social media is the new word-of-mouth Molly.’

  ‘It’s…’ she trailed off, exhausted. ‘They’re wrong.’

  ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘And I hope you’re right about all this Molly, because it smells delicious. But…’ he held up both hands, shrugging helplessly.

  ‘We’re a million miles apart, aren’t we?’

  She wanted him to say no, we’ll fix this, we’ll get it right. But instead he got wearily to his feet.

  ‘Maybe this was a bad idea.’

  ‘But isn’t it all part of the process?’ said Molly, her feeling of alarm spreading. ‘Isn’t that what you said?’

  ‘No more time, I’m afraid,’ said Sean, ‘I suppose I was hoping I’d get it right first time.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m leaving for London. My company is opening a new office and I have to be there to make it happen.’

  Molly felt as if the floor was dropping away from her.

  ‘London?’

  He nodded.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Week after next probably.’

  ‘So you won’t even be here for the feast?’

  He shrugged. ‘I’ll be queuing for terrible coffee in Soho by then.’

  Molly felt like crying.

  ‘Thanks for the tea, anyway.’

  She gathered a selection of cakes into a cardboard box. ‘Here, I’d only be throwing them away and I hate waste.’

  ‘Me too,’ he said sadly. He walked to the door and then he was gone.

  Molly covered her face. What just happened? She thought. How did this go from being an almost-date to feeling like a funeral?

  She slumped back down at the table and grabbed a pastry, shoving it into her mouth, chewing it without tasting anything. But he’d tried so hard. Sean cared about this. And now he’s gone.

  It was only then she realized Sean had left his boards behind. She looked at the sketch he’d so lovingly drawn. Maybe she’d been too harsh. Had she been wrong to reject it? No, it wasn’t right, she had to be honest, true to herself. Then she looked at the girl in the apron smiling at her phone, impossibly beautiful. And she realized it was her.

  Chapter Twelve

  The hospital was lovely. A whitewashed Georgian house, there were roses growing around the open windows and trimmed green lawns. It looked more like a swish country house hotel than a medical facility. But still Sean felt as if he had a stone in his gut as he walked up the gravel path to the front door.

  Stop being so selfish, he scolded himself. You’re here to see Mammy and to support Da.

  ‘Mr O’Hea, so good to see you again,’ said the receptionist.

  ‘Hey Elsie, back again. Is my Dad here already?’

  ‘Not yet. Your Mum’s out in the Orangery, you know the way, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The staff were kind and efficient, the interior was soothing and clean; his mother was well looked after. So why the dread coming here? Because he never knew which version of his mother he was going to get. Would she recognize him? Would she be sullen and irritated, or worse; actively hostile? There had been times when Gilda had actually screamed when Sean had entered her room. It wasn’t her fault of course, it was a natural reaction when a total stranger barged into your bedroom claiming to be your son. Sean stopped in the corridor and knocked, gently opening the door and popping his head around the door.

  ‘Sean.’

  His heart skipped. It was okay. For today, at least.

  *

  Sean sat on a bench in the garden. It had rained earlier and the wood was damp, but he didn’t mind.

  ‘Hey there Sean.’

  He looked up to see Father Dec. The vicar was a regular visitor to the hospital; no big surprise, he supposed. It was all part of the gig of being the parish priest.

  ‘Hey Reverend,’ he said. Father Dec wasn’t a father at all, being a Church of Ireland priest, but the local residents insisted on calling him by the Catholic title. He didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘Mind if I join you? I’ve just been talking to old Joey Baker who thinks he’s fooling the staff by sneaking off to t
he chapel for a cigarette. I could do with some air.’

  Sean gestured to the seat next to him and Dec sat.

  ‘You let Mr Baker smoke in the chapel?’

  ‘He has to blow it out the window, but yes. It’s not ideal, but it’s the only way I can get Joey to talk and I figure the talking’s better for him than the tobacco’s bad, if you follow.’

  Declan wasn’t a conventional priest. Rumor had it he had been a soldier, boots on the ground in Afghanistan and Iraq before he’d taken the cloth. He had seen – and done – things, which was why people felt comfortable talking to Father Dec. Nothing you said would shock him.

  ‘So how’s your mum?’

  ‘Good today,’ said Sean.

  ‘That’s grand.’

  ‘Actually, no. I mean, I always pray for her to be “normal” on visiting days, but when she is it’s actually harder because you know it’s only temporary. Bittersweet, I suppose.’

  ‘Ah, we set ourselves up for disappointment, don’t we?’ said Declan, ‘I mean, we have this odd idea that each and every day should be good. And that’s sort of magnificent, really, that you should have such ambition. But life’s just not like that.’

  ‘You think life’s more bad than good?’

  The priest laughed.

  ‘I don’t think I could do this job if I did. Although when I was a kid, I remember there was a popular version of the bible called ‘The Good News Bible’. They sold it in grocery stores and so on. I was always baffled by it: I mean, there’s nothing but bad news in the bible. Death, torture, destruction of cities, plagues and so on. But coming here,’ he gestured back toward the hospital. ‘I see the good here, Sean. Not in the patients, although they are almost all superbly brave, but in people like you.’

  ‘Me?’

  Declan nodded.

  ‘Everyday acts of kindness. It sounds simple, but in practise, well… people are inherently good, but inherently selfish. It’s the survival instinct, it’s hard-wired into us. So when people do something kind just to make someone else happy, that’s the best.’

  Sean ran a fingernail along the grain of the wood on the arm of the bench.