City Kitty and Country Mouse

by Alyssa Linn Palmer

  “I would prefer that they not receive one penny for work they didn’t do,” Mr. Barrow says firmly after a moment. “My father built this company on honesty and hard work, and he would have been loath to capitulate to such men. An honest day’s work is what he expected from all his employees, and these two did not do it. I could do better drywalling myself. With my eyes closed,” he adds.

  I can’t quite picture Mr. Barrow in the rough clothes of a drywaller, his hair and hands caked with dust, but I won’t doubt his statement. My boss has spoken many times about how Mr. Barrow the elder made his kids work from the ground up.

  “What we can do to speed things along is respond to their filed liens,” I say. “If we serve them notice, then they must begin court action within a thirty-day period. If they miss the deadlines, we won’t have to deal with any sort of court action.”

  “That would be ideal.” Mr. Barrow grins at me. “I am so glad Jack recommended you. I usually do these things over the phone, but I wanted to meet you in person. I think we’ll get along swimmingly.”

  “I think we will too,” I reply, feeling pleased and a bit more relaxed. I shuffle through the file, pulling out the information I need. “We have their contact information from the liens, and I’ll make sure the notices are sent out via registered mail today.”

  “Excellent. Thank you, Ms. Kerr. I have no doubt we’ll come out ahead. It’s not a great deal of money in the scheme of things, but morally, it’s rather essential. I would hate for CRL to have any slip in our reputation.” He rises to his feet, and I rise with him. I walk him to my door, and he shakes my hand once more.

  “I’ll keep you updated with our progress,” I assure him.

  “Thank you.”

  Cindy looks up from her work. “That was quick, Mr. Barrow,” she says.

  “The best meetings are,” he quips. “Have a good afternoon, ladies.” We watch him go, walking down the hall. I know he’ll stop in to see Jack. Those two have been fast friends ever since university, according to Jack.

  “Anything we need to do?” Cindy asks.

  “Notices to take action on the liens for these contractors,” I say, heading back into my office. Cindy follows. “I have the forms and will get them sorted out before my next client. Then if you can get to the post office and send them registered mail, that’d be perfect. And we’ll start the countdown for when we can file the lapses and other paperwork.”

  Cindy grins. “Easy as pie. Speaking of, what’s for dessert at Ming Kitty?”

  I hadn’t even thought of that. No idea. Dammit. I hurry back into my office and grab my pad with menu ideas, flipping to a new page. Desserts, I write out in big capital letters at the top of the page. “No idea. None.”

  “Chinese desserts, like the rest of the dishes, or something more Western?” she asks.

  I stare at the blank page.

  “Blackberries?” Cindy suggests. I know I’m blushing, my cheeks heating as I look up at her. “I know you like those.”

  “Cheeky.” I stick my tongue out at her.

  “Of course I am.” She laughs.

  “They’re not in season anymore, though,” I note, but I put blackberries on the list anyway. We’ll need something. I add ice cream beneath.

  “You could bring them in, I guess,” Cindy says. “Or use another kind of berry. Raspberries, maybe?”

  “Could do.” I write down raspberries. “I should call Lucy, see what she thinks. I don’t think she’d be able to grow any more blackberries.”

  “You’ll find something,” Cindy says. “Now get to those notices, and I’ll run to the post office on my way out to grab coffee this afternoon.”

  “Fantastic.” I write fruit salad? on the notepad. Not my favorite, but it’d be a good way to showcase some of the variety of fruits at Country Mouse. Poached pears, I write next, the idea popping into my head. It’s a bit fancier, something my mother would order at a French restaurant, but still, a possibility. I wonder what sorts of desserts Lucy had growing up. I jot down that question. Hopefully she’ll have some good ideas that we can add. I’ll also need to take home a few cookbooks from her mother’s collection when I’m there this weekend. I flip back to the front page and add that note in, putting a star by it. There are so many things to deal with, and I haven’t even started considering the permits.

  I text Lucy. Permits?

  * * *

  My phone buzzes, but I ignore it, as Alice and I are driving to town in my van. Our chores are done, and I’d mentioned to her that I’d been thinking about finding out who owned the empty storefront along First Street, the small one that used to be a café but had sat empty for so long.

  “Beatrice will love you,” Alice says confidently. “And I know she’ll be delighted to have someone in the shop. After the big box stores opened up in the main shopping area, she’s been beside herself trying to find a new tenant.” Alice shakes her head, tutting. “The town council should never have allowed those stores in here. They’ve taken out all the good local shops. If I wanted to buy groceries, clothes, drugs, and garden things at one store, I’d go into the city.”

  “We won’t be a full-time tenant,” I tell Alice again. “This is a pop-up thing.”

  “How can a restaurant just pop up?” Alice asks. “It’s not a mushroom or a groundhog.”

  “It’s a limited edition thing,” I explain, or try to. I’m not sure how to explain it exactly. Kitty and I haven’t quite yet nailed down our concept. We’ve texted and talked, but there’s nothing quite like having time together to brainstorm. I mentally note that we’ll need to do that this weekend.

  “Limited edition? But how do you make any money?”

  “I don’t know about that yet. But making it pop-up means we don’t have to devote ourselves full-time, like we would otherwise. We both have other jobs.”

  “But how will people know that you’re open?”

  “Social media,” I reply. “Just like what I do for Country Mouse, to tell people when we’re at the farmers’ markets.”

  Alice nods. “I suppose,” she says. “But you’ll have to do something for the folks in town too, the ones that don’t do this social media stuff.”

  “There’s email,” I reply, “newsletters, that sort of thing. The newspaper, I guess.”

  “I bet you could get an ad in the Eagle,” Alice says. “And that’s delivered every week, so you’d get lots of eyes on it.”

  I turn on to First Street and cruise slowly down the street. We pass the storefront, and I pull into the first open parking spot I see. Alice unbuckles and hops down from the van, surprisingly spry after recovering from the flu. I lock the van and follow her down the sidewalk. An older woman, older than Alice or my mother, greets Alice with a hug and me with a smile as I step up beside them. It’s Beatrice.

  “Lucy, my dear, so good to see you,” she gushes, pulling me into a hug. It’s awkward, but I pat her on the back. I’m in clean clothes, but I worry that there’s a smudge of dirt somewhere that could mar her immaculate pastel pantsuit.

  “Thanks for considering us for your shop,” I say.

  “Oh my goodness, of course I would,” Beatrice says, patting my arm. “Now, come see the space. It’s cozy, but Alice says you don’t want a big spot.”

  “It needs to have a kitchen,” I note, “and enough space for maybe twenty or thirty guests.”

  “That we can do,” Beatrice says. “We also have tables and chairs stacked in the storage room upstairs. My last tenant”—she makes a moue of disappointment—“slipped town without paying his rent, and he left behind all his furniture. It could be useful. I’d be happy to let you use it if you make sure to invite me to your restaurant on opening night.”

  “Of course we’ll do that.” It’s an easy promise. We’d have invited her anyway—she’s the owner, after all. “We’re not sure when that would be. I still have to look into permits and such.”

  “That shouldn’t be too hard,” Beatrice says. “Now, what kind of
restaurant are you thinking of opening?”

  “Chinese and Western food, but more fusion than the old-style cafés.”

  “Sounds fancy,” Beatrice says. “Though I don’t know how popular it would be. That’s quite a specific style for a small-town place.”

  “It’ll be a pop-up, so we won’t be doing it full-time.” I repeat my earlier explanation that I gave to Alice.

  “Pop-up?” Beatrice looks puzzled still. “I’m not sure how that would work out with this space. I need a longer-term tenant, not someone who rents for a night or two.”

  “It’d be every weekend,” I say quickly, my stomach tensing. If she turns us down, I’m not sure what we’ll do. I can’t imagine us finding a food truck.

  “I’ll have to think about it,” Beatrice says. “Come look around, though, and see what you think.” She unlocks the front door and lets us in. The windows out front are large and let in a lot of light. The floor is hardwood, painted white. I’m trying to recall what sort of look this had in its last incarnation, but I can’t remember. It’s been several businesses in the last five or six years. At the back is a long counter that runs parallel to the front windows, and behind it is a typical café setup: microwave, drip coffeemaker, stainless steel shelving, and a glass case. There’s a swinging door behind it, and Beatrice takes us through, into a small square kitchen. There’s a gas grill, a two-burner stove, an almost U-shaped counter, and a rather battered looking industrial oven. One side has doors underneath that are propped open.

  “That one’s a cooler,” Beatrice says, pointing out the doors. “It’s not a lot of storage, but you could bring in more if you need it. The oven is on its last legs, and I can’t guarantee it. I’d like to, but it’s just getting too old.” She points into a small hallway. “Dishwashing sinks are down there, and a staff bathroom. There’s stairs that go up into the storage. Should show you that before we go on.” She takes out her keys again, and Alice and I follow her back. The dishwashing area is small but neat and tidy. It’s completely devoid of dishes. We’re going to need to supply those too. I pull out my phone to make a note.

  Kitty has texted me. I’d forgotten about the buzz earlier during the drive.

  Permits?

  On that soon, I text back. Looking at the space now. I think you’ll love it.

  No quick reply, but I know Kitty’s working hard.

  I follow Beatrice up the stairs. It’s a snug stairwell, likely because the building is so old. The stairs themselves slump, and the linoleum on the risers is worn. She takes out a key when we reach the top and unlocks the door, flicking a light switch just inside. The light flickers, and she steps inside, moving to allow me in. The place is dim and seems full. There are tables stacked on one side, and chairs in stacks on the other, and a substantial number of storage boxes in between. I mentally count the chairs—there’s probably fifty—and the tables. For our needs, they all should work, at least for the first few pop-up events. Beatrice walks forward and runs a hand over one of the chairs.

  “They might need slip covers,” she says, “but they might not. Some are more worn than others. The tables will need tablecloths, of course.”

  “I think we can do that.” I make another note. We might have to take a trip to the dollar store or find somewhere to rent or buy what we need. I can picture our space, with tables arranged just so, checkered tablecloths in place, a bright space with barn accents. And we need a little something more. Each table needs something as a centerpiece, something small yet quirky, something that helps to emphasize the farm-to-table concept.

  My fingers itch for my sketchbook, but I’ve left it at home, thinking I wouldn’t need it. Silly me.

  “Will it suit?” Beatrice asks, and I realize I’ve been quiet for too long.

  “It absolutely will,” I say, “but I’ll need to run it by my business partner first. And to make sure I can get the permits.”

  “You’ll be able to do that easily,” Beatrice says. “My cousin works for the town, and I can put a call in next week when she’s back from vacation. I think they’ll like the idea. It’s something new here, something that isn’t a food truck. Did you ever think of doing that?”

  “I did,” I admit. “But it’d be far easier to cook what we need with a traditional space. I suppose if this goes well, we could think about it.” I can’t quite picture it, Kitty and me stuffed into a truck with cooking materials and serving out the side. But you never know. It might work.

  “They’re very in,” Beatrice says.

  “You two done up there?” Alice calls from below.

  Beatrice and I glance at each other. Beatrice looks amused. “Let’s go. Alice and I should go for coffee and catch up.”

  “And I’ll head to the town office.”

  We retrace our steps and walk back out into the main area. Yes, I think this place will be incredible with a few personal touches. I can’t wait to tell Kitty.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When I get home from work, I finally get a chance to check my phone. My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t had dinner, and that it’s far, far too late. It’s dark, which means it’s at least ten o’clock. I meant to leave earlier, but one of the other associates needed to leave and someone had to stay to finish up.

  There are several texts from Lucy and a missed call from two hours ago. I rub my eyes and open my fridge as I scan the texts. They’re excited, bubbly, and I love that Lucy’s found our spot. She’s attached a few photos, and I stand with the fridge door open, looking at them instead of grabbing food. The space is bright, airy, small but not in a bad way. It’ll work perfectly for us, and the kitchen space is useable. That had been one of my biggest fears, having to cook on tiny induction cooktops in a makeshift kitchen, bumping elbows and squeezing into too-small spaces. As it is, I still worry about us getting the menu right and managing the restaurant. What if something happens and it all goes wrong?

  I check my fridge. Embarrassingly, there is very little. My goals of cooking every night and figuring out new recipes have been just that: goals. And goals that aren’t being met. Not nearly enough for us to have a proper menu in place by opening night.

  When will that be? I hope Lucy was able to sort out the permits.

  I take a bit of cheese from the fridge and dig out some crackers. I prepare a plate and take it with me into the living room, sinking down onto the sofa. I look at the plate on my lap and the glass of milk that I put on the coffee table.

  Something has to change here. I need good, real food. Not this snack food in a pinch. My stomach grumbles again, and I eat a couple of the crackers with slices of cheese. Not nearly enough, but it’ll have to do. My feet ache and I feel a deep tiredness. And I’ll have to get up and do it all over again early tomorrow morning. I knew making partner would be hard, but these late nights and long days are more of a grind than I had imagined.

  I check my voicemail, also from Lucy.

  “Hi, Kitty, I’m sure you’re still at work, but I wanted to tell you all about the space. It’ll work so well for us, and I can’t wait for you to see it. I went to the town office too, and I’ll update you on that when we talk. I can’t wait until we can do this. Give me a call when you get home. Later!”

  My heart warms, silly as it sounds. Her voice is the best thing I’ve heard all day. I set my plate aside and call Lucy.

  The phone rings five times before she picks up with a sleepy, “Hello?”

  “It’s me. Just heard your message.”

  “Kitty!” Lucy sounds like she’s perking up, but I hear a yawn.

  “Did I wake you?” It’s ten o’clock, but that’s not super late. Is it?

  “A bit,” Lucy says, “but that’s okay. I’m glad you called. I thought you might call earlier, though.”

  “Long day, sick associate, too much work,” I say. “That’s the short version.”

  “I hope that doesn’t happen every day. You need your rest. This weekend we need to go see the space,” Lucy says. �
��I know you’ll love it. Small yet airy, and just right.”

  “Like Goldilocks?” I joke.

  “Not too hot and not too cold,” Lucy teases back. “Although the bathroom is a bit drafty.”

  “Not a bad thing in the summertime.”

  “No, but in the winter, it’ll be awfully brisk.”

  “Maybe by then we’ll have a full-time restaurant.” That’d be brilliant.

  “Maybe we will. I’ll have the permits and licenses in motion once Beatrice gives the town office a call, but it may take a little while. I know we talked about a month, but I think it’ll be longer. She says the office won’t guarantee a quick turnaround. The town is growing, and there are a lot more businesses starting up.”

  “We’ll do what we can,” I say. “Cindy made sure my weekend was clear. Do you want to come here and we can experiment with the menu?” A weekend cooking in my kitchen with Lucy sounds like a perfect, blissful way to spend the time.

  “I don’t think I can this weekend,” she says, but I hear the reluctance immediately. “I have work here and the farmers’ market in Calgary. Why don’t you come out here next weekend? Mama can show us some more of her magic with the wok, and we can experiment with some of our produce. I also pulled out a few more cookbooks from her stash. I’ll have to translate, but they look promising.”

  A weekend on the farm. We’ll have to wait, but I’ll manage somehow. I close my eyes, picturing Lucy and the greenhouses and the cozy worn sofas and homey atmosphere. And real food. Full meals. I open my eyes and look at my apartment, its crisp minimalism. It feels cold to me, somehow. It never did before.

  “Let’s do it. I’ll drive out on the Friday night. I think. Hold on.” I pull the phone back from my ear and flip to my calendar. Late meeting. Of course. “Make that Saturday morning. I have a late meeting on Friday.”

  “You work too hard,” Lucy chides, but kindly.

  “It’ll be worth it,” I say. “Once I’m partner, I’ll be making more money and will be able to dictate my own hours.”