Text from Emma Lee Maxwell:
Ooh! Thank you for the cookies. You know how much I love surprise prezzies! I gave one to the FedEx guy and he asked if they were gourmet. Of course, I said yes. We got to talking and . . . Guess what? He asked if I would match him with someone. FedEx delivered your cookies and my first client. Sweet!
I think it was Julia Child who said, Find something you’re passionate about and stick to it like taffy to teeth. That might not be verbatim. I might have seasoned it a bit, but I think Julia would have appreciated the additive.
I am passionate about baking, so I have been sticking to the kitchen like taffy to teeth. I have tested recipes from the old cookbooks and created a few new ones. Dark chocolate cake with Guinness frosting, granola bars made with Irish oats and golden syrup, Mrs. Cumiskey’s booze-infused Porter Cake, and my own creation, Feckin’ Faddle, popcorn and peanuts coated in Bushmills Whiskey Caramel. It’s like Fiddle Faddle, but with an Irish twist.
I am making a custard sauce to go with an apple cake cooling on the counter when Catriona arrives, her thick blonde hair scraped back in a bun.
“Mmmm,” she says, shaking the rain off her coat. “It smells like me gran’s house in here.”
I remember visiting old Mrs. Gallagher’s cottage, eating blueberry crumble in her cramped, cozy kitchen, helping her press buttery shortbread dough into wooden decorative molds.
“Thank you. That’s the nicest compliment I’ve received in a long time,” I say, taking her coat and hanging it over the back of a chair near the fire. “What are you doing here, Cat?”
“That’s a fine how do you do,” she laughs. “Is that the way you greet people in South Carolina?”
“I’m sorry,” I say, giving her a quick hug. “I’m just surprised to see you here. Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“Do ya know what time it is, then?” She narrows her gaze, taking in my messy top knot, flour-dusted flannel shirt, and old Abercrombie sweats. “Jaysus! It looks like ya haven’t been out of this kitchen in donkey’s years.”
“Thanks a million,” I say, laughing. “Is that the way you greet people in Ireland?”
“Sorry,” she says, lifting the lid off a container of Feckin’ Faddle. “Ya look a little rough around the edges though.”
“I’ve been baking.”
“I see that,” she says, grabbing a handful of the popcorn mix and popping it into her mouth. She chews. Her eyes widen. “What am I eating?”
“I call it Feckin’ Faddle.”
She snorts.
“Brilliant! I bloody love the name.” She grabs another handful of the mix, staring at the golden brown cluster of popcorn and peanuts. “But what is it?”
I tell her about my addiction to Fiddle Faddle, the sweet, salty popcorn treat in the bright, happy blue box, and my grown-up take on it.
“Whiskey? Ya put whiskey on your popped corn?” She shakes her head, laughing. “You’ve definitely got Irish blood in your veins, Tara Maxwell, but if ya tell me you’re putting it in your morning oats, I’ll be staging one of those interventions, I will.”
“You know,” I say, stroking my chin. “That’s not a bad idea.”
“Go away with that.” Catriona laughs. “What else have ya got brewing and baking? I’m Lee bleedin’ Marvin.”
“Lee Marvin? The actor who starred in those old Westerns?”
“The same,” she says, dipping her finger in my pot of custard. “I dated a fella from Dublin who used to say he was Lee bleedin’ Marvin whenever he was hungry. I don’t know what a cowboy has to do with being hungry, but it sounds better than saying I could eat a nun’s arse through the convent gate.”
“Ew! Who says that?”
“Never mind,” she laughs. “I stopped by to see if ya want to go to the chipper and grab a pint at the Red Horse after. Fancy a night out with your old friend?”
I look at my reflection in the copper pot hanging from a hook in the ceiling and grimace. What would stinky old Crawdad and the Cravath set say if they could see me now, holed up in the kitchen on a Friday night?
“Come on, Tara,” she says, grabbing my hand. “It’ll be great gas!”
“Are you kidding? I could murder a bag of fish and chips, anything that isn’t Guinness soaked cake and cider cookies.”
“Guinness soaked cake, ya say?” She sniffs the apple cake cooling on the wire rack. “Is that what this is, then? Do ya mind if I help meself to a wee piece while you’re changing out of those sad rags?”
“Help yourself,” I say, pouring the custard into a bowl. “But that’s not the Guinness cake. That’s my version of an Irish Apple Cake, a vanilla-bean-flecked cake filled with apples and topped with a crunchy sugar crust. Pour some custard on top of your slice before you eat it.”
I rinse the custard pan out in the sink and leave Catriona to satiate her Lee bleedin’ Marvin with a giant hunk of apple cake.
* * *
I’m not gonna lie, y’all. Julia’s sage advice isn’t the only reason I’ve been sticking to the kitchen like taffy to teeth. A passion for baking is only part of it. The other part of it, the downright humiliating part, is that if I don’t keep busy I just know I will sit and ruminate on what happened in my room the other night, replaying over and over again the scene where Aidan said he couldn’t be my Prince Charming. Burying pain through baking has become one of my trademark moves.
I am not saying I want Aidan to be my Prince Charming. I swear. It just smarts a little to know we were in the middle of a hot and heavy make-out session, with my hoop-dee-hoops exposed before Jesus, and he got up and walked away.
Catriona showing up and inviting me out feels like a blessing from above. I wasn’t looking forward to spending another night tiptoeing around my room like a panty thief stealing his neighbor’s knickers.
A night out, laughing and drinking in a pub, is just what I need to forget all about Aidan Gallagher. Who knows? Maybe I’ll meet my Prince Charming over a pint of Guinness.
* * *
Two hours later, my belly full of the freshest, flakiest fried cod, a foamy pint of Guinness in my hand, I realize I am probably not going to find my Prince Charming at the Red Horse pub. Unless, that is, my Prince Charming is an old man with more hair in his ears than under his flat cap. To say the pickings at the most popular pub in the village are slim is like saying Julia Child was a little fond of butter.
I am about to ask Catriona if we could try another pub when the door opens and a crowd of newcomers enters. They’re young and boisterous, dressed in cool, edgy clothes. A few of them are toting musical instruments.
“You’re going to love this, Tara,” Catriona says. “The Red Horse hosts trad sessions every Friday night. Live music played by musicians from all over Ireland. The band playing tonight is from Cork and they’re class. Really, really good.”
The door opens again and another group enters the bar. All of them know Catriona and greet her with hugs or hiyas. Within minutes, the Red Horse is filled to standing room only, people packed in from wall to wall like butter beans in a can. Catriona introduces me to her friends. There’s Rory, a red-haired fisherman with an infectious laugh, and his girlfriend Mary, a Sligo-based graphic designer. Michael owns several restaurants around the county and Sorcha, a raven-haired beauty with startling green eyes, is a hospitality specialist.
Catriona managed to snag one of the few tables in the pub, perfectly situated near the musicians. It’s one of those tall tables meant to be paired with stools, but there are no stools, so we all crowd around it.
“Michael,” Catriona says, opening the container of Feckin’ Faddle she insisted on bringing with us. “You have to try this. It’s deadly.”
Michael looks at the container skeptically.
“Go on you,” Catriona says, thrusting the container at him. “It’s deadly.”
Rory reaches into the container, grabs a handful and shoves it into his mouth as if he is Lee bleedin’ Marvin (Cat’s right; it is a catchy phrase). He
barely swallows his first handful before he is reaching for seconds.
“Mmm,” he murmurs.
“Deadly, right?” Catriona says.
Michael grabs a handful. And another. And another.
“This is deadly,” he says. “Did ya make it, Cat?”
“Me?” Catriona laughs. “And when have you been knowing me to cook anything worth eating, Michael Donovan? I could burn cold cereal. Tara made it. She’s a brilliant chef.” She turns to me, grinning. “Go on, tell ’em what you call it.”
“Feckin’ Faddle.”
Rory laughs so loud the sound carries over the noise of the musicians warming up their instruments.
“That’s a bleedin’ brilliant name.”
“What’s in it?” Michael asks.
“Popcorn and peanuts coated in caramel made with Bushmills whiskey and cream.”
“Jaysus!” Mary cries. “Whiskey covered peanuts. That does sound deadly.”
She grabs the container from Rory, takes a handful of Feckin’ Faddle, and passes it on to Sorcha. Before I know it, the container is empty and Catriona’s friends are slapping me on the back and buying me pints.
The musicians start the session off with a cover song, Gaelic Storm’s “Johnny Tarr,” about the hard-drinking son of a preacher who, ironically, keeled over dead from thirst. It’s one of those upbeat songs that makes you want to clap your hands and tap your feet. They play several more songs, some original and some modern interpretations of traditional Irish ballads. When they take a break between sets, Catriona leans over and whispers in my ear.
“Ya better watch out or you’re going to make our Aidan pure jealous, ya are. That fella playing the fiddle has been looking at ya like he wants to shift ya.”
“Hush your mouth,” I laugh, remembering that Aidan told me shift means kiss.
“I am serious, Tara. See for yourself.”
I wait a few seconds before casually looking over at the musicians. My cheeks flush with heat, a heat so fierce I reckon I could set a pot of water on my face and boil myself some peanuts right here in the Red Horse. Catriona is right. The fiddle player is looking at me.
And he’s cute. Like cute enough to shift.
He’s shorter than the guys I am usually attracted to—shorter than Aidan—but he has broad shoulders and a wild thatch of dark curly hair that could make a girl’s fingers itch to touch. He’s wearing jeans and a black Henley. He’s pushed his shirtsleeves up, exposing muscular forearms and wrists covered with leather bands.
“I was right, wasn’t I?” Catriona crows.
“You were right about him looking at me, but not about it making Aidan jealous,” I say. “Aidan doesn’t care if I shift a fiddler—a thousand fiddlers.”
She snorts and rolls her eyes.
“What are ya on about? I saw the way he was shifting ya in the barn the other day.”
“Believe me, that meant nothing to him. You know how that old song goes, a shift is just a shift . . .”
Catriona frowns. “Did something happen?”
My cheeks flush again. I grab my glass and finish the thick, black Guinness in one swallow. I am a lightweight. This is my second pint and I am feeling the effects.
Catriona is staring at me, but I don’t know what to say. Cat, your brother offered to make love to me until the heavens wept and I heard the Hallelujah chorus playing in my head . . . and then he walked out and left me lying there holding my hoop-dee-hoops.
“No,” I lie. “Nothing happened. I just don’t think either one of us is ready for anything serious.”
She narrows her eyes and I know she doesn’t believe me. When subterfuge doesn’t work, try evasion.
“I think it’s my turn to buy a round,” I say, grabbing the empties and pushing my way through the crowd to the bar.
I haven’t been standing at the bar long when someone touches my shoulder. I knew Catriona wouldn’t be satisfied with my answer.
“What do you want to hear? That I am going to leave the pub right now and climb into your brother’s bed? Would that make you happy?”
I spin around, but it isn’t Catriona standing behind me. It’s the fiddler.
“It wouldn’t make me happy,” he says, his eyes twinkling with humor. “But it would sure as feck give me something to rib the jammy eejit about.”
I stare at him, all slack-jawed and wide-eyed.
“My brother’s a priest, don’t ya know?”
He grins and waggles his black eyebrows. All I can do is laugh, laugh until I am sure everyone at the bar thinks I am an eejit American who can’t hold her Guinness.
“What’s your name?”
“Tara.”
“Tara is it?” He reaches around me and drops some money on the bar. “Tara’s Halls. Where the kings met and the bards sang ballads about Irish heroes. A name fit for a queen. Are ya a queen then, Tara?”
I hear Aidan’s voice in my head, calling me a princess in Irish.
“My mom named me Tara after the plantation in Gone with the Wind.”
“A plantation? Bollocks,” he says. “Look at ya. You’re a queen, ya are.”
“And you’re a smooth talker.”
“Guilty,” he says, laughing. “I’m Jer, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Jer.”
“Nice to meet ya, Queen.” He reaches around me again, his leather-clad wrist brushing against my arm. “Excuse me, will ya?”
“Of course.”
I step aside and he lifts two pints off the bar.
“Here ya go, Your Highness.” He hands me a pint of Guinness. “I hope ya like Guinness.”
“You didn’t need to buy me a drink.”
“Sure I did,” he says, winking. “Do ya not know the rules that govern this country? If a fella buys ya a pint, ya can’t leave the pub until ya return the favor.”
“Is that so?”
“God’s honest truth,” he says, pressing his hand to his heart and looking at me through wide, innocent eyes. “So I’ll see ya after this next set, yeah? Don’t be slipping out the back door, like. Ya don’t want to start an international incident.”
He turns around and disappears into the crowd. I lift a tray of pints off the bar and work my way back to the table. I put the tray down and try not to look at Jer.
“I need to make a call,” Catriona says, pulling her phone out of her pocket. “Be right back.”
She returns a few minutes later, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her braid beaded with droplets of rain. She doesn’t make eye contact and I wonder if she is upset with me for chatting up Jer.
The music starts again and I am forced to look at the musicians. I say forced, but it’s not exactly hard-time labor, y’all. Jer is extremely good looking and watching him play the fiddle is doing things to my lady parts. Mighty fine things. Lawd have mercy. Did I really just think that? It must be the Guinness.
. . . Or maybe your lady parts have been revving like Jimmie Johnson on a NASCAR Speedway ever since Aidan took you in his arms and kissed you stupid.
Aidan! Aidan! Aidan! I am plumb worn out of thinking about Aidan bleedin’ Gallagher. I make an apple cake and remember him kissing in the cider house. I watch Moone Boy with Mrs. McGregor and blush remembering Aidan walking in on me in the tub. A handsome guy calls me queen and I think of Aidan calling me princess. Well I am done thinking about Aidan. Done, you hear?
I smile at Jer. He winks and I feel my lady parts revving up. By the time he plays his last song and packs his fiddle away, I have finished my third pint. I close my eyes and imagine my body is glowing like a lightning bug. I’m just so darned happy. Happy and warm.
I am swaying to the music still playing in my head, my eyes closed, a stupid-happy smile on my face, when I hear a voice in my ear, feel a hand on my arm.
“How about that pint?”
I open my eyes and find the fiddler standing there. What’s his name again? Jimmy? Jerry? Jer.
“Hiya, Jer,” I say, throwing my arm around his s
houlder. “These are my friends. Cat. Rory. Mary. Michael, and Sorcha. This is Jer, y’all. His brother is a priest.”
“Hiya Jer,” Catriona says.
“Are you ready, cowboy?” I say to Jer. “Let’s see a man about a pint.”
“Wait!” Catriona grabs my arm. “Tara, do ya think that’s wise?”
“Wise-schmise,” I say, pushing her hand away.
“Who needs wisdom when the Guinness is still flowing and the fiddlers are still fiddlin’? There’ll be time enough for wisdom when I’m as old as Mrs. McGregor, too old to drink and too old to dance.”
“Hurrah!” Rory cheers.
“Hurrah!” Michael says, raising his pint.
I buy Jer a pint and we find a dark, cozy corner in the back of the pub. I stand with my back to the corner. Jer sets his pint on a ledge and leans in close so I can hear him.
“Did ya like the music, Tara?”
His hot, Guinness scented breath ruffles the hair around my ear.
“Are you kidding? I loved it!” I say. “I could listen to you play your fiddle every darn day and twice on Sunday.”
“Keep talking like that and I am going to snog ya right here in this pub.”
“That’s all it takes?” I giggle, batting my lashes at him. “You’re an easy one, Jer the Fiddler.”
He grins.
“I’m easy and you’re a ride. We’re a grand pair.”
“A ride?”
“Super sexy.”
My breath catches in my throat, reminding me of the time Manderley talked me into jumping off the high dive. I was fine, filled with piss and vinegar, until I got to the top of the platform and realized I didn’t have the guts to make the leap. I am feeling like that now—short on guts to make the leap.
“This pub is jammers,” he says, twisting a lock of my hair around his finger. “Whaddya say we get out of here? Would ya like that?”
“I wouldn’t like it one fecking bit.”
Sweet baby Jesus and the sheep in the manger!
That isn’t . . .
It couldn’t be . . .
You'll Always Have Tara Page 18
