The Cafe by the Sea Page 18

  Flora got in touch with some of the girls she’d been at school with and asked them if they wanted a bit of work, or if they knew anyone who did. Which was how they got a couple of bonnie girls, Isla and Iona, back from the mainland for the summer, all cheery and ready to work.

  She also recruited Mrs. Laird, who “did” for the doctor and the vicar, but who was also, Fintan happened to know, the best bread maker on the island.

  “There were a lot of ladies popping by for Dad,” he told a horrified Flora. “She was by far the best baker, though.”

  “You didn’t let them do that!”

  “We did! They brought over a lot of frozen stews. Although we mostly just stuck to sausages.”

  “I wondered how we’d managed to acquire nineteen new casserole dishes.”

  “Hmph,” said Fintan.

  “I hope you didn’t string Mrs. Laird along.”

  But it was true, she did make wonderful bread, bannocks, and bridies.

  Flora had them all up to the farmhouse, and together they pored over the increasingly battered recipe book.

  “Everything is to come from here,” she told them. “Scones. Cakes. Pancakes. We’ll do two soups every day. Toasted sandwiches. Nothing too complicated. But you HAVE to follow these recipes.”

  Mrs. Laird nodded.

  “Those are Annie’s recipes,” she said seriously. “And she was the best cook I ever knew here.”

  “Which is high praise coming from you,” said Flora.

  They divided up the work. Flora took pastry, as she had such a knack for it, and found it comforting to do, although she wasn’t above kneading a loaf once in a while. She and Mrs. Laird took the new recruits step by step through the cakes. Iona and Isla, both fair-haired, pink-cheeked, healthy-looking girls, smiled happily. They were being paid rather better than the other island jobs were offering for the summer season.

  Everyone pitched in to clean out the shop, and the boys came down to give it a lick of paint on the inside, Innes flirting up a storm with the girls home for the summer. Fintan didn’t give them a second glance. I’ve been such an idiot, thought Flora, reminding herself that she must talk to him about it sometime. When they’d stopped teasing the great big fancy-pants London legal hotshot for being down on her hands and knees scrubbing behind a radiator.

  POP-UP they wrote on the sign outside.

  “Just so people know,” Flora said. Once the council had had their vote, she was going back to London. If they wanted to carry it on afterward, that was fine, but she wouldn’t be here.

  “Pop-up?” said Mrs. Laird. “What does that even mean?”

  “It means it’s temporary. That it’s only here for the summer.”

  “Well, just call it ‘summer,’ then.”

  Flora shrugged.

  “You could call it Annie’s Café,” said Mrs. Laird.

  Flora looked at her, but didn’t say anything.

  “I don’t think so,” she managed finally. Mrs. Laird nodded kindly.

  “The Café by the Sea,” said Isla.

  “It’s Mure. Everything’s seaside,” pointed out Iona, and Isla rolled her eyes.

  “That will do,” said Flora. And the café by the sea was stenciled on a nice white wooden sign that went well on the pink wall, and Innes and Hamish shinnied up and hammered it in.

  They’d been thoroughly checked over and the shop was full to the brim with scones and cakes, Mrs. Laird’s bread and Fintan’s cheese, warm pasties, and pies glistening with fruit. Looking at it, Flora couldn’t suppress an incredible feeling of pride as to what they’d accomplished in a few short weeks. She quelled the thought immediately. But this wasn’t just pushing paper about or running to help the lawyers, or filing or sitting in front of the computer. This felt, for the first time, as though she’d actually built something. Made something that was useful, and beautiful. It was a very unfamiliar feeling.

  “Wish me luck, Dad,” Flora said as she headed out to open up on the first morning. The pink had long gone from the sky; it was a clear, beautiful day and you could see for miles. They were now well into June, when the days never ended, and the tourists had descended, exclaiming over the beauty of the landscape and the deep tranquility of the island.

  Eck only grunted.

  “Seems like a will-o’-the-wisp thing to me,” he said. “And I lose the boys again.”

  Innes bit his lip.

  “Is it still that bad?” Flora said. “Surely selling the cheese will help?”

  “You’re going to have to sell a hell of a lot of it. We got the bill in for the calf transportation.” The farm was taking its yearlings to Wick to sell at the market. “We’ll be lucky to cover our costs.”

  Flora rubbed her hands over her eyes. She didn’t know what to say.

  “And now you’re taking Fintan away for good.”

  They both looked at him. He was wearing a dapper new blue-and-white-striped apron over a white T-shirt and tight jeans.

  “I think Fintan checked out a long time ago,” said Flora.

  “Maybe you’re right,” said Innes. “Well, good luck. Save us a pie.”

  Chapter Thirty

  In fact there was to be no pie saving. From the second the Café by the Sea opened, it was massively popular—at first through rampant curiosity and a few people down to see what Flora was up to. But after they’d tried the products—the bread, the cakes, the cheeses of course—it became simply an obvious thing to return. Flora could barely look Inge-Britt in the eye, even though the Icelandic woman was manifestly unbothered and in fact they were hardly in competition with a bar that would reluctantly hand you a watery cup of coffee.

  The very first customer Flora had, at 8 A.M. on that bright morning, was Charlie.

  “Teàrlach,” she said with pleasure. He looked so cheerful and handsome coming in, taller than the door frame. She caught sight of a bunch of waifs behind him in a motley selection of red and yellow wet-weather gear that had obviously seen a lot of use.

  “I see you’re back with the wee boys again.”

  “Thank God,” said Charlie. “Last week it was lawyers—no offense.”

  “Look at me!” said Flora, who was also wearing a stripy apron.

  “Are they all so competitive and joyless?” said Charlie, shaking his head. “So status obsessed and uptight?”

  Flora thought about Joel.

  “Pretty much,” she said glumly.

  “Anyway,” said Charlie, rubbing his hands, “they pay the bills. Right! I want a dozen sausage rolls, two loaves of bread, and that entire fruitcake.”

  Flora looked at him.

  “Seriously?”

  “I’m planning on making them very hungry.”

  “You’ll empty out half the shop.”

  “Make more! I’ll come back and have a scone this afternoon.”

  Flora grinned.

  “Well, you can have that one on the house.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  She bundled the whole lot up, threw in a couple of extra sausage rolls, and waved heartily at the faces outside the window, some of whom waved tentatively back. She smiled to herself, knowing what a wonderful day they had in store, especially if it stayed as light and bright as this. As Charlie turned to go, she was struck by something—excitement and happiness at the lovely day, and the weird amazingness of being surrounded by things she’d made herself, even though this wasn’t, she told herself, her real job, her real life. Which meant she didn’t have to behave the way she did in London.

  “Teàrlach,” she called as he dipped his head through the doorway. “Can we . . . would you like to have a drink sometime?”

  He looked at her in mock horror as all the kids gathered round, laughing and shouting at him. He held up his hands.

  “Oh, don’t do this to me.”

  “Och, sir, she loves you! Is she your girlfriend, sir? What’s Jan going to say, sir?”

  “Pipe down at once, all of you . . . Come on, come on, get moving, keep
it up.” And he started to herd them up the little harbor road, but just before he vanished out of sight, he turned round, nodded comically, and gave Flora a huge wink.

  She was still smiling as she went to check on Iona and Isla in the back, taking things out of the oven, and even when Lorna popped in on her way to school.

  “OMG, look at you, you run a shop!”

  Flora went pink.

  “Shut up!”

  “This is going to sound mad,” said Lorna. “But you’re looking well. Like, happier.”

  “That’s because people have stopped spitting at me in the street,” said Flora.

  “They didn’t do that. People forget. And you’re here.”

  “Temporarily,” said Flora stoutly. “Anyway, what would you like?”

  “What’s the spiciest thing you have?”

  “Is this for you?”

  Now it was Lorna’s turn to go pink.

  “Sometimes Saif and I have lunch when he’s got a quiet day.”

  “Do you now?”

  Flora started bagging up a haggis pasty.

  “Just as friends,” said Lorna.

  “Obviously,” said Flora.

  Lorna sighed.

  “What happened to your hot lawyer bloke?”

  “He went back to London,” said Flora. “And I haven’t heard from him since.”

  She handed over the bag.

  “Christ, we are shit at this,” said Lorna.

  “We are seriously the pits,” agreed Flora, rubbing her eyes. “Seriously. Isla and Iona both have boyfriends.”

  “There’s three times as many men as women on Mure,” said Lorna. “How can we suck so badly at this? Especially you, you’re a seal.”

  “Shut up, colleen of the glens.”

  “We are such failures!”

  Flora sighed.

  “At least we’re failures together. Oh, I meant to ask you. Charlie . . .”

  “Mr. Outward Adventures?”

  “What’s his deal?”

  “I don’t know him,” said Lorna. “Honestly. He’s not from here.”

  “He’s from, like, three islands away!”

  “I know,” said Lorna. “Total stranger.”

  “Oh my God, you are so useless.”

  “Why, do you like him?”

  Flora shrugged.

  “I think . . . I think he’s cute. Which means I am instantly doomed. That is how it must always be for me.”

  Lorna laughed and turned to go.

  “Well, have a very successful unsuccessful day.”

  “And to you,” said Flora. “Can we meet up soon and drink lots and lots and lots of wine? And then feel sick but not care and drink some more?”

  “Yes, please,” said Lorna fervently, ringing the bell on her way out and startling Colton, who was heading in.

  “Well well well,” he said, sounding pleased. “You did it. Not bad for a bunch of money-grubbing sharks!”

  “Thank you,” said Flora.

  “Have you told them about the party?”

  “You’re going to feed people till they give in, aren’t you?”

  “Are you kidding? Look at the day out there. It’s so beautiful. And yes, I’m going to stop a marauding horde of great big metal monsters from storming across my landscape. Yes, I am. Now give me some cheese.”

  He scratched his beard casually.

  “So. Um. Your brother.”

  Flora looked up expectantly. There was definitely something in the water today.

  “Mmm.”

  “Is he . . .?” Colton took his glasses off and then put them back on again.

  “Yes?”

  “Well, I mostly wondered . . .”

  Even billionaires, thought Flora. Even billionaires turn into teenagers once again when they like someone. This felt like school.

  Colton looked a bit pink as Iona bustled in with a fresh tray of Annie’s iced buns. It was amazing, Flora thought, to see everything her mother had done for them rising again. Being enjoyed again. Because it had felt, when she’d died, as if she’d left a big empty hole. And yet here it was. And she had thought it would be sad, but she felt, strangely, anything but.

  She turned her attention back to Colton.

  “Yes?” she said, smiling.

  Colton looked around, as if realizing where he was, and blinked. Whatever it was he’d been meaning to say, the moment had gone.

  “Um. Right. Well. Whatever. I mean, you’ll ask him . . . you’ll ask him to cater, right? Over at the Rock? He can give it a shot, can’t he? The two of you. Well, all of you.” He gestured to the shop.

  “Oh!” said Flora, who hadn’t been expecting this. “What about your expensive chef?”

  “He’s . . . Yes. He’s still with us. But he’d work under Fintan. For Fintan. For him.”

  Flora smiled.

  “Wow. I’m sure Fintan will be amazed. If my dad can spare him.”

  Colton looked as if he had something to say about that, but just then Maggie Buchanan came in, with her usual distracted smile and perfect clothes.

  “Hello, Mrs. . . .”

  “Buchanan,” hissed Flora.

  “Mrs. Buchanan! Great to see you! Like what we’ve done here?”

  Maggie looked around. She sniffed loudly.

  “Not before time. It was a disgrace leaving this place empty. I hope you’re going to paint the outside.”

  “Um, yes, ma’am,” said Colton. “I’m Colton Rogers.”

  She looked at him blankly, which was pretty ballsy, Flora thought, given that she knew exactly who he was.

  “Yes,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”

  “I’m having a party at my new place, the Rock,” Colton went on, undeterred. “And I’d very much like you to come.”

  “Would you now?” said Maggie. “Four scones, please, Flora. No raisins.”

  Flora got to it, fumbling with the till rather, and Maggie turned round with a “good day” and left the shop without another word.

  “She hates me,” said Colton.

  “You’d better make it a great party,” said Flora.

  The painters had arrived before the close of business.

  And so it went on. Right from the start, the Café by the Sea was incredibly busy; from the first lattes at 8 A.M. until the final slice of cake was taken away at four, every day was a blur.

  The oddest thing was, given everything that was going on both there and on the farm, as well as in London, if you were to ask Flora what her worries were at that point, she would have looked at you, confused. Because she was too busy worrying about what fish were coming in that morning to make fish cakes with, or whether they were going to run out of cream, or whether the bramble jam was going to be too sour.

  On top of that, there was the party to plan.

  They met up at the Rock on a cool, clear July day, with fragments of cloud banked against the bottom of the sky as if waiting until they were needed. Fintan was playing hookey from the farm for the day, and looked as ever overjoyed to have thrown off the yoke. His entire gait was looser.

  “So the cheese is going out on, like, taster plates,” he was saying. “You’ll make those oatcakes again, but you know, if you’re making some more, what about adding, maybe, a little chili to the mix? And some cheese, just to make them incredible? And we’ll use the farm butter, and we can just brand it; then if we’ve already got, like, the fruit pies . . .”

  “You’ve planned it very well,” said Flora encouragingly. “It’s going to be great.” They walked up the path together, touring the little cottage garden.

  “Because, look! They have raspberries here, and fresh mint and everything. My God, what you could do with this place. Look at it all!”

  He looked so happy, standing among the rows of fresh herbs and vegetables, completely in his element. Flora smiled at him.

  “And you’re going to like working with Colton,” she said, not really considering her words.

  He stiffened suddenly.

>   “What do you mean?”

  Flora had hoped this wouldn’t be so difficult. Yes, of course Mure was a small island, but this was the twenty-first century. There was gay marriage, the church seemed to have more or less given up pontificating about it . . . Just because the island was traditional, it had never been cruel.

  Fintan wouldn’t catch her eye.

  “Nothing. I mean . . . Just, you guys seemed to get on well.”

  “So?”

  “So, nothing.”

  There was a very uncomfortable pause.

  “I get on well with lots of people,” said Fintan.

  “Of course you do,” said Flora. “I know that.”

  “I’m not the one sleeping with my boss.”

  “I’m not sleeping with him!”

  “But you’ve thought about it.”

  “Ugh, person I am related to, shut up, bleargh, yuck, not listening.”

  “You have! You have! So. Don’t lecture me.”

  “Shut up! I’m not listening to you!”

  “You so fancy him! I’m not surprised. He’s hot.”

  They both stopped. Fintan looked as if he’d been caught out in something.

  “He is,” said Flora quietly.

  “Who is?” came a cheerful American voice. Today Colton was wearing jeans and large boots and a massive hoodie sweatshirt that made him look like an overgrown teenager, presumably the effect he’d intended all along.

  Fintan turned away, but Colton took his arm.

  “Hey,” he said. “Great to see you kids. It’s going to be an awesome party and everyone is going to love me and vote for my proposal, right?”

  “We’ll give it a shot,” said Fintan gruffly.

  “Come on then, we’d better have an early lunch, given I have six million pies to oversee this afternoon.”

  They sat out in the sun and ate cold-water oysters with rye bread. It was funny: as children they’d never liked it, the dark, solid bread, and had always moaned and whined at their mother and longed for the squishy white loaf that you got at Wullie’s and that lasted for weeks. Now, as an adult, Flora could appreciate it for the lovely, deep-flavored, evocative thing that it was. Agot, on the other hand, had declared it “ASGUSTING.”

  She added some of Fintan’s butter, of course, and for the oysters some vinegar and freshly squeezed lemon juice, and they ate sitting on the extensively carved bench outside the Rock, gazing out at the great northern void, as well as peering round toward the little harbor going about its business, the boats moving slowly in and out.