by Maggie Finn
‘Because I’m frightened,’ came the answer. Sean hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but it came nonetheless. It was the truth. Sean had always been a laid-back, go-with-the-flow kind of guy; Caroline was right about that. He didn’t plan, he didn’t make lists. He was spontaneous, carefree. So what if Molly was single? What if she liked him too? Then he’d be tied down, he couldn’t just jump in the van and head for the beach, he’d have to go to dinner parties and go on mini-breaks and go shopping for kitchen tiles and…
‘Just go, you eejit,’ Sean whispered. And his hands began to paddle. He swiveled his body flat onto the board and began to kick with his legs. He slid forward, the board’s nose dipping forward, and in one fluid movement, Sean’s feet were gripping board and in a roar of water and wind, he was flying toward the shore. Toward Molly.
Chapter Five
Laid out like that, they didn’t look like much. Little piles of paper in neat stacks on the café counter. Each flimsy receipt wasn’t that important on its own; it recorded the purchase of a box of carrots, say, or a bill for fish. Maybe even something as small as a book of stamps or some dishcloths, but they all added up. Over days and weeks and months, the costs of running a café built up, like a snowball rolling downhill, adding the electricity and the water and the rates and the tax.
And over on the other side of the counter was a smaller pile of cheques, bank slips and the daily receipts representing money coming in through the tills. A much smaller pile, for sure, but then that side of the business was more straightforward. People came in, they ate their food, they drank their drinks and they handed you their Euros. Simple. It didn’t matter the size of the piles, they just had to balance. Money in and money out, the scales swinging back and forth, but ultimately settling even. That was the idea, anyway.
Molly looked down at her oversized calculator and the columns of figures she had spent the night scribbling down. The scales hadn’t settled even. Mr. Bower had been right; things were bad. Very bad. Molly was an optimist, always had been, and most of the time it had worked out for her: think positive and good things would happen, that was her philosophy, put on a smile and the toast will fall butter upwards.
But positive thinking only got you so far. It couldn’t force people to walk in through the door, it couldn’t make them veer off the bypass, it couldn’t make them come to Clover Cove to buy cake. Happy thoughts just didn’t translate into cold hard cash.
‘Ah, fiddlesticks.’
Rolling her cramped shoulders, Molly turned and walked over to the coffee machine, turning it on, comforted by the ritual of grinding the beans, tamping the coffee, the ‘schputt-shputt’ of the water dripping through. Would she have to sell this? Probably.
Molly found herself welling up. It was silly to get emotional about a machine, but she supposed this chrome monster was symbolic of the success of her business. She had bought it with the first profits from the café in the early days before the bypass had sent the tourists streaming past the Cove, but now this shiny lump looked like an indulgence. ‘But if you can’t enjoy what life throws you, you might as well never have lived.’ Another of her mother’s homespun slices of wisdom. And suddenly Molly wanted to speak to her mum.
She took her coffee and walked out in front of the café where there was a bench. It had been a warm night and there was sunshine already warming the cove. She pulled out her phone and scrolled to her mum’s number, praying as always that there would be a signal. Besides which, would Audra be asleep? No, she was an early riser too. She liked to write poetry and paint – both badly – in the little conservatory at the back of the house. Molly imagined her Mam sitting there in her kaftan, her head wound in a colorful scarf, and felt herself welling up again. Mother wouldn’t approve of tears. Audra Maguire was a flighty, free-spirited type, but she was also pragmatic, the result of decades of campaigning for her various lost causes, and she had no time for crying over spilt milk – or spilt anything.
Molly pressed ‘call’ and pulled some kitchen roll from her pocket to dab at her eyes. Molly always had kitchen roll on her somewhere.
‘Darling! How nice to hear from you,’ said her mother. ‘What’s wrong?’
Molly actually laughed. Was her mother psychic?
‘Can’t I just call to see how you are?’
‘Of course! Now tell me what’s going on. Is it a man?’
Obviously, that would be Audra’s first thought. As a hardline feminist, Molly’s mother had a long checklist of traits and qualities she required in a man: a commitment to the cause, obviously, sensitivity to a woman’s needs, creativity and an appreciation of the arts. And, ideally, he should look like Che Guevara. Unfortunately, Audra was terrible at finding men who ticked any of those boxes. She had an awful track record with men, dating venal bankers and cocksure salesmen, plus a long disastrous relationship with a doctor who, it transpired, was married with three children.
‘It’s not a man,’ said Molly firmly, ‘Right now a man is the last thing I need.’
‘Well said, sweetheart,’ said Audra. ‘Like a fish needs a bicycle. So what is it?’
Molly took a deep breath. ‘It’s the café. It’s, well, it’s not going well.’
‘Money?’
Straight to the point, as always.
‘Yes, it’s money. Too much out, not enough in. And the bank’s given me an ultimatum.’
‘Banks!’ tutted Audra. ‘Black hearts to a man.’
Molly looked back through the open door at the piles of receipts and sighed.
‘Perhaps, but they do have a point. My food is good, I know it is, but not enough people are coming here to try it. Clover Cove just isn’t on the map.’
‘But it’s so beautiful,’ said Audra wistfully. Her mother had spent three weeks sleeping on Molly’s sofa the previous summer, writing overblown verse on the clifftops and daubing oils in vivid colors in the village square; more as performance art than landscape – Audra loved the attention of the locals. ‘So colorful,’ she had said, which Molly thought was a bit rich considering Audra came from Dublin, home of the eccentric.
‘Beautiful it is,’ agreed Molly, “But the west coast isn’t exactly short of beauty and the tourists tend to stick to the well-worn routes.’
‘Well then you need to put Molly’s Café on that route,’ said Audra decisively.
‘If only it were that easy.’
‘Things are only as hard as you want to make them, darling,’ said Audra. ‘When you want to climb a mountain, the path will appear.’
‘Don’t!’ Molly snapped, louder than she had meant. ‘Don’t try and talk this away with one of your homilies, Mam. This is serious. I could lose the café, I could lose my income, I could lose my home.’
The line fell disconcertingly silent.
‘If you say it’s serious, darling, then it is. I hear you. But the world is serious, it’s unforgiving and it’s hard. No one gives you an inch, especially as a woman on her own.’
Molly hadn’t realized that she was crying until she brushed the tears away from her cheek. All she could do was nod.
‘But I didn’t raise you to let any of that stop you. You’ve always been strong, Molly Maguire. You’ve taken on men and beaten them at their own game, haven’t you?’
Molly sniffed. ‘I suppose.’
Molly knew better than most what it took to succeed in a man’s world. Straight out of college, Molly had joined the kitchen of La Coeur, one of Dublin’s oldest French restaurants. She had started on the lowest rung, peeling and slicing, clearing and cleaning in the stifling heat and the cloying macho atmosphere. Restaurant kitchens were like little fiefdoms, with the head chef as the lord of all he surveyed, hurling insults – and sometimes plates – back and forth through the steam. But Molly was good and she moved up rung by rung, and when Marcus, Le Coeur’s under chef was poached as head cook at hot new pan-European bistro Biblio, he asked Molly to join him. Marcus had seen Molly’s talent, but he also had an ulterior motive – and the
y began a relationship, the end of which had prompted Molly’s move to Clover Cove.
‘Don’t hide your light under a bushel, Molly,’ said Audra. ‘And don’t let some man in a suit tell you how far you can go. You can do anything you set your mind to.’
Molly clenched her jaw. She knew her mother’s advice was coming from a good place, but her belief-system – that women were being actively oppressed by a cabal of male billionaires hell-bent on crushing the sisterhood’s spirit – often made her see conspiracies that weren’t there.
‘But this isn’t the bank manager’s fault, Mammy,’ she said. ‘I’ve been through the books and he’s right: I just don’t have enough money coming in and if I can’t find the money for the mortgage, the bank will foreclose. That’s a fact.’
Her mother was silent for a moment.
‘Then find the money,’ she said. ‘How long do you have?’
‘A month.’
‘Then you have a month. Can’t you ask Marcus?’
‘No!’ cried Molly, ‘What? No way.’
‘He owes you, sweetie. He’s got that new place in Kilmara and without you…’
‘No, Mum. Definitely not. End of discussion.’
It might feel impossible right now, but all you need is that one mortgage payment, then you have another month to think of something else, right?’
Molly managed a smile. Her mother could be infuriating, but she had that old-fashioned grit and a can-do spirit that often put her to shame. Still, that didn’t mean Molly had the slightest idea how to go about raising such a sum of money. She was good at bread and cakes, that was certain, but people didn’t seem all that keen to pay thousands of euros for a Victoria sponge, however light it was.
‘We don’t give up, do we?’ said Audra, her voice stern.
‘No Mam, we don’t.’
‘So go and take on the world.’
‘But Mam…’ said Molly. But she was talking to dead air. Audra had said her piece, then hung up. She was as big on dramatic exits as she was on entrances.
Molly gulped a breath, tried to control herself, but now she was alone, the tears were really coming. She had called her mother for support, sympathy, for some of that ‘oh darling, I know, it’s terrible, you must be feeling awful’ stuff that mums are supposed to give to their daughters, not some speech about storming the barricades and toppling the patriarchy. Molly wanted a hug, not ideology.
Story of my life, thought Molly. You couldn’t choose your parents, could you? She looked at Miguel, then back at the café.
‘Stay strong,’ she whispered, blowing her nose. ‘What have you got to lose except everything?’
Wiping her face, Molly stood up and walked back into the café.
‘Hello.’
Molly almost jumped in the air. The surfer was standing by the counter. Her surfer.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you,’ he said quickly, ‘I came to ask you something and I saw the door open…’
He glanced guiltily at the piles of receipts covering the counter. Oh no! Thought Molly, what had he seen? Had he heard her on the phone to her mother?
‘This is private,’ Molly snapped, crossing to the counter. ‘I’m not open for an hour, this is my home.’
Molly tried to gather the papers together, sweep them up into her arms, but they wouldn’t play ball, flying into the air and dropping to the floor.
‘I’m so sorry,’ said the surfer, bending to help. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude. I just wanted…’
‘What? What did you want?’ snapped Molly, snatching back the papers he’d picked up, dropping others in the process.
‘I just… I wanted to see if I could help.’
‘Well I don’t need your help. I don’t need anyone’s help, I’m fine, thank you very much.’
Molly was dimly aware that she didn’t look fine, with red eyes and bed-hair and an armful of fluttering receipts. She looked mad.
‘Okay,’ said the surfer holding up his hands in surrender and backing toward the door. ‘As long as you’re alright.’
Molly sensed some balance shift, knew that if she said something, if she could stop him from leaving, things might change. But she couldn’t. She was frozen, weighed down by debt and worry and expectation. And an armful of useless paper. So she just stood there and watched the surfer go, leaving wet footprints in his wake. Then she dropped the receipts to the floor, closed the café door. And she cried.
Chapter Six
‘Are you with us, Sean?’
Sean looked up. His father was smiling at him.
‘Sorry, I was miles away.’
‘I can see that,’ said his dad, amusement lighting up his face. Aiden O’Hea was a good-looking man with salt and pepper grey hair and laughter lines where he should have had wrinkles.
‘You’ve been staring out the window since we got here. Company not sparkling enough?’
Sean felt rather than saw Caroline’s glare. She had announced that morning that Dad was coming over to take them both out for lunch, which would usually have been a cause for excitement, of course. Dad rarely left mum’s side these days and it was certainly a treat to come up here to the Watch House, the cordon bleu restaurant on the cliff high about Clover Cove: chef Maurice’s French Onion soup alone was worth the journey. But Sean’s mind couldn’t settle, couldn’t tune into the conversation: Dad and Caroline talking about the future of the business, something like that. Sean couldn’t think about anything but that girl in the café. Molly.
She had looked so vulnerable that morning. Beautiful too, of course, but so fragile. And somehow, he’d messed up again. He’d run up there, full of excitement and trepidation, but ready to ask Molly out – and she’d yelled at him and thrown him out of the café. A stone sat in Sean’s stomach; it felt like he’d ruined everything. Molly had certainly seemed furious with him about something. If only he knew what.
‘I think Sean would rather be out surfing, Dad,’ said Caroline.
‘Well that’s your fault isn’t it Lino? Didn’t you get him hooked in the first place?’
Sean saw Caroline flinch. He knew she hated it when Dad used her pet name and hated it even more when he reminded her of her past life. Caroline preferred to pretend she had always been a hard-nosed businesswoman from birth.
‘Even if I did introduce Sean to surfing,’ she said, ‘That doesn’t mean it’s my fault he’s obsessed. There are other things in life, Sean.’
Their father leant forward with a smirk on his face.
‘Like business, you mean?’
Sean had thought it, but his father had said it out loud. Aiden laughed, that full throaty laugh that used to come so regularly. ‘Don’t look so serious, Caroline,’ he chuckled. ‘I’m just teasing. It’s good to have a passion in life. Sean loves riding waves, you love poring over spreadsheets – and each to his own, I say.’
Sean gave a wary smile, but Caroline clearly wasn’t in the mood to join in with the levity.
‘Unless it begins to take over everything else,’ she sniffed.
‘Exactly. But we all need a break from the grind every now and then. Lord knows I do.’
Aiden looked down at the table, those lines around his eyes seeming to deepen.
‘How is Mam?’ asked Sean gently.
‘Ah, she’s grand. Most days she still has a few periods when she knows where she is and who I am – and those are the good times. And even when she’s… well, more confused, she’s still my Gilda. I’m just glad to be able to sit with her, talk to her. Hold her hand.’
‘What do the doctors say?’ asked Caroline. ‘Isn’t there a treatment or some drug we could try?’
It was an old conversation, one of those things you felt you should ask, even when you knew there was no answer. The reality was that dementia was a pit-bull disease. Once it got a hold of you, it didn’t let go.
‘They’re doing their best,’ he sighed. ‘And the Lord knows they’re trying hard, but the truth is, we’re all living too
long. We can fix hearts and fight disease with antibiotics – we can even beat some cancer these days – so our bodies keep going and going. But the brain just keeps getting old and no one really has much idea how it works. God willing, by the time your kids are my age, they’ll have sorted it all out, but it’s too late for your Mam. All we can do is keep telling her she’s loved. And that’s my passion.’
He reached across and grabbed their hands, squeezing. ‘And you two. Ah, but it’s grand to have you both here. And I couldn’t be more proud how you’re coping, running the business and so on. Your Ma would be proud too.’
Sean forced a smile, but he was weighed down by guilt. He hadn’t been to visit his mother in weeks. He had no idea how his dad could stand it day in, day out, sitting with someone you loved and with whom you had spent your life, but who looked at you as if you were a stranger. He supposed that was what happened when you truly loved someone. He thought of Molly and the look on her face when she had thrown him out of the café. She had bolted the door, both figuratively and literally, and yet Sean still couldn’t stop thinking about her. It didn’t make any sense.
‘Well, that’s part of the reason I asked you here,’ said Caroline.
Sean looked up. Hadn’t Dad invited them?
‘I wanted to discuss the move.’
Sean looked at his father. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it.
‘I’m sorry, the move?’
‘To London, Sean.’
‘London?’
Caroline rolled her eyes.
‘Sean, we discussed this. In my office?’
‘All you said was that you had big plans for expansion, that we needed to think bigger.’
‘And I think that’s right, Sean,’ said Aiden. ‘The business needs to move with the times. In my day, communication was local. If you needed a plumber, you asked at the pub, or you looked for an ad in the paper. Now communication is global. People in Kansas can tell you how to fix your leaky tap with a step-by-step video or you can order a whole new bathroom online 24/7. WestTec should be part of that.’