“Thirty seconds sound about right.”
“What would you say if I told you recent experiments by Princeton psychologists suggest that people develop first impressions in a tenth of a second.”
“I would say, I’m glad you were extremely farsighted when we first met or we probably wouldn’t be having this discussion today. Something tells me you wouldn’t have taken me serious if you had been able to see that I was clutching a Furby.”
“I would have taken you seriously, Tara,” he says, his deep voice convincing. “Just as I hope you are taking me seriously now. If we are not prepared, if we do not arm ourselves with as much information as possible, Gallagher will dismiss our idea completely.”
Our idea. Hearing Rhys describe the plan to save Tásúildun as our idea should make me feel as light and effervescent as a champagne bubble, but it doesn’t. What’s wrong with me? A handsome, intelligent, ambitious man wants to be my partner and I feel . . . flat. We left Aidan out of our plan and it feels wrong, just plain shady and wrong.
“I think you are wrong.”
“Perhaps I am, but are you willing to risk jeopardizing the best plan, the only plan, really, for saving our aunt’s castle?”
Sin might be right. Turning Castle Tásúildun into a hotel might be the only way to save our aunt’s beloved home, but I truly believe, deep down in my bones, telling Aidan is the right thing to do.
“I am willing to risk it, but only because I believe you are wrong about Aidan. He’s more open minded than you give him credit.”
“Very well,” Sin says, tossing his glasses onto the desk and standing. “Let’s tell him.”
Aidan is sitting on a stool at the counter when we walk into the kitchen, a half-eaten ham sandwich on a plate in front of him, a bottle of Bánánach Brew in his hand.
“Tara,” he says.
He nods at Sin.
“We have something we would like to share,” Sin says, wasting no time with pleasantries.
So much for apple cake and tea. It appears our cordial little chat is going to happen while we are standing around the counter, watching Aidan sip from a sweaty bottle of hard cider.
Sin tells Aidan his plan for transforming the castle into a luxurious resort in great detail—rattling off projected operating expenses and profits, offering a shrewd assessment of potential competition, and ideas for an aggressive, but thoughtfully tailored marketing strategy. By the time Sin finishes presenting his clear, convincing business plan, I am certain Aidan will be onboard.
“That sounds like a grand idea, Rhys.”
“It does?” Sin says, his brows knit together.
“Sure.” Aidan smiles at me. “What do you think, Tara? Isn’t it a grand plan?”
“Yes,” I say, fixing Sin with a smug, I-told-you-so smile. “Sin has thought of everything, hasn’t he?”
“Everything?” Aidan looks confused. “I wouldn’t say he has thought of everything.”
My stomach tightens.
“Really? What did he forget?”
Sin presses his lips together in a thin, tight smile and a muscle begins to twitch on his jawline, just beneath his right ear.
“I’m just an apple farmer,” he says, holding his hands out as if to show us his callouses. “I didn’t graduate from a prestigious university. What do I know about big business? I am probably being a feckin’ eejit, but don’t ya need to own land before ya build a hotel?”
“We do own land,” Sin says.
“Do we?” Aidan’s question seems benign, but I have a sick, uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that he is about to deliver a swift jab to the heart of our plan. “Do we own that hill?”
“Tara owns it.”
Aidan shakes his head.
Here it comes. Brace yourself.
“What does that mean?” Sin asks. “Why did you shake your head? What does that mean, Aidan? Tara owns the castle and the lands.”
“Tara owns the castle, but I am the legal leaseholder of eighty-nine of those acres.”
Sin curses and runs his hand through his hair.
“What is a leaseholder?” I say, looking from Sin to Aidan. “What does that mean?”
“It means, banphrionsa,” he says, smiling. “You can’t trade the keys to your castle without first consulting your serf.”
“Serf?”
“I pay the owner of Tásúildun an annual rent in exchange for the use of eighty-nine acres.”
“Am I right in assuming you possess a ratified, legally binding lease?”
“Right as Donegal rain, old chap.”
“How long is the lease?”
“Twenty-one years.”
“Twenty-one years?”
Aidan grins.
“Wait,” I say, still confused. “Are you saying I am going to be your landlord for the next twenty-one years?”
“Grand, isn’t it?” he says, winking at me.
Sin frowns.
“Would you consider . . .”
“Nulling my lease?”
Sin nods.
“Even if I wasn’t negotiating a lucrative deal with an international restaurant chain, I wouldn’t forfeit my right to the use of the land to a load of overweight tourists who would stomp around the hills in their ridiculous boots, trample the gorse, and litter the ground with their crisp wrappers.” Aidan looks at me. The grin has disappeared from his face. “Is that what ya want then, Tara? To let a load of tourists destroy the peace and beauty your aunt worked so hard to maintain?”
“Of course I don’t want to see Tásúildun destroyed,” I say, my voice wobbling. “But what choice do I have? I don’t have the money to maintain the castle, do you? No, you don’t! Sin came up with a solid plan to save the castle and he has the expertise to make it happen. Can you say the same thing?”
“That’s your problem, Tara.” He tosses his empty cider bottle in the recycle bin and walks to the back door. “Ya don’t have faith in me. You’ve never had faith in me. What’s worse, you don’t have faith in yourself.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Gaston Lenôtre.
Some women dream about movie stars. Some dream about male models. Others dream about athletes. I dream about a dead French pastry chef.
I started dreaming about Gaston Lenôtre when I was in college. I watched a documentary about famous chefs and the narrator referred to one of them, Gaston Lenôtre, as the God of Desserts. After that, the Dessert God would appear in my dreams as a portly elderly man with sparkling blue eyes and a tall, starched toque perched atop his balding head—almost like a Fairy Godfather, but brandishing a whisk instead of a wand.
The dream is always the same. I see him in the distance, dressed in a pristine white chef’s coat, carrying a tray of pastries, and wreathed in clouds of flour. He walks up, smiles his radiant smile, and offers me a lavender-flavored macaron. I take the macaron, but it’s so pretty, with a smooth, crumbly crust and thick, creamy center, I don’t want to eat it. The Dessert God stares at me, his benevolent, wise blue eyes twinkling, and then says, Allez-y, enfant. Allez-y.
The dream mystified me until I typed the phrase into Google translate and discovered it means, Go ahead, child. Go for it.
Since then, I have accepted that the Dessert God’s nocturnal appearance is simply a manifestation of my subconscious urging me to push myself toward change. When Gaston Lenôtre entered the culinary world, pastry making had become as dry and uninspired as a box of saltine crackers. The same boring macarons filled with the same boring flavors—chocolate, strawberry, vanilla—and the same cake, croissant, and croquem-boche recipes. Lenôtre changed all of that with his brightly colored macarons flavored with kiwi, lime, pistachio, and passion fruit. He used less sugar and flour, more fresh ingredients, and whipped them into light, airy confections that seduced all of the senses. He was incredibly innovative and, as a result, elevated pastry making to an art form. The unknown, self-trained chef from a small village in Normandy, who used his life savings to buy a patisserie i
n Paris, revolutionized pastry making and inspired countless chefs around the world because he wasn’t afraid to shake things up, to try something new. Allez-y!
I am thinking about Gaston Lenôtre and his fearless pursuit of his passion the next afternoon when Catriona drops by for a visit. I am in the kitchen experimenting with one of Mrs. Cumiskey’s recipes for Bread and Butter Pudding—adding my own special Southern-influenced tweaks to an accompanying sauce—when she arrives. She takes one look at the golden Bread and Butter Pudding and smiles.
“Comfort food, is it?”
“Blame it on your Irish weather,” I say, stirring the sauce. “These dark, rainy days make me want to hole up inside this kitchen and bake fattening desserts.”
“Me gran says the same thing.”
“Thanks a million!” I say, laughing. “So you think I am an old lady? Is that it?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Do ya like to knit tea cozies and whinge about your aching bones? If that’s your idea of craic, then yes, you’re an old lady.”
“No knitting or whinging . . . yet.”
“Well, then, there’s that going for ya.”
We laugh.
“This is a nice surprise.” I take the saucepan off the heat and carry it to the counter to cool. “I didn’t expect to see you until the weekend.”
“You remember my friend Michael? You met him at the pub?”
“Of course.”
“He hasn’t stopped talking about your Feckin’ Fiddle.”
“Feckin’ Faddle.”
“Feckin’ Faddle, Feckin’ Fiddle,” she says, raising her hands in exasperation. “Whatever it’s feckin’ called, he’s off his nut about it. He begged me to ask ya if ya would consider making enough to feed two hundred people, about four hundred cups, he figures.”
“Four hundred cups?”
“He wants to test it in one of his pubs. If Feckin’ Fiddle does well, he wants to contract you to make larger batches to be delivered weekly and sold in all of his pubs.”
“Four hundred cups?” I look at Catriona the way I would if she told me she saw Lady Margaret dancing a jig in the courtyard. “Are you crazy? I can’t make that much popcorn.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Why not?” I am about to tell Catriona why I couldn’t possibly make enough Feckin’ Faddle to feed two hundred people when I hear the Dessert God’s voice in my ear telling me to go for it. “Where am I going to find that much popcorn? Do you think the Tesco in Donegal would have enough?”
“Forget Tesco,” she says, hopping up on the counter. “I called the hotel’s snack food supplier in Wicklow. You can order all of your supplies through them—kernels, popping oil, scoops, bags—and they’ll even ship overnight.”
“That’s incredible. You’re incredible.”
“Go on,” she says, waving away my praise. “You’ll do it then?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Grand. Just grand. Michael will be well pleased.” She dips her finger into the pot and tastes the brown syrupy sauce. “When do ya think ya will be able to deliver your Feckin’ Fiddle?”
“Faddle.”
“What?”
“It’s Feckin’ Faddle.”
She frowns. “What’s a faddle?”
“I think it means foolish.”
“Like feckin’ eejit?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Don’t like what?”
“The name, Feckin’ Faddle,” she says, shaking her head. “Are ya calling the people who eat your popcorn eejits?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why name it Feckin’ Faddle?”
“It’s a play on Fiddle Faddle, the name of the popcorn I used to eat back home.”
“Hmmm,” she says, wiping her finger on her jeans. “I like Feckin’ Fiddle better.”
Her mobile phone starts ringing. She reaches into her jacket pocket, pulls out her phone, looks at the screen, and rolls her eyes.
“Jaysus, Mary, and . . .”
She holds the phone up so I can see the caller ID. It’s Michael. She pushes the talk button and presses the phone to her ear.
“Hello Michael . . .”
I leave Catriona to her phone call to start a pot of tea boiling on the Aga. By the time she finishes her conversation, I have arranged the tea tray and scooped servings of Bread and Butter Pudding into bowls. She disconnects the call and joins me at the table.
“I changed my mind,” she says, collapsing into a chair. “Feckin’ Faddle is the perfect name for your popcorn. It’s certainly turned Michael into a big feckin’ faddle. He must have texted me a dozen times. Will ya ask Tara to make more of her popcorn? Did ya ask her yet? When will ya ask her? How soon do ya think she can deliver it? What do ya put in it, Tara, crack?”
“No crack, just craic,” I say, laughing.
“There’s a class name for it, Craic Corn. So addictive, you’ll need a twelve-step program.”
“That’s quite a slogan.”
“You’re welcome.”
I pour tea into our cups. We eat our pudding, laughing and chatting like old friends. Catriona tells me about her job, about how she is tired of the monotony of working in a hotel, about how she wants to try something new, something that will really challenge her marketing skills. I can hear her frustration.
“I know how you feel, Cat,” I say, reaching across the table and squeezing her hand. “WCSC is a fantastic place to work and I was blessed, truly blessed, to get hired there right out of college, but I felt unfulfilled in my job. Maybe all you need is a little break. Take a vacation.”
She brightens. “Like a road trip?”
“Okay, sure.” I smile. “I was thinking of a week in a Swiss spa or sunning yourself on a beach in Mallorca, but if a road trip is more your speed, good on ya!”
“What about a road trip to a music festival?”
“That could be fun.”
“Have you heard of the Béal an Muirhillion Music Festival?”
“No.”
“It’s great gas,” she says, sliding her empty teacup aside. “It’s held in a town just up the road, right on the beach. People come from all over the world to camp and listen to live music. Vendors and artisans sell all sorts of things. So, what if you set up a booth and sell your Boozy Bites, like Bánánach Biscuits and Craic Corn?”
“Feckin’ Faddle,” I say, pushing my empty dessert bowl aside. “Why would I do that?”
“Are ya taking the piss? A load of langered eejits listening to music would probably sell their front teeth to get to eat something as delicious as your desserts. Market them as being made with whiskey and craft cider and you will sell out before the first band leaves the stage.”
“You think?”
“Absolutely.” She grins. “It would be a great way to launch your brand.”
“My brand?”
“Boozy Bites.”
I frown.
“Hear me out,” she says. “You need to find a way to make enough money to keep Tásúildun from becoming a pile of rubble, right?”
“Right.”
“Do you know how many people have developed a revolutionary product in the hopes of becoming rich and famous?”
I shake my head.
“Millions,” she says. “Mark Zuckerberg. Steve Jobs. Bill Gates. Thomas Edison. They are aberrations, geniuses, and visionaries, but some of the most successful entrepreneurs are of average intelligence. They succeed because they use their talents to improve upon something that already exists or supply an unfulfilled demand. They are passionate and persistent. Your unique skill is baking.”
“Baking isn’t a unique skill, Cat.”
“I disagree.” She pushes her empty bowl at me. “I devour your desserts even though I don’t fancy sweets. You have a talent, Tara, and I believe you could be very successful with the right vision and marketing plan.”
“You do?”
“Sure, I do!” Her voice is high and her eyes are sparkling with excitement. “The trick is to start small and create a loyal following. That will help generate a buzz. Meanwhile, we will refine our products and obtain the financial backing necessary to take the business to the next level.”
“Do you really think selling my baked goods at a music festival will be the first step to my becoming Mrs. Fields?”
“Who is Mrs. Fields?”
“A famous cookie chain in America.”
“Sure,” she says, smiling. “Why couldn’t you be as successful as this Mrs. Fields?”
From crab cook-off judge to cookie mogul. Why not? I can see it now. Boozy Bites franchises in all of the malls in America, from Seattle to Savannah. Moody teens queuing up to exchange their hard-earned allowance for whiskey flavored cookies. Maybe MADD will be a corporate sponsor. Maybe I will be so successful the Today Show will invite me to film a segment with Savannah Guthrie.
“I wouldn’t even know who to talk to about renting a booth at the Belly Million Festival.”
“Béal an Muirhillion,” she says, laughing. “As it happens, my cousin is one of the festival organizers. I told her about your Bánánach Biscuits and how crazy Michael is for your Feckin’ Fiddle and she said she will reserve a booth for us.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that! She has the glad eye for Michael, so that definitely helped.”
“You keep saying us and we. Does that mean you plan on helping me launch Boozy Bites?”
“I sure as shite won’t get rich planning events for a hotel. I plan on hitching my horse to your comet—or however that American saying goes.”
“It’s your wagon to my star, but close enough.” I laugh. “You’re serious about all of this? You’ll really help me?”
“Yeah. No bother, no bother. I’ve been banking my overtime hours for the last year. I can afford the holiday.”
“Why would you give up your time off to be my sous chef?”
“Why?” She frowns. “You’re me mate, aren’t ya?”
“Sure.”
“There you go, then.”
She says it in such a matter-of-fact way, as if it is perfectly natural for her to give up hard-earned vacation days to help a friend sell baked goods at a music festival. Except for Callie, I don’t think any of my Charleston friends would make such a sacrifice, not even to help me launch a cookie empire. My throat tightens.
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