by Zara Keane
Jonas had done this deliberately. She’d known he disliked her, but sabotaging her plans for the café seemed extreme. That cottage was hers. She’d spent months planning the layout, knew exactly what would be positioned where. To come so close and have her dreams implode…Feck Mary McDermott and her toad of a nephew.
Olivia checked her watch. She had minutes to spare to reach the bank in time for her appointment, but it would suffice. It had to. The droplets of rain she’d noticed when she’d first exited the dentist’s office were growing more insistent. More often than not, Irish drizzle was a polite warning before an imminent deluge. She rummaged through her handbag and located her umbrella. The stupid thing likely wouldn’t work in this wind, but she’d have to take the chance. She opened her umbrella and ran.
Chapter Two
BY THE TIME OLIVIA entered the bank’s dim lobby, she was wet and bedraggled.
“Terrible downpour out there.” Mairéad Moran, the manager’s longtime PA, stood to greet her.
Shivering, Olivia removed her dripping coat.
“I’ll hang it up to dry.” Mairéad bustled over to her and took the wet garment. Olivia had always had a soft spot for Mairéad. The woman was as wide as her sunny smile and exuded a maternal warmth Olivia’s mother would do well to cultivate.
She pushed tendrils of damp hair out of her face and peeled off her hat and scarf. The soft wool was soaked. Eau de wet wool was not her fragrance of choice. Her cunning plan to make a positive impression on the bank manager by looking her professional best was well and truly smashed to smithereens.
“Sorry for rearranging the appointment,” Mairéad said. “Paddy will be out of town for a couple of weeks. His mother took a tumble and broke her hip. We’re trying to get through a mountain of paperwork before he leaves.”
“No worries,” Olivia lied. She’d promised Aidan she’d be gone from the office for no more than an hour. He’d been on edge ever since a fellow investor in a new shopping center project had absconded with the cash, and his mood this morning was particularly foul. Judging by the ashtray on his desk, he’d smoked half a packet of cigarettes before she’d brought in his morning coffee.
“I’m afraid your meeting will have to be short. Paddy’s booked solid the entire morning. I know you’re keen to get your business started, and I slipped you onto the list.”
“Thanks, Mairéad. I’ll be out of his hair in no time, I swear.” A vision of Paddy’s straggly comb-over appeared. Perhaps a poor choice of words.
“He’s on a call, but I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.” Mairéad already had the phone to her ear. “Why don’t you take a seat?”
While she waited, Olivia scrutinized the information booklets on the table before her. They depicted a frothy Irish fantasy that had evaporated when the so-called Celtic Tiger had met its dramatic demise. Happy couples standing in front of spanking new homes; men in business suits roaring off in fancy cars; young people sporting backpacks and maps. All the dreams and aspirations that had turned to ash when the Irish economy collapsed. Yet here she was, hoping to beat the odds.
Fifteen minutes passed before Paddy O’Neill approached with an insincere smile and an outstretched hand. He wore a gray suit that might have fit had he been fifteen kilos lighter.
“Olivia.” He took her hand and gave it a hearty pump.
The patently false jollity grated on her nerves.
“Delighted to see a determined entrepreneurial spirit, especially in these hard times.” He paused in his perusal of her body. “Did something happen to your face? It looks puffy.”
“I had a filling.” She enunciated the words with care, but the numbness had worn off.
“Ah, fillings. Nasty but necessary. Well, come along to my office and we’ll have a chat about your little café.”
Her little café…Nice. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed her briefcase and followed Paddy down the narrow hallway that led from the bank’s dim lobby to his office at the rear of the building. The room was small and cramped. Cheap air spray did little to conceal the pervading smell of damp.
Paddy pulled out a worn leather seat and indicated she should sit. “Tea?” he asked. “Or would you prefer coffee?”
“Nothing, thanks.”
The bank manager sat at his desk across from her, affording her an excellent view of his comb-over and flaking scalp.
“Mairéad told me about your mother’s fall. I hope she’ll be all right.”
“Ah, she’ll be fine, thanks. She took a tumble down a flight of stairs. Doesn’t care for the idea of going into a nursing home when she gets out of the hospital. Can’t say I blame her, but it’s awkward for me. The perils of being an only child, I suppose. Now,” he said, adjusting his girth. “Let’s have a look at your loan application for the café.”
“To be precise, it’s a café-cum-gift-shop,” she corrected. “In addition to the food and drinks offered in the café, I’ll house an assortment of Irish woolens, soaps, and jewelry.”
“Both a café and a gift shop are risky business at the best of times, and we’re in the middle of a recession.”
“The current situation won’t last,” Olivia insisted. “People are scared right now, and the local businesses are feeling the pinch. Nevertheless, customers still gravitate toward quality, and that’s what I intend to provide. In addition to a lunch menu, I’ll offer a variety of freshly baked goods throughout the day. The coffee will be the best in town, and there’ll be a selection of teas to satisfy everyone. My motto is quality over quantity, and I’ll also apply that to items I stock in the gift section.”
The bank manager had an odd expression on his face. She couldn’t tell if it was incredulity or respect. “You’re gambling the economy is going to turn around fast enough for you to make a go of it, but we’re not seeing any evidence of that so far.”
“I know I can make it work.” Olivia extracted a slim blue folder from her bag and slid it across the desk. “I’ve saved for years and taken courses with the local enterprise board. They’ve approved my start-up grant with the proviso I raise the remaining fifty percent of the capital. My recipes are good. More than good, if I do say so myself.” She tapped the folder. “You can see examples in here. Plus I have plenty of contacts with suppliers and local artisans. I’ve listed the company from whom I’ll rent the kitchen equipment, and the farmers who’ve agreed to supply me with fresh produce. Bridie Byrne has already promised to hire me to supply the Book Mark café with baked goods.”
The bank manager leafed through the file. “Your talent isn’t in question. I’m not convinced you have the business know-how to run your own café, especially in today’s tough market.”
“I realize it’s a risk, but it’s one I’m prepared to take.”
“That’s clear. The question is whether or not the bank is willing to take a risk on you.” Paddy flicked through the papers in front of him. When his brow furrowed, Olivia’s palms began to sweat. “Did you bring a copy of the lease?” he asked. “I don’t see it here.”
She swallowed. “About that…”
“Yes?”
“There is no lease,” she admitted. “The deal fell through.”
“Ah,” Paddy said, betraying no flicker of surprise. “That is a problem. You see, your venture is what I would classify as high risk. The one thing you had in your favor was the prospect of premises in a central location. Do you have alternative rooms sorted out?”
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “No, not yet. I only found out this morning.”
“Is there no chance of Aidan giving you the start-up capital? Or your parents?”
“None whatsoever.” A tinge of bitterness flavored her words. If it weren’t for Aidan and her parents, she wouldn’t be in this desperate situation.
The bank manager made a noise of regret. “In that case, I’m sorry, but I’ll have to decline your request for a loan at this time.”
Her stomach churned. “Can’t I at least have the chance to look fo
r another location before you turn me down? I found out about the cottage a few minutes ago, and I don’t want to waste time going through the application process again. Besides, I wasn’t expecting to see you until next Friday.”
Paddy steepled his fingers. “I’ll be back from my mother’s in a couple of weeks. Do you think you can secure your premises by then?”
“I’ll give it my best shot,” she said, willing her left foot to cease its nervous tapping.
Even as he nodded, the manager’s attention drifted from her. She imagined he was thinking about his next appointment, probably with someone wealthier and more business savvy than she was. But she hadn’t come this close to realizing her dream to quit.
The bank manager shook his head in resignation. “All right. Come by in two weeks. Mairéad will e-mail you with the exact time. If you have a viable alternative location for your business, I’ll take it into consideration before I give you my final decision.”
“Thanks, Paddy. I appreciate it.”
She stood and extended her hand. He shook it with noticeably less enthusiasm than when she’d arrived and made halfhearted small talk while escorting her to the exit. It was clear he couldn’t wait to get rid of her. “I’ll see you after the holidays. Best of luck with your search.”
I’ll need it, she thought, and she stepped outside. In the short time she’d been in the bank, the wind and the rain had whipped themselves into a ferocious frenzy. Olivia stood on the pavement, letting rain and dejection wash over her. She took a deep breath, expanding her core as her Pilates teacher advocated, held it briefly, then exhaled. The self-pity party was canceled. She had too much to lose if the café fell through, not least of which was her sanity. Time to figure out a Plan B.
Screw Mary McDermott and her shameless display of nepotism. And screw Jonas O’Mahony and his arrogance. May he be struck down with an incurable case of crotch crabs.
Chapter Three
LUCA’S SCREAMS ECHOED off the kitchen walls.
“Come on, mate. Calm down.” Jonas aimed the flyswatter at the catalyst of the chaos. The bluebottle circled Luca’s head one more time before coming in to land on his glass of milk.
The screams turned to hysterics. The boy flailed with such force that he sent the milk flying, knocked over his chair, and landed on the kitchen tiles with a crash.
Jonas knelt on the floor and took his son in his arms. “It’s okay, mate. I’ve got you.” Luca’s dark curls were soft underneath his touch. He bent to give him a kiss. “I’m betting that fly’s more scared of you than you are of him.”
Actually, he bet no such thing. The bluebottle had led Jonas in a merry dance these past fifteen minutes. It took a perverse delight in teasing him into thinking he’d finally got the fecker, only to buzz off at the last millisecond.
“You’re not to kill it, Dad,” Luca said between sniffs. “Put the fly outside where it belongs.”
“What?” He drew back in surprise. “You want me to catch the fly, not kill it?”
The boy’s small face was tear-stained and blotchy. “Flies live outside. He’s not supposed to be in here. It’s not right.”
Jonas rummaged in his pocket for a clean tissue and came up empty. His mother had a never-ending supply about her person—yet more proof he was not cut out for this parenting lark. “Um, okay. Not sure how I’ll manage that, but—”
“What’s the fuss?” Mam stood in the doorway, laden with shopping bags.
“A fly,” said Jonas and Luca in unison.
Jonas’s mother surveyed the chaos with a benign expression. After dumping the grocery bags on the kitchen counter, she strode to the back door and threw it open. As if on cue, the bluebottle made its exit.
His jaw slackened. Unreal. How did she do that?
“Now stop your messing and tidy up while I get the sandwiches ready.”
“Right-o.”
“And for heaven’s sake, give that poor child a tissue.” A packet of tissues materialized from the depths of her handbag.
While Jonas righted the fallen chair and mopped the spilled milk, Luca set the table.
“How does ham and cheese sound?” Mam sliced the fresh loaf of bread into thick slices. She didn’t hold with buying pre-sliced and had reacted with horror when Jonas once offered to buy her a bread slicer for Christmas.
“Add a pickle to mine and I’ll love you forever.”
A small smile hovered on her lips. “You’re a slick talker, boy. You remind me of your dad when he was younger. What was all the fuss about that fly?”
“Luca isn’t fond of insects indoors. They—” He glanced at his son, but Luca’s concentration was focused on aligning the cutlery on the table. “They set him off.”
“Right.” She handed him a plate laden with sandwiches followed by a large bowl of salad. “Let’s pray there are no creepy crawlies lurking in there.”
Luca’s knife sliced with expert precision. Once he had four identical squares, he proceeded to eat the sandwich in his usual fashion: clockwise, starting with the piece at the top right. A stab of fear pierced his gut. Fatherhood had never featured in his life plan. Yet here he was, lone parent to a little boy with special needs. The man upstairs had an odd sense of humor, that was for sure.
His mother poured tea into pottery mugs and handed him one. His glance strayed to the kitchen clock. In another twenty minutes, he could escape to his home office and lose himself in a world of make-believe.
“Did you know Mary had promised to rent one of the cottages to Olivia Gant?” he asked between bites of sandwich. “I met her this morning at the dentist’s office. She’s pissed about the deal falling through.” Pissed was an understatement. He was still reeling from her verbal onslaught. How in the hell was he supposed to know his aunt had promised her a lease? Mary hadn’t mentioned a prospective tenant when she’d offered to deed him the properties on Curzon Street.
Mam snorted. “Let her be annoyed. What was my sister thinking? Why would she rent one of her houses to that woman?”
“Mary’s a businesswoman. I’d say she was thinking of a tenant to pay rent.”
“Regardless, I was relieved when Mary told me she’d decided to deed the cottages over to you instead of renting them out.”
“My good fortune is Olivia’s bad luck. She seemed genuinely upset.” Despite everything that had happened between them, he didn’t wish Olivia ill. Once upon a time, they’d loved one another. Had it not been for Bry’s death, perhaps they still would.
His mother pursed her lips. “Why should it matter to Olivia if she rents Mary’s cottage or another? Let her rich husband pull strings and find somewhere else to launch her little hobby business.”
“That’s a bit harsh.”
“But true.” His mother waved a hand in a dismissive gesture. “Enough about that silly woman. Will you be working late again?”
Mam didn’t do subtle. The rebuke in her voice was impossible to miss. He refused to rise to the bait. Instead he took a sip of his tea, wincing when the hot liquid burned his tongue. “I’ll collect Luca at the usual time. Around seven.”
She snorted. “I’ll believe it when I see it. Even if you do come at seven, it’s late to be collecting a small boy.”
A dull ache pulsed behind his temples. She was right. She was always bloody right. But he had mounting bills and a deadline, not to mention the stress of waiting for his agent to call about the book he had out on submission.
Mam’s mug met the hard wooden table with a clatter. “Since you finally deigned to drag yourself away from your desk and show up for lunch, there’s something I need to discuss with you.”
“Yeah?” He bit into his sandwich. Her voice was a distant buzz. He’d grown used to tuning her out when she started in on one of her harangues. Instead, he focused on the peeling wallpaper in his parents’ small kitchen. It was orange with a black geometric design. The wallpaper had been ugly when they’d first hung it in the eighties, and time hadn’t enhanced its aesthetic appeal.
Apart from the clock, the only ornamentation was a huge crucifix framed by a painting of the Virgin Mary and a photo of Pope John Paul II.
“Jonas, are you listening to me?”
He lowered his sandwich and met his mother’s disapproving stare.
“You haven’t heard a word I said.”
“I’m sorry. My mind is on other things at the moment. Luca’s fees for the next quarter are due, and I’m a couple of months away from my next royalty payment. If I don’t meet my next deadline, I’ll be even more pressed for cash. I need to devote my full attention to finishing the book. Working late is part of the deal.” Plus he and Mary had an appointment with the solicitor at two o’clock tomorrow. That meant yet more writing time gone from his week.
“That boy needs at least one of his parents spending time with him. Now that Susanne has left, that means you.”
“Can we please discuss this another time?” He cast a significant look in his son’s direction. Luca was eating his lunch with intense concentration, but Jonas knew he was absorbing every word.
“All right. I was just saying.” His mother poured herself another cup of tea and sat back with a sigh of martyred resignation.
He was sick of her “just saying” things about Susanne in front of Luca. His mother adored her grandson, but she seemed to think the boy was too stupid to understand what was going on around him. Despite what some so-called experts would have him believe, Jonas was convinced that was far from the case.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I was trying to tell you…”
His phone vibrated violently, sending his pulse into overdrive. His agent’s number glowed on the display. “Sorry, I have to take this call.” Ignoring her protests, he retreated into the hallway and shut the kitchen door behind him. “Hey, Kate. What’s the story?”
“An apt choice of words.” Kate’s tone was dry. “Bad news, I’m afraid.”
Jonas’s fingers tightened around the phone. “Not the deal?”