Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Daphne was still on a call when Maisie got to the hotel early that evening, but her aunt managed to break away for a minute so the two of them could grab a bite to eat.
Of course, that didn’t mean she was off her phone entirely. As they sat across from each other at a small table in the Celtic Rug, the walls of the pub dark and brown and the light dimly shining, Daphne continued to respond to texts and emails from her legal counsel, financial advisors, and finalized investors.
This was nothing new. Throughout their entire trip, she had always been on-call. Frankly, it sounded like a nightmare, dealing with the ins and outs of starting up a restaurant. Maisie would far prefer her own end of the deal—tucking into this food right now.
She stared down at the mussel soup that had been placed before her, drawing in a hearty whiff before writing down a few initial thoughts in her little pink notebook. After another minute, she finally took a spoonful, then closed her eyes to allow her tastebuds to savor and explore the different tastes and textures on her tongue.
There was definitely a hint of garlic in this soup. And celery and tomatoes. And…mmm, yes. Orange zest .
She nodded, approving of her own thoughts, then she opened her eyes and took another bite before jotting down a few more notes.
She lowered her pen, taking a few more soft sips of the soup. It was good…but she certainly wasn’t getting any goosebumps from it.
A sigh from Daphne broke through Maisie’s analysis. Her aunt shook her head and set her phone face down next to her untouched seafood platter filled with chips, shrimp, mussels, salmon, and lemons.
“Okay,” Daphne breathed, splaying out her hands above the table to settle her thoughts, her red nails glinting even in the low light. “I think I’ve appeased them all long enough to break away for a few minutes.” She shook her head again, her hair pulled back in a sleek bun, unmoving. She blinked hard, as if clearing a pathway in her mind so she could be present. Finally, her brown eyes settled on Maisie’s. “Now. Tell me all about your day.”
Maisie smiled. She could literally see Daphne’s attention shift from business to leisure. No one— no one —focused better on one thing at a time than Daphne.
Between bites of mussel soup, Maisie shared a detailed recap of her day, Daphne listening intently as she picked at her platter, stopping only when Maisie mentioned eating at Doherty’s.
“I’m so upset I didn’t have time to stop there,” Daphne said. “Did you get enough notes?” She motioned to Maisie’s notebook with a tip of her head.
“Oh, yeah. More than enough.”
With anyone else, Maisie would’ve been embarrassed to admit the notes she’d written down, but Daphne—like Mom and Dad—had always encouraged Maisie’s desire to record the food she ate.
Some people kept personal journals. Others kept book journals. Maisie kept a food journal. This notebook—pink with little pigs on the top of it to match her car organizer—had been gifted by her parents to use around Europe, and she’d nearly filled the entire thing. It was already one of her most prized possessions.
If the notebook was purely for work, she wouldn’t feel so weird about it. But more often than not, the notes were simply taken for fun.
“Did you see the notes I sent?” she asked Daphne.
“Yeah, but I didn’t have a lot of time to read them. I’ll definitely look at them soon, though.” She took a sip of her water. “Your day was a success, then?”
“Absolutely,” Maisie responded. “Only thing that would’ve made it better was if you’d been there.”
Daphne grimaced. “I know. I’m so sorry for all this mess. Were you alone the entire time?” Concern creased her brow.
That was another thing Maisie loved about her aunt—her inner feelings were always outwardly displayed.
“Oh, no,” Maisie responded. “I wasn’t alone at all. Not really. There were so many people on the bus who were super nice and made me feel really welcomed.”
Specifically the bus driver, but Daphne didn’t need to hear about Finn.
After being literally left at the altar at twenty-five, Daphne had a strained relationship with love and men in general. Maisie had always wanted a family of her own, but as her life slowly started to resemble Daphne’s—not being jilted, but in her remaining single—they had naturally gravitated toward each other.
The problem was that they had grown so used to each other’s company, that when Maisie did go out with someone, Daphne would do everything in her power to try to appear the supportive aunt, all the while being unable to hide the panic in her eyes. As much as she claimed loving the single life—and as much as she claimed wanting Maisie to find love—Maisie knew that Daphne would never be happy alone.
This always left Maisie feeling almost responsible for Daphne’s happiness, not to mention guilty when she did go out. To keep the peace, she just stopped sharing about her love life, or lack thereof, altogether. It was just as well. Everything fizzled out in the end anyway—and so would her flirting with Finn.
“I’m so happy to hear that you weren’t alone,” Daphne said, relief spreading across her features. “I was thinking about you constantly. And I’m so excited you found that new soup. You think it’ll be a staple for the menu, then?”
“Oh, absolutely. It was so unique with the barley in it. I think it’ll be a hit in Boston.”
Daphne’s eyes grew distant. “Maybe I’ll mention it to our wary investor.”
Maisie finished off the last of her soup, the empty mussel shells lying in the bottom of the bowl, as if she had spent the last hour collecting them from the beach outside instead of dining on them.
“He’s still on the fence about investing, then?” she asked, putting down her spoon.
Her meal was done, and so was her time off.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Daphne said. “Briggs said he’ll call me soon with any updates. I just can’t understand why Mr. Johnson is so nervous to invest, when none of the others are. He is the largest investor, so that might be why, but we’ve proven ourselves over and over again.” She rolled her eyes. “I mean, we’ve spent months in Europe researching the menu alone, for heaven’s sake. Surely that’s proof enough that I’m serious about making this work.”
Maisie couldn’t understand it either. She didn’t claim to know anything about the business side of opening up a restaurant, but she did know that if their largest investor pulled out now, Daphne’s dream would either be pushed back by at least a year or vanish into thin air completely—thereby ending Maisie’s dream of working on the menu, as well.
“Would it help him if he actually held a menu in his hand?” Maisie suggested. “Or a placeholder, at least?”
Daphne sighed, rolling the shrimp over on her platter with clearly no intention of eating it. “I don’t know. I mean, it couldn’t hurt.”
“I can throw one together this week,” Maisie suggested. “I’ve got most of the information already. It shouldn’t take too long.”
“Okay, sure. Yeah, I actually think that might help him if he’s more of a literal person. You sure it won’t be a problem?”
“Nope, not at all,” Maisie said.
And it wouldn’t be. With Daphne’s inevitable busyness each night, Maisie would have more time to work, too.
Not that she wanted to. But she’d do anything for Daphne because Daphne had always been there for her, almost as much as Mom and Dad had. Shopping for prom dresses and a graduation gown. Encouraging her to pursue a career in food after culinary school. Picking up the pieces of Maisie’s broken dreams and piecing them together to form new ones—including starting up this restaurant.
In reality, Maisie knew the reason Daphne liked her so much was because Maisie was so similar to Mom, but there was one distinguishing factor that separated the two.
Mom was married. Maisie was not.
A few minutes later, Daphne pushed her half-eaten plate away and asked for the bill. After paying, the two of them made their way out of the restaurant and down the street toward the hotel.
The rain had stopped, and the clouds had broken on the horizon, allowing a sliver of pink light to grace the empty space between cloud and sea. It would be a shame to spend such a gorgeous evening in a hotel room with a single window that overlooked a busy street instead of this view.
“Wanna take a quick walk?” Maisie suggested, fastening the buttons of her coat. “It might help clear your mind for a minute.”
Daphne hesitated, checked her phone, then shrugged. “Sure. I’ve been holed up for too long today.”
The two of them ventured along the pathway down a road adjacent to the receding waves. They chatted about nothing in particular, then spotted a bridge that stretched out toward a rock bed resting in the sea.
Maisie recognized it at once as Pans Rock Bridge, having seen the structure in images during her research of Ballycastle. But, as usual, the sight was even better than the photos.
With nearly a dozen steps to the top of the bridge, the wooden structure stood sturdy on multiple stone pillars burrowed far into the sand, angling off to one side as it neared the large, flat rock to which the bridge led.
With it being low tide, the waves only lapped at the pillars near the rock bed, leaving the large boulders and pointed stones near the steps of the bridge untouched, though they glistened with moisture and vibrant green moss.
Together, Maisie and Daphne made their way down the bridge, but just as they reached the halfway point, Daphne’s phone rang, interrupting the peace of the sea’s waves and the herring gulls crying above.
“Okay, here we go,” she murmured, eying the phone.
She held it up for Maisie to see the name, “Briggs”—her lawyer—stretched across the screen.
“Wish me luck,” Daphne said.
“Good luck,” Maisie repeated, feeling a twinge of nerves on Daphne’s behalf.
Her aunt answered the phone, then wandered down to the end of the bridge.
Maisie watched her for a minute, marveling at Daphne’s strength. If Maisie had to discuss with a lawyer how to convince an investor to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on a restaurant that may or may not fail, she wouldn’t even know where to begin.
But Daphne, with her straightened spine and firm tone, didn’t mince words. She instructed Briggs on exactly what needed to occur for them to proceed.
And yet, as Maisie watched her, something else became more apparent. Daphne often spoke of how fulfilling her jobs always were, how she wanted for nothing because of her work. But now, with the stress obvious on her brow and the weariness dimming her eyes, Maisie couldn’t help but wonder, was the pressure of this all worth it? Or was Daphne pouring her heart and soul into this new venture just so she could ignore her sorrow for what had happened to her as a young, hopeful bride?
An unsettling feeling came over Maisie at the notion, and another thought surfaced, one she had tried to bury for years. With such a shallow grave, though, the troubling thought continued to plague her.
Was Maisie doing the same thing as Daphne? Was she using the band-aid of creating a menu and trying new foods—of helping Daphne chase her goals—to fix the fact that she had her own unfulfilled dreams?
Maisie tore her gaze away from Daphne, giving her head a little shake. She wanted to do this with her life. Creating this menu had scratched an itch she’d felt for years—especially after trying and despising being a chef, a caterer, and a café manager. Eating food was her passion, and business was Daphne’s. They were both happy, and she wouldn’t let anything convince her otherwise.
Anyway, this was her first sunset in Northern Ireland, what with their flight getting in too late the night before. She could either spend this gorgeous evening dwelling on disappointments of how her life had turned out so far, or she could finally allow the thoughts to pass her by without injury and focus on being in the here and now instead.
Choosing the latter, Maisie placed more distance between her and Daphne, wandering toward the start of the bridge until she was finally out of earshot from her aunt’s business call.
She rested her arms on the side railing, peering down at the white and black rocks and small tidepools before her eyes trailed out to the sea.
The fading sunshine had caused the pink to shift to purple, the sea mimicking the colors with a grayish tint. The sky still peeked through the clouds, as if it wasn’t quite ready to say goodnight as it gathered in all remaining warmth in preparation for its departure.
Maisie didn’t mind the cold air scraping against her cheeks, nor the bitter wind’s fingertips raking through her hair. Instead, she reveled in it, drawing deep breaths and allowing the environment to wash over her.
This grounding exercise was something she’d practiced her entire life, adhering to it religiously over the last few months in every new location she traveled. It helped her feel connected, not only to herself, but to the very land around her.
In those moments—in this moment—she felt more alive than ever. She could feel the boardwalk beneath her shoes, smell the salty sea on the wind, and hear the waves on the rocks, the wind whistling in her ears, and…the footsteps beneath her?
Instinctively, she looked down to where she’d heard the sound, surprised as a figure emerged from beneath the bridge, his back facing her as he weaved his way around the rocks and across the wet sand. His flat cap was situated securely on his head, and his hands were tucked into his pockets.
Maisie’s heart stumbled. Finn .
She hesitated, biting her lip for the briefest of moments. She had to admit, when she was waiting to be seated at the Celtic Rug—her aunt still heavily occupied by her phone—Maisie had done a little searching on the Northern Irish Roving Bus Tours website. She was anxious to read up on the rules of male tour guides and their female passengers… fraternizing .
As far as she could find in her half-hearted search, there was no rule about guides and passengers speaking—especially while off-duty. So…she had nothing to worry about. Right?
Without settling on an answer, she leaned forward and called out to him. “Hey!”