Chapter 9
A business plan is always just that—a plan.
Plans fail all the time. And when they do, you have to go back to the drawing board. Re-evaluate. It’s part luck, part scientific process. You figure out what’s working and what’s not. Then you do more of the stuff that is effective and axe the things that aren’t. You get creative—the part I hate, because I don’t always have that gut instinct about what will work when it comes to marketing.
Now, if we’re talking gut instincts about my food? I’m all over that.
But marketing? It’s the shot in the dark I hate.
Which is why I was desperate enough to try Jordan’s suggestion yesterday of showing up uninvited to the Fourth of July Festival planning meeting. Thankfully, Chloe Huntington was more than willing to have me aboard.
Lucy Reynolds, however? Not so much.
It’s not as if she and Thomas have finalized any of their plans—far from it—but it was clear that she didn’t want to hear my ideas for what food should be served during the festival. Whenever I’d suggest something, she’d shoot it down. At my suggestion that each of our respective businesses host booths with food for sale instead of serving one main meal like burgers, chips, and fruit—the same things that are always served—she said no way. Even though her restaurant could use the extra cash.
And sure, I understand the argument that this is not supposed to be about us profiting. It’s supposed to be about the community, about us making the food as cheap as possible—while also making it delicious—so as many people as possible can enjoy a meal together.
But I also think that the woman’s determined to be difficult.
Of course, that only extends to me. For Thomas, she’s agreeable. For Thomas, she takes time to listen and really consider.
Look, Thomas is a nice guy. He really is. He even tried backing me up on the extra food sales, though, when she looked at him with hurt in her eyes, he instantly backpedaled.
But every time the guy called her Luce, I wanted to punch him and yell, “Mine” like some sort of caveman. Which is ridiculous, because Lucy Reynolds is the farthest thing from mine that there is.
“Earth to Blake.” Marilee waves one of my fifty-percent-off fliers in my face.
I blink, and my sister’s face comes into focus, as does the porch of The Purple Seashell, where we just dropped off a load of fliers with Lucy’s aunt Janine, the owner.
After my chat with Jordan yesterday, I decided to try the classic coupon approach to entice new customers my way. I barely had time to run home, shower, and print off some fliers before the meeting, where I handed them out. It was a good opportunity to shake hands and give hugs to some of Hallmark Beach’s oldest residents, many of whom told me that while “fancy grilled cheese” isn’t really their thing, because it’s me, they’ll give it a try.
Here’s hoping.
Now it’s Friday morning around nine, and in the hours before I open the truck for the day, I’ve recruited my sister to help. Well, more like she saw my fliers in the kitchen this morning, and since she didn’t have to work, volunteered to hand them out for me. It’s a good excuse to spend time with her, so I let her tag along.
“Yeah, sorry. Just enjoying the view,” I say, and it’s not totally a lie as I peer past Marilee and take in the morning waves of the Pacific. It’s June now, and the tourists have started to flood the beach in droves. Honestly, it’s the ideal time to be running a food truck in Hallmark Beach, and Janine promised to distribute a flier to each of her customers when they check in.
“It does look like it’s going to be a nice day.” Her lips quirk up. “Maybe I’ll take Ryder to the beach.”
“You babysitting on your day off?”
She shrugs and tugs her hair up into a bun using a band at her wrist. “Jordan’s mom had a flare-up of her multiple sclerosis, so I don’t mind. Poor thing. It’s been happening more and more lately, and Ryder has energy in spades.”
We start down the steps of the Seashell and meet up with the boardwalk, heading south toward the rest of the downtown shops. Bits of sand crunch beneath my loafers. “I’m sure it’s good for him to have a mom figure in his life.” Ryder’s own mom passed away earlier in the year after a brief battle with cancer. Poor little guy.
“Oh, I’m more like a fun aunt.” Marilee’s face stretches tight at the words as she forces a smile onto her face. I know it’s forced because there’s also a slight tremble in her voice. I must have said something that hit a nerve. Maybe Marilee will tell me eventually. Unlike Lucy—who only ever seems to be happy or angry (and only the latter with me)—my sister embraces her emotions. It just might take her awhile to process them. But eventually, she cries.
She reminds me a lot of Mom, and the thought has me looping my arm around her shoulders and squeezing.
Grabbing my hand briefly, she squeezes back. “I hope this coupon strategy works for you. How’s the recipe creation coming?”
I hold back a sigh. “Not well.”
“Sorry. You’ll figure it out, though. You always do. And don’t they say inspiration often comes from the most unlikely of places?”
“True. Here’s hoping it decides to arrive more quickly than not.”
“You can’t rush genius. Then again, you’re not a genius. Just my brother…”
I laugh at the goofy face she’s shooting me, then pull her to a stop. “Come on, Squirt.”
“Hey! You can’t call me that anymore.” But her giggle tells me she doesn’t really mind.
It’s good to hear her laugh after all the junk life has put her through. Good to see her happy. I wish she was pursuing her dreams and would find—or at least admit to herself she might have already found—a good man to settle down with. But for now, the laughter’s enough.
And I’m glad I’m here to hear it.
“If the shoe fits. And you do have tiny shoes for your tiny feet.” It’s true. Mare’s petite all over.
Unlike Lucy, whose tall willowy frame puts her much closer to my height. If she was the one standing beside me, I’d only have to tilt my chin down and see right into those big, beautiful blue eyes?—
I nearly groan out loud at the path of my thoughts. Get out, get out, get out of my head!
“It’s Mom’s fault, not mine.” Marilee’s smile trembles. “Where are we going, anyway?”
“To find some inspiration. And finish handing out these fliers.”
We wait for a couple of moms with jogging strollers and then duck up the sidewalk toward Olive Paradise, which sells olive-infused oils and other delicious-smelling knickknacks. Maybe here we can find something to use on my sandwiches.
My arm drops from Marilee’s shoulders to open the door, and a bell jangles overhead. The proprietor, Ned Chamberlain, looks up from behind the reception desk and waves, then goes back to his computer.
Marilee starts toward Ned, but I snag her elbow. “Help me browse for inspiration first.”
Her eyes light up, and she starts perusing. I do the same. Reaching for a bottle, she brings it close, her glasses slipping to the edge of her nose as she reads the label. Then she holds it up and smiles. “Okay, but seriously. Bacon olive oil.”
“Hmm. That could work. But I already have a bacon-inspired sandwich.”
“Oh, true. That’s the one with the maple glaze, right?” At my nod, she purses her lips together and mmms. Then she looks at the bottle again. “I wonder if this would jazz up my corn muffins? Ooo, or we could try it in Mom’s mashed potatoes. What do you think?”
We analyze the pros and cons of bacon olive oil for a few minutes before Marilee decides to give it a try. Sounds like Jordan—who she’s cooking dinner for tonight since she’s babysitting at his house—is going to be the lucky guinea pig of Marilee’s genius. She definitely bakes more than she cooks, but Mom taught us both well.
And once again, I’m caught unaware by the equal parts grief and relief that fill my chest. Grief that I wasted so much time away from the one person who knew exactly what I was feeling the last six years. Relief that I’m finally here.
That I’m right where I should be.
“Mare.” I turn back to studying the labels and absently pick up a bottle, reading the label but not really reading it. “I’m sorry.”
I can feel the heat of her gaze on me. “Sorry for what?”
“That I wasn’t here for you. After…”
Her hand touches my arm. “You were grieving too, Blake.”
“Yeah, but Lucy told me I should stay. She told me about Donny. How bad he was to you.” No, he didn’t hit her, but he bruised her spirit all the same. I can see it now. That Lucy was right.
I shift my gaze again, forcing myself to look at the sister I more than failed.
Her bottom lip is tucked away between her teeth, and she’s staring at the ground. Marilee shakes her head. “Donny was my stupid decision. No one forced me to marry him.” Finally, she looks up at me, and her voice is quiet. “I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Fine, we won’t. But I’m still sorry. You were dealing with a lot—probably more than I even realized—and then Mom and Dad died. I just…” I rub the back of my neck. This isn’t easy to say, but it should have been said years ago. “I shouldn’t have left like that. Can you forgive me?”
“I already have, Blake.” Then my sister is hugging me around the waist. “I’m just so glad you’re back, even if just for a little while. Though…” She shakes her head. “Never mind.”
“No. What?” If my sister has a request of me, the least I can do it listen to it.
She pulls back and studies me, then plucks the bottle from my hand and reads the label. “Mmm, cilantro and roasted onion. You should try that with some ricotta cheese.”
My eyebrows lift at the sudden shift in topic—and also at the suggestion. “Good idea.” I snag the bottle again and hold it over her head, where she’ll never be able to reach it. “But tell me what you were going to say, Squirt.”
She hesitates. “It’s just that you mentioned Lucy. And the fight you had.”
Great. My favorite topic. “Go on.”
“Well, if you and I can move past it, then maybe the two of you can too? I hate you being at odds. You’re two of my favorite people, and we all live together, at least for the summer. It would be nice if you could stop avoiding each other. If we could hang out like we used to.”
Ugh. I hate it when she looks at me with those big brown eyes of hers, so like Mom’s. When she pouts like she used to when she was three and I was five, and I’d give her the rest of my ice cream cone because she wanted it and I was the sucker who couldn’t say no.
Back then, I sacrificed for her—and yeah, it was only ice cream, but ice cream is big in the land of five-year-olds. So maybe sacrificing is just what a good brother does. And to be honest, though Lucy’s antics have gotten me riled up the last few weeks, I actually kind of hate that she dislikes me this much. Maybe being on Lucy’s bad side isn’t the best way to spend my time here in Hallmark Beach.
Of course, I’m not talking about rekindling any of those troublesome feelings I had for her in high school. Maybe not even friendship. Just…I don’t know. A truce, maybe.
For Marilee’s sake.
“Okay, baby sister. You can stop making puppy dog eyes at me. Now, give me that.” I take the bottle of bacon olive oil from her quick as a flash and walk it and the cilantro one to the front, where Ned has apparently been watching our back and forth with his lazy eyes.
After I’ve paid for them both and plied Ned with coupons he promises to hand out, I turn back to Marilee, who is grinning at me.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She slips her hand through the crook of my arm and tilts her head. “Do you think it’s too early in the day for ice cream?”
I laugh and we head out the door. The sun is beaming at us almost as brightly as my sister’s smile. Things are good here in Hallmark Beach.
Now I just have to figure out how to apologize to Lucy Reynolds. Or, at the very least, make her hate me a little less.