Chapter Seven
Divide and conquer was the objective of the day.
Piper was hanging back to take care of business at the Wishing Well whilst putting her online shopping talents to good use and finding things to make their platters look pretty.
Quirky boards, cute decorations, that sort of thing.
Apparently after spending most of her night on Pinterest, Piper already had a ton of ideas.
Niamh was going to pay Connor a visit at the Local Shop to see if he could provide some of the stock that they needed—mainly a selection of the cured meats from his butchery counter.
Imogen suspected that Connor had a bit of a notion of Niamh, so they were hoping that they might get a decent price if Niamh was the negotiator—and maybe batted her eyelashes a little.
As for Imogen, she was going to see Songbird Sally to strike a deal for some of her magnificent homemade jams and cheeses. After that she would pay a visit to Cian at the Craic and Crumble to see about getting some fresh bread prepared each morning.
Of course, they could have outsourced all of these things from one of the bigger suppliers, but it felt important to keep their business local.
Ballyluck was a community after all, and although they were still fairly new to the village, they wanted to show that they were a part of it.
Involving everyone seemed like a good way to do that.
The bell jingled above her head as Imogen pushed open the green door and entered Fresh Picks. “Good morning, Sally. How’s my favourite jam maker?”
Sally beamed like she was genuinely delighted to see her.
And maybe she was, but Sally treated all her customers like that—full of friendliness and joy—which was probably why people travelled to Ballyluck specifically to visit Sally’s shop.
If only it was the same story with the Wishing Well.
“Imogen! Good morning. You picked a great time to call in. I’ve just finished a batch of your favourite lemon drop chilli. Need any?”
“I’ll always take a jar, Sal. You know this.” Imogen spotted the jars full of the orangey-yellow deliciousness. “Give me two.”
Sally wiggled her eyebrows up and down. “A woman after my own heart. I’ve been experimenting with the Firecracker recipe too and should have some tomorrow.”
Imogen’s mouth practically watered. “I’ll be in.” She leaned on the counter while Sally grabbed her jars and rang them up. “I was also hoping you could help me out with some stock for the Wishing Well.”
Sally turned her head. “My stock? In the pub?”
Imogen nodded and pulled out her phone. She brought up the photo she’d snapped of her picnic. “We’re going to try serving something like this in the pub, and naturally, we need the best jams in the country. Some cheeses too. What do you think?”
Sally clasped her hands together. “I think it’s a brilliant idea, and of course I’ll help however I can. Jams, cheeses, fruit, veg. I’m your gal.”
“I knew you would be.” Imogen shifted her weight. “The thing is, we don’t know how much we’ll need. And we don’t want to order too much and end up throwing half of it away.”
Sally waved her hand. “Don’t worry about that. We can work out amounts together and make adjustments as we go.”
Imogen smiled. “That was my hope.” You wouldn’t get that kind of arrangement with the big suppliers. They were all minimum orders this, minimum orders that.
“You got it.” She popped Imogen’s jars into a green paper bag and set it on the counter. “You know, we all knew that you ladies would be a breath of fresh air for that place.”
“We?”
“Well, the whole village, really.” Sally leaned in and dropped her voice despite there being no one else in the shop.
“Between you and me, the Wishing Well has needed updating for years. Every time it changed hands it was from one grumpy old man to another. A bunch of fuddy-duddies if you ask me, running it like a boy’s club.
” She smiled. “Everyone was so excited to hear that three young city girls were coming to take it over. We knew that you would drag the place into the twenty-first century. Ballyluck needs a place like the Wishing Well, you know. The modern version.”
Imogen sighed. “We’re trying, but overheads are expensive and the money’s still tight. Small changes at a time.”
Sally frowned and lowered her voice even more. “And I bet that old battleaxe is charging you a fortune for rent.”
Imogen had to agree with the descriptor. Edith McKinney was a piece of work. Shrewd for sure, but greedy. “It’s not cheap.”
“Hmm. She milks as much as she can from all those businesses. I thank my lucky stars she doesn’t own mine.”
“It’s fine.” It wasn’t really, but Imogen was hyper aware that they were still newbies, and she didn’t want to say anything to rock the boat in town.
Intentionally or not, word had a way of getting around.
“Hopefully, it will get easier if we bring a few more customers in. Starting with these platters.”
Sally patted her hand. “It will. I’ll spread the word. And I, for one, will be enjoying a platter with my bottle of wine next time I’m in.”
“Maybe you’ll give us a tune too,” Imogen said with a grin.
Sally gave her shoulders a shimmy, her silver hair swooshing from side to side. “Like you could stop me.”
They spent another few minutes discussing food options.
Sally suggested going with a chilli jam and a chutney—sweet and savoury to cater for everyone’s tastes.
They then got into a passionate conversation about all the great types of cheese in the world, and eventually decided on a classic cranberry Wensleydale, pineapple cream cheese, a Manchego curado, a brie de Meaux, and a smoked Gouda.
They talked pricing, and without any negotiation, Sally automatically went as low as she could possibly go—local rate, she said.
She even insisted on supplying some strawberries, grapes, carrots, and snap peas for free as well, just to get them started.
She said that the colours would make the platters pop.
Imogen agreed and thanked her for her unbelievable kindness at least four times before leaving the shop to the sound of Sally singing the chorus of “Don’t Stop Me Now. ”
With a chuckle and a spring in her step, Imogen pulled the door behind her and headed over to see Cian at the bakery across the road.
“What’s the craic?” Cian asked her as soon as she walked through the front door, which was a pretty apt greeting for the Craic and Crumble, Imogen thought.
“Same old, same old, Cian. How are things in the world of bread?”
“Ach, still ticking over, as they say. Sure, you know yourself.” He wiped his big, floury hands on his apron, and not for the first time that day by the looks of it. “How’s life treating ye over in the Well?”
“Ticking over,” Imogen said. “We’re actually starting something new, and we think that you’re a man that can help us.
” She explained the platters and her different ideas for breads.
Cian proceeded to give her a few different samples to try, and dear Lord—this guy knew bread.
Imogen wished she could take all of them but after a lot of umming and aahing she eventually decided on the hot honey and parmesan sourdough, and the rosemary and caramelised red onion focaccia.
The garlic and basil ciabatta only narrowly missed out, but she’d promised Niamh only two.
Maybe they could add it later if the platters took off. When. Positive thinking was everything.
“I’ll have to bring the wife over for a taste of these snack boards of yours,” Cian said, lifting his big, bushy, grey eyebrows.
Imogen had never seen Cian in the pub before, which meant she might have made some new customers already if he and his wife did come. “We would love to see you both,” she replied warmly.
“It’s nice to see you’re doing something different with the place. The Well’s been nothing but a hole for years. A beer and a packet of crisps were considered fine cuisine before you lot.”
“Well, with a few changes and the help of all you lovely Ballyluck folk, we’re hoping it won’t be a hole anymore.”
“I appreciate that. Small businesses need to help each other out. There’s a community spirit here in Ballyluck that nobody over at the Well ever tapped into before.” Cian gave her a nod. “Glad to see you lassies can see it.”
Imogen left the Craic and Crumble full of excitement and optimism.
Who knew that a few simple platters and some local involvement could end up being the turning point they needed?
It was such an uncomplicated plan. All inspired by a picnic and a beautiful woman.
She lifted her phone out to text Amy while she walked back to the pub—she was as invested in Operation Platters as Imogen was.
How had they got so comfortable, so quickly?
How had Imogen? It felt like she had made this massive life change when she moved, and the rest of her rules had flown right out the window.
She’d even taken the initiative and asked Amy on another date.
To her place! Who even was this version of herself?
Yet the changes were good. Her life was so much more fulfilling than the rut she had been living in before.
So, instead of over-analysing the insta-comfort, Imogen was trying to embrace it.
Exchanging random updates about her and Amy’s days had become a regular thing—the part of her day she looked forward to the most, if she was honest.
Bread, cheese, and jam secured. The local business owners were so supportive of the idea. It’s making me feel all warm and community-spirity. Heading back to the Wishing Well now to tell the girls.