Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Clemmie sat at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug.
The aroma of the freshly brewed tea mingled with the faint remnants of baking spices, and the hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the room.
On the table in front of her lay her great-great-grandmother’s recipe book and a folded sheet of paper, yellowed at the edges.
To Clemmie, it wasn’t just a collection of recipes, it was a journal of love, care and tradition.
Beatrice Rose’s graceful, looping handwriting filled every page, accompanied by delicate sketches of ingredients, flour sacks, sprigs of rosemary, clusters of berries, and dainty teacups.
Clemmie smiled as she turned the pages carefully, her eyes settling on the recipe for Beatrice’s signature torte.
But then her gaze shifted to the folded sheet of paper beside the book, and her smile faded.
The edges were frayed from being handled too many times, and the ink had bled slightly in places, though the words were still clear.
It was a printed copy of a scathing review that had been published in The Epicurean Chronicle, a well-regarded food journal, shortly after Clemmie had gone into partnership with her grandmother.
The headline alone had been enough to send her stomach plummeting:
The Café on the Coast: Coastal Charm, But Little Substance
Clemmie hesitated, but she unfolded the paper anyway. The words hit just as hard now as they had all those years ago.
The Café on the Coast, nestled on the charming seaside of Puffin Island, promises much but delivers little.
While the setting is idyllic, the food lacks the finesse one would expect from a café with such a storied history.
The lemon drizzle cake, a supposed favourite, was dense and cloyingly sweet, a far cry from the light, airy confections its reputation suggests.
The savoury menu fares no better, with over-seasoned soups and limp salads, and scones that could double as paperweights leave much to be desired.
It’s clear that nostalgia, rather than culinary merit, is the café’s strongest selling point.
One can only hope that this establishment can either step up its game or gracefully step aside for more capable contenders.
The review had crushed her. Clemmie could still remember the sinking feeling in her chest when she first read it, sitting at the counter with her granny. Her throat had tightened, and tears had stung her eyes as she whispered, ‘I’ve ruined everything.’
Her granny had immediately reached for her hand. ‘Don’t you dare believe a word of that,’ she had said firmly. ‘It’s one person’s opinion and it’s not even true. They haven’t even had the decency to put their name to it.’
But Clemmie hadn’t been able to shake the shame.
She had spent weeks obsessing over the review, rereading it late at night, picking apart every line.
She’d worried not just about the café’s reputation but also about what it said about her.
Was she truly not good enough? Had she let her grandmother down?
Worse still, had she tarnished her great-great-grandmother’s legacy?
It didn’t matter that the café’s loyal patrons continued to flock through its doors, praising her bakes and chatting happily over cups of tea.
The Chronicle was influential, with a readership that extended far beyond Puffin Island.
For weeks, Clemmie had lived in fear that the review would drive new customers away and that the café’s reputation would be irreparably damaged.
But it hadn’t. Slowly, she had rebuilt her confidence, pouring her heart into her work.
She perfected her great-great-grandmother’s recipes and added her own twists to the menu.
She worked long hours, sometimes late into the night, determined to prove the reviewer wrong.
Over time, the café’s reputation only grew stronger, with customers travelling from all over to sample her famous torte and other bakes.
Still, the sting of the review never fully went away. It had been the only bad press the café had ever received, but its words had left scars. Even now, years later, Clemmie couldn’t help but feel a flicker of self-doubt when she thought about it.
Her eyes returned to the recipe book, and she traced the smudged page of the torte recipe with her fingertip. This book was a reminder of the women who had come before her, who had poured their love and creativity into their cooking, and now it was Clemmie’s turn.
She took a deep breath, folding the review and tucking it under the recipe book.
It no longer deserved to take centre stage.
She had come a long way since those early days of self-doubt.
The café was thriving, her customers were happy and now she was one of ten contestants in The Royal Baking Competition.
As Clemmie sipped her tea her eye was drawn to a notation at the bottom of the torte recipe. A number in brackets: ‘1705’. She stared at it. It was something she hadn’t noticed before. Curious, she browsed carefully through the book, but none of the other recipes had a code like it.
‘Granny!’ she called, her voice echoing through the café.
Betty appeared in the doorway, a dishcloth slung over her shoulder. ‘What is it?’
Clemmie held up the book. ‘What’s this number? Right here at the bottom of the torte recipe. 1705.’
Betty narrowed her eyes, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose. ‘I’ve not noticed that before. It could be anything. Maybe it’s the baking time?’
‘No, it’s not that,’ Clemmie said, turning the book towards her granny. ‘None of the other recipes have a number like it. Why would just this one?’
Betty shrugged. ‘I have no clue,’ she said, heading back into the café to clean the tables.
Clemmie turned back to the book, still staring at the number.
Could it be a date? A time? A secret code?
Before she could investigate further, she caught a movement outside the window and she nearly jumped out of her skin.
Standing just beyond the glass was Oliver, his grin wicked as he peered inside.
‘What on earth…’ she exclaimed, flinging open the window. ‘I nearly knocked my tea all over my great-great-grandmother’s recipe book. What are you doing? Do you normally sneak around peeking through windows? There’s a name for people like you, you know!’
Oliver leaned casually against the window frame, unbothered by her indignation. ‘Good evening to you, too…’
‘Oliver!’ she scolded. ‘You scared me half to death. We do have a front door!’
His eyes twinkled. ‘What are you doing tonight?’
‘What?’ She blinked, caught off guard.
‘You heard me.’
Clemmie narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘Why? What do you have in mind?’
‘I can’t tell you just yet,’ he said, his voice now low. ‘But meet me at the harbour at eight. And dress to impress.’ He gave her a lopsided grin before disappearing just as quickly as he had appeared, not waiting for an answer.
Clemmie stood frozen for a moment, staring at the empty space he had just occupied. Had she imagined it? The playful invitation, the flicker of something more in his gaze?
Slowly, she closed the window and sat back at the table. She knew she was supposed to be focusing on the contest, on perfecting her recipe and making sure she had every detail memorised. This was what mattered. Or at least, it should have been.
And yet… She hesitated, chewing her bottom lip.
Their conversation on the yacht had been different …
real, vulnerable. It had left her wanting to hear more, to understand him in a way she hadn’t before.
But wasn’t that exactly why she shouldn’t go?
The more she let him in, the more she risked getting hurt.
She’d been down that road before and nothing had changed.
Still, she wasn’t na?ve. She knew the pros and cons of saying yes. Walking away would be the safest option. But as much as she tried to convince herself, she already knew her answer.
She was going.
‘Who are you talking to?’ Betty appeared in the doorway.
‘No one,’ Clemmie replied, telling a little white lie.
Betty looked down at the recipe book. ‘Maybe it’s the number of recipes my mother wrote down in total?’ she offered, picking up their earlier conversation.
‘I don’t think it’s that,’ Clemmie replied, flipping through the recipe book again. ‘There are no other numbers.’
‘Then I haven’t got a clue,’ Betty replied cheerfully. ‘But if it’s important, you’ll figure it out.’
‘I hope so. Oh, um … just to let you know, I’m going out tonight.’
‘I thought you were going to get a couple of early nights before the competition?’
‘I won’t be late,’ Clemmie replied, knowing she didn’t have a clue about how late she would be.
As she closed the recipe book, she said ‘1705’ out loud.
It didn’t help. Something about it continued to nag at her, a tiny itch in the back of her mind.
Whatever 1705 meant, she had a feeling it was more important than she realised.
A while later, Clemmie stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom, checking her reflection for what felt like the tenth time.
She’d taken Oliver’s command to ‘dress to impress’ to heart, and gone all out.
The dress she’d chosen was one of her favourites – a midnight-blue cocktail dress with an asymmetrical hemline that swirled around her knees.
Its bodice was sleek and fitted, with delicate lace detailing over her shoulders that gave a hint of elegance without being too formal.
She’d paired it with silver strappy heels, a matching clutch and a pair of vintage drop earrings she’d found in No. 17 Curiosity Lane, the antique shop.