“Your next client is due in a few minutes,” Cindy says as she pops her head into my office. My previous client just left and I have a pad full of notes that I need to take care of. And a second pad full of ideas for dishes for the restaurant. I really want to work on that, not on these clients and their needs. Just not today.
“Want me to type that up for you?” Cindy asks, coming closer. She knows my style, knows my compulsion to take notes on everything. She comes around my desk and checks out the second pad of paper.
“Honey in a Chinese food dish?” She picks up the notepad, reading closer. “I can’t imagine it, yet this might just work.”
“I have no idea if it will,” I admit. “But there’s a shop near Lucy’s farm that sells local honey, and we want to make things as local as possible, so…”
“That is so awesome!” Cindy picks up the other notepad, the one with my actual work notes. She tears off the top sheet. “I’ll get this typed up while you’re with this client. And then we have a few things that need to go to the courthouse for filing, and one lien to Land Titles.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I say. It’s a cliché, but with Cindy, it’s utterly true.
“I know.” Cindy smiles and gives me a wave as she leaves the office. I check my calendar, refresh my memory on the client to come. He’s part of a larger corporation, and they’re dealing with a few contractors who say they’re owed money. I’ve dealt with this many times before, in various capacities and volume, and this one seems reasonably simple. The contractors did not complete the jobs and thus were not paid, and as far as I can tell, the client has proof of work not done. It should be easy. The contractors, however, are threatening court action, which though unlikely to succeed, could get expensive. So, that’s where I come in. Negotiate, determine next steps, then execute.
Through my open door, I hear Cindy talking with the client. I rise and smooth out my skirt, putting my shoulders back and straightening my posture. I do it even though my shoulders want to slump and my eyes are burning from lack of sleep. Lucy and I did actually sleep last night, but I kept waking up, feeling her next to me. I couldn’t get settled. I’m hoping that won’t be an every night occurrence, but it’s hard to say. We’ll have to spend more time together. I feel warm at the thought, and I know I’m smiling. I dial it back a bit to professionally pleasant.
“Ms. Kerr, this is Mr. Barrow from CRL Estate Homes. Mr. Barrow, Ms. Kerr.”
I stride forward confidently, my hand held out. “Nice to meet you in person, Mr. Barrow,” I say. He gives my hand a firm shake. He’s a bit older, late fifties would be my guess, his carefully coiffed hair a mix of salt and pepper, a few laugh lines around his eyes and mouth, and a crease between his brows. He dresses well, his suit possibly off-the-rack but carefully tailored. He reminds me a bit of my father in terms of polish, but my dad wouldn’t be caught dead in something off-the-rack, of course.
“Lovely to finally meet you too,” he says.
“Shall we get started?” I indicate a chair. “I’ve been reviewing the file, and I think that if we offer them a partial payment, we can get them to release the lien. It might be less costly than drawing this out in court.”
Cindy gives me a wave and disappears, shutting my office door. Mr. Barrow settles himself into one of the visitor’s chairs, and I head back behind my desk, pulling his file front and center. I position my notepad and click my pen.
“I would prefer that they not receive one penny for work they didn’t do,” Mr. Barrow says firmly after a moment. “My father built this company on honesty and hard work, and he would have been loath to capitulate to such men. An honest day’s work is what he expected from all his employees, and these two did not do it. I could do better drywalling myself. With my eyes closed,” he adds.
I can’t quite picture Mr. Barrow in the rough clothes of a drywaller, his hair and hands caked with dust, but I won’t doubt his statement. My boss has spoken many times about how Mr. Barrow the elder made his kids work from the ground up.
“What we can do to speed things along is respond to their filed liens,” I say. “If we serve them notice, then they must begin court action within a thirty-day period. If they miss the deadlines, we won’t have to deal with any sort of court action.”
“That would be ideal.” Mr. Barrow grins at me. “I am so glad Jack recommended you. I usually do these things over the phone, but I wanted to meet you in person. I think we’ll get along swimmingly.”
“I think we will too,” I reply, feeling pleased and a bit more relaxed. I shuffle through the file, pulling out the information I need. “We have their contact information from the liens, and I’ll make sure the notices are sent out via registered mail today.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Ms. Kerr. I have no doubt we’ll come out ahead. It’s not a great deal of money in the scheme of things, but morally, it’s rather essential. I would hate for CRL to have any slip in our reputation.” He rises to his feet, and I rise with him. I walk him to my door, and he shakes my hand once more.
“I’ll keep you updated with our progress,” I assure him.
“Thank you.”
Cindy looks up from her work. “That was quick, Mr. Barrow,” she says.
“The best meetings are,” he quips. “Have a good afternoon, ladies.” We watch him go, walking down the hall. I know he’ll stop in to see Jack. Those two have been fast friends ever since university, according to Jack.
“Anything we need to do?” Cindy asks.
“Notices to take action on the liens for these contractors,” I say, heading back into my office. Cindy follows. “I have the forms and will get them sorted out before my next client. Then if you can get to the post office and send them registered mail, that’d be perfect. And we’ll start the countdown for when we can file the lapses and other paperwork.”
Cindy grins. “Easy as pie. Speaking of, what’s for dessert at Ming Kitty?”
I hadn’t even thought of that. No idea. Dammit. I hurry back into my office and grab my pad with menu ideas, flipping to a new page. Desserts, I write out in big capital letters at the top of the page. “No idea. None.”
“Chinese desserts, like the rest of the dishes, or something more Western?” she asks.
I stare at the blank page.
“Blackberries?” Cindy suggests. I know I’m blushing, my cheeks heating as I look up at her. “I know you like those.”
“Cheeky.” I stick my tongue out at her.
“Of course I am.” She laughs.
“They’re not in season anymore, though,” I note, but I put blackberries on the list anyway. We’ll need something. I add ice cream beneath.
“You could bring them in, I guess,” Cindy says. “Or use another kind of berry. Raspberries, maybe?”
“Could do.” I write down raspberries. “I should call Lucy, see what she thinks. I don’t think she’d be able to grow any more blackberries.”
“You’ll find something,” Cindy says. “Now get to those notices, and I’ll run to the post office on my way out to grab coffee this afternoon.”
“Fantastic.” I write fruit salad? on the notepad. Not my favorite, but it’d be a good way to showcase some of the variety of fruits at Country Mouse. Poached pears, I write next, the idea popping into my head. It’s a bit fancier, something my mother would order at a French restaurant, but still, a possibility. I wonder what sorts of desserts Lucy had growing up. I jot down that question. Hopefully she’ll have some good ideas that we can add. I’ll also need to take home a few cookbooks from her mother’s collection when I’m there this weekend. I flip back to the front page and add that note in, putting a star by it. There are so many things to deal with, and I haven’t even started considering the permits.
I text Lucy. Permits?
* * *
My phone buzzes, but I ignore it, as Alice and I are driving to town in my van. Our chores are done, and I’d mentioned to her that I’d been thinking about finding out who owned the empty storefront along First Street, the small one that used to be a café but had sat empty for so long.
“Beatrice will love you,” Alice says confidently. “And I know she’ll be delighted to have someone in the shop. After the big box stores opened up in the main shopping area, she’s been beside herself trying to find a new tenant.” Alice shakes her head, tutting. “The town council should never have allowed those stores in here. They’ve taken out all the good local shops. If I wanted to buy groceries, clothes, drugs, and garden things at one store, I’d go into the city.”
“We won’t be a full-time tenant,” I tell Alice again. “This is a pop-up thing.”
“How can a restaurant just pop up?” Alice asks. “It’s not a mushroom or a groundhog.”
“It’s a limited edition thing,” I explain, or try to. I’m not sure how to explain it exactly. Kitty and I haven’t quite yet nailed down our concept. We’ve texted and talked, but there’s nothing quite like having time together to brainstorm. I mentally note that we’ll need to do that this weekend.
“Limited edition? But how do you make any money?”
“I don’t know about that yet. But making it pop-up means we don’t have to devote ourselves full-time, like we would otherwise. We both have other jobs.”
“But how will people know that you’re open?”
“Social media,” I reply. “Just like what I do for Country Mouse, to tell people when we’re at the farmers’ markets.”
Alice nods. “I suppose,” she says. “But you’ll have to do something for the folks in town too, the ones that don’t do this social media stuff.”
“There’s email,” I reply, “newsletters, that sort of thing. The newspaper, I guess.”
“I bet you could get an ad in the Eagle,” Alice says. “And that’s delivered every week, so you’d get lots of eyes on it.”
I turn on to First Street and cruise slowly down the street. We pass the storefront, and I pull into the first open parking spot I see. Alice unbuckles and hops down from the van, surprisingly spry after recovering from the flu. I lock the van and follow her down the sidewalk. An older woman, older than Alice or my mother, greets Alice with a hug and me with a smile as I step up beside them. It’s Beatrice.
“Lucy, my dear, so good to see you,” she gushes, pulling me into a hug. It’s awkward, but I pat her on the back. I’m in clean clothes, but I worry that there’s a smudge of dirt somewhere that could mar her immaculate pastel pantsuit.
“Thanks for considering us for your shop,” I say.
“Oh my goodness, of course I would,” Beatrice says, patting my arm. “Now, come see the space. It’s cozy, but Alice says you don’t want a big spot.”
“It needs to have a kitchen,” I note, “and enough space for maybe twenty or thirty guests.”
“That we can do,” Beatrice says. “We also have tables and chairs stacked in the storage room upstairs. My last tenant”—she makes a moue of disappointment—“slipped town without paying his rent, and he left behind all his furniture. It could be useful. I’d be happy to let you use it if you make sure to invite me to your restaurant on opening night.”
“Of course we’ll do that.” It’s an easy promise. We’d have invited her anyway—she’s the owner, after all. “We’re not sure when that would be. I still have to look into permits and such.”
“That shouldn’t be too hard,” Beatrice says. “Now, what kind of restaurant are you thinking of opening?”
“Chinese and Western food, but more fusion than the old-style cafés.”
“Sounds fancy,” Beatrice says. “Though I don’t know how popular it would be. That’s quite a specific style for a small-town place.”
“It’ll be a pop-up, so we won’t be doing it full-time.” I repeat my earlier explanation that I gave to Alice.
“Pop-up?” Beatrice looks puzzled still. “I’m not sure how that would work out with this space. I need a longer-term tenant, not someone who rents for a night or two.”
“It’d be every weekend,” I say quickly, my stomach tensing. If she turns us down, I’m not sure what we’ll do. I can’t imagine us finding a food truck.
“I’ll have to think about it,” Beatrice says. “Come look around, though, and see what you think.” She unlocks the front door and lets us in. The windows out front are large and let in a lot of light. The floor is hardwood, painted white. I’m trying to recall what sort of look this had in its last incarnation, but I can’t remember. It’s been several businesses in the last five or six years. At the back is a long counter that runs parallel to the front windows, and behind it is a typical café setup: microwave, drip coffeemaker, stainless steel shelving, and a glass case. There’s a swinging door behind it, and Beatrice takes us through, into a small square kitchen. There’s a gas grill, a two-burner stove, an almost U-shaped counter, and a rather battered looking industrial oven. One side has doors underneath that are propped open.
“That one’s a cooler,” Beatrice says, pointing out the doors. “It’s not a lot of storage, but you could bring in more if you need it. The oven is on its last legs, and I can’t guarantee it. I’d like to, but it’s just getting too old.” She points into a small hallway. “Dishwashing sinks are down there, and a staff bathroom. There’s stairs that go up into the storage. Should show you that before we go on.” She takes out her keys again, and Alice and I follow her back. The dishwashing area is small but neat and tidy. It’s completely devoid of dishes. We’re going to need to supply those too. I pull out my phone to make a note.
Kitty has texted me. I’d forgotten about the buzz earlier during the drive.
Permits?
On that soon, I text back. Looking at the space now. I think you’ll love it.
No quick reply, but I know Kitty’s working hard.
I follow Beatrice up the stairs. It’s a snug stairwell, likely because the building is so old. The stairs themselves slump, and the linoleum on the risers is worn. She takes out a key when we reach the top and unlocks the door, flicking a light switch just inside. The light flickers, and she steps inside, moving to allow me in. The place is dim and seems full. There are tables stacked on one side, and chairs in stacks on the other, and a substantial number of storage boxes in between. I mentally count the chairs—there’s probably fifty—and the tables. For our needs, they all should work, at least for the first few pop-up events. Beatrice walks forward and runs a hand over one of the chairs.
“They might need slip covers,” she says, “but they might not. Some are more worn than others. The tables will need tablecloths, of course.”
“I think we can do that.” I make another note. We might have to take a trip to the dollar store or find somewhere to rent or buy what we need. I can picture our space, with tables arranged just so, checkered tablecloths in place, a bright space with barn accents. And we need a little something more. Each table needs something as a centerpiece, something small yet quirky, something that helps to emphasize the farm-to-table concept.
My fingers itch for my sketchbook, but I’ve left it at home, thinking I wouldn’t need it. Silly me.
“Will it suit?” Beatrice asks, and I realize I’ve been quiet for too long.
“It absolutely will,” I say, “but I’ll need to run it by my business partner first. And to make sure I can get the permits.”
“You’ll be able to do that easily,” Beatrice says. “My cousin works for the town, and I can put a call in next week when she’s back from vacation. I think they’ll like the idea. It’s something new here, something that isn’t a food truck. Did you ever think of doing that?”
“I did,” I admit. “But it’d be far easier to cook what we need with a traditional space. I suppose if this goes well, we could think about it.” I can’t quite picture it, Kitty and me stuffed into a truck with cooking materials and serving out the side. But you never know. It might work.
“They’re very in,” Beatrice says.
“You two done up there?” Alice calls from below.
Beatrice and I glance at each other. Beatrice looks amused. “Let’s go. Alice and I should go for coffee and catch up.”
“And I’ll head to the town office.”
We retrace our steps and walk back out into the main area. Yes, I think this place will be incredible with a few personal touches. I can’t wait to tell Kitty.