Chapter Twenty-eight
Gaston Lenôtre.
Some women dream about movie stars. Some dream about male models. Others dream about athletes. I dream about a dead French pastry chef.
I started dreaming about Gaston Lenôtre when I was in college. I watched a documentary about famous chefs and the narrator referred to one of them, Gaston Lenôtre, as the God of Desserts. After that, the Dessert God would appear in my dreams as a portly elderly man with sparkling blue eyes and a tall, starched toque perched atop his balding head—almost like a Fairy Godfather, but brandishing a whisk instead of a wand.
The dream is always the same. I see him in the distance, dressed in a pristine white chef’s coat, carrying a tray of pastries, and wreathed in clouds of flour. He walks up, smiles his radiant smile, and offers me a lavender-flavored macaron. I take the macaron, but it’s so pretty, with a smooth, crumbly crust and thick, creamy center, I don’t want to eat it. The Dessert God stares at me, his benevolent, wise blue eyes twinkling, and then says, Allez-y, enfant. Allez-y.
The dream mystified me until I typed the phrase into Google translate and discovered it means, Go ahead, child. Go for it.
Since then, I have accepted that the Dessert God’s nocturnal appearance is simply a manifestation of my subconscious urging me to push myself toward change. When Gaston Lenôtre entered the culinary world, pastry making had become as dry and uninspired as a box of saltine crackers. The same boring macarons filled with the same boring flavors—chocolate, strawberry, vanilla—and the same cake, croissant, and croquem-boche recipes. Lenôtre changed all of that with his brightly colored macarons flavored with kiwi, lime, pistachio, and passion fruit. He used less sugar and flour, more fresh ingredients, and whipped them into light, airy confections that seduced all of the senses. He was incredibly innovative and, as a result, elevated pastry making to an art form. The unknown, self-trained chef from a small village in Normandy, who used his life savings to buy a patisserie in Paris, revolutionized pastry making and inspired countless chefs around the world because he wasn’t afraid to shake things up, to try something new. Allez-y!
I am thinking about Gaston Lenôtre and his fearless pursuit of his passion the next afternoon when Catriona drops by for a visit. I am in the kitchen experimenting with one of Mrs. Cumiskey’s recipes for Bread and Butter Pudding—adding my own special Southern-influenced tweaks to an accompanying sauce—when she arrives. She takes one look at the golden Bread and Butter Pudding and smiles.
“Comfort food, is it?”
“Blame it on your Irish weather,” I say, stirring the sauce. “These dark, rainy days make me want to hole up inside this kitchen and bake fattening desserts.”
“Me gran says the same thing.”
“Thanks a million!” I say, laughing. “So you think I am an old lady? Is that it?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Do ya like to knit tea cozies and whinge about your aching bones? If that’s your idea of craic, then yes, you’re an old lady.”
“No knitting or whinging . . . yet.”
“Well, then, there’s that going for ya.”
We laugh.
“This is a nice surprise.” I take the saucepan off the heat and carry it to the counter to cool. “I didn’t expect to see you until the weekend.”
“You remember my friend Michael? You met him at the pub?”
“Of course.”
“He hasn’t stopped talking about your Feckin’ Fiddle.”
“Feckin’ Faddle.”
“Feckin’ Faddle, Feckin’ Fiddle,” she says, raising her hands in exasperation. “Whatever it’s feckin’ called, he’s off his nut about it. He begged me to ask ya if ya would consider making enough to feed two hundred people, about four hundred cups, he figures.”
“Four hundred cups?”
“He wants to test it in one of his pubs. If Feckin’ Fiddle does well, he wants to contract you to make larger batches to be delivered weekly and sold in all of his pubs.”
“Four hundred cups?” I look at Catriona the way I would if she told me she saw Lady Margaret dancing a jig in the courtyard. “Are you crazy? I can’t make that much popcorn.”
“Why not?”
“Why not? Why not?” I am about to tell Catriona why I couldn’t possibly make enough Feckin’ Faddle to feed two hundred people when I hear the Dessert God’s voice in my ear telling me to go for it. “Where am I going to find that much popcorn? Do you think the Tesco in Donegal would have enough?”
“Forget Tesco,” she says, hopping up on the counter. “I called the hotel’s snack food supplier in Wicklow. You can order all of your supplies through them—kernels, popping oil, scoops, bags—and they’ll even ship overnight.”
“That’s incredible. You’re incredible.”
“Go on,” she says, waving away my praise. “You’ll do it then?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“Grand. Just grand. Michael will be well pleased.” She dips her finger into the pot and tastes the brown syrupy sauce. “When do ya think ya will be able to deliver your Feckin’ Fiddle?”
“Faddle.”
“What?”
“It’s Feckin’ Faddle.”
She frowns. “What’s a faddle?”
“I think it means foolish.”
“Like feckin’ eejit?”
“Sure.”
“I don’t like it.”
“Don’t like what?”
“The name, Feckin’ Faddle,” she says, shaking her head. “Are ya calling the people who eat your popcorn eejits?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why name it Feckin’ Faddle?”
“It’s a play on Fiddle Faddle, the name of the popcorn I used to eat back home.”
“Hmmm,” she says, wiping her finger on her jeans. “I like Feckin’ Fiddle better.”
Her mobile phone starts ringing. She reaches into her jacket pocket, pulls out her phone, looks at the screen, and rolls her eyes.
“Jaysus, Mary, and . . .”
She holds the phone up so I can see the caller ID. It’s Michael. She pushes the talk button and presses the phone to her ear.
“Hello Michael . . .”
I leave Catriona to her phone call to start a pot of tea boiling on the Aga. By the time she finishes her conversation, I have arranged the tea tray and scooped servings of Bread and Butter Pudding into bowls. She disconnects the call and joins me at the table.
“I changed my mind,” she says, collapsing into a chair. “Feckin’ Faddle is the perfect name for your popcorn. It’s certainly turned Michael into a big feckin’ faddle. He must have texted me a dozen times. Will ya ask Tara to make more of her popcorn? Did ya ask her yet? When will ya ask her? How soon do ya think she can deliver it? What do ya put in it, Tara, crack?”
“No crack, just craic,” I say, laughing.
“There’s a class name for it, Craic Corn. So addictive, you’ll need a twelve-step program.”
“That’s quite a slogan.”
“You’re welcome.”
I pour tea into our cups. We eat our pudding, laughing and chatting like old friends. Catriona tells me about her job, about how she is tired of the monotony of working in a hotel, about how she wants to try something new, something that will really challenge her marketing skills. I can hear her frustration.
“I know how you feel, Cat,” I say, reaching across the table and squeezing her hand. “WCSC is a fantastic place to work and I was blessed, truly blessed, to get hired there right out of college, but I felt unfulfilled in my job. Maybe all you need is a little break. Take a vacation.”
She brightens. “Like a road trip?”
“Okay, sure.” I smile. “I was thinking of a week in a Swiss spa or sunning yourself on a beach in Mallorca, but if a road trip is more your speed, good on ya!”
“What about a road trip to a music festival?”
“That could be fun.”
“Have you heard of the Béal an Muirhillion Music Festival?”
“No.”
“It’s great gas,” she says, sliding her empty teacup aside. “It’s held in a town just up the road, right on the beach. People come from all over the world to camp and listen to live music. Vendors and artisans sell all sorts of things. So, what if you set up a booth and sell your Boozy Bites, like Bánánach Biscuits and Craic Corn?”
“Feckin’ Faddle,” I say, pushing my empty dessert bowl aside. “Why would I do that?”
“Are ya taking the piss? A load of langered eejits listening to music would probably sell their front teeth to get to eat something as delicious as your desserts. Market them as being made with whiskey and craft cider and you will sell out before the first band leaves the stage.”
“You think?”
“Absolutely.” She grins. “It would be a great way to launch your brand.”
“My brand?”
“Boozy Bites.”
I frown.
“Hear me out,” she says. “You need to find a way to make enough money to keep Tásúildun from becoming a pile of rubble, right?”
“Right.”
“Do you know how many people have developed a revolutionary product in the hopes of becoming rich and famous?”
I shake my head.
“Millions,” she says. “Mark Zuckerberg. Steve Jobs. Bill Gates. Thomas Edison. They are aberrations, geniuses, and visionaries, but some of the most successful entrepreneurs are of average intelligence. They succeed because they use their talents to improve upon something that already exists or supply an unfulfilled demand. They are passionate and persistent. Your unique skill is baking.”
“Baking isn’t a unique skill, Cat.”
“I disagree.” She pushes her empty bowl at me. “I devour your desserts even though I don’t fancy sweets. You have a talent, Tara, and I believe you could be very successful with the right vision and marketing plan.”
“You do?”
“Sure, I do!” Her voice is high and her eyes are sparkling with excitement. “The trick is to start small and create a loyal following. That will help generate a buzz. Meanwhile, we will refine our products and obtain the financial backing necessary to take the business to the next level.”
“Do you really think selling my baked goods at a music festival will be the first step to my becoming Mrs. Fields?”
“Who is Mrs. Fields?”
“A famous cookie chain in America.”
“Sure,” she says, smiling. “Why couldn’t you be as successful as this Mrs. Fields?”
From crab cook-off judge to cookie mogul. Why not? I can see it now. Boozy Bites franchises in all of the malls in America, from Seattle to Savannah. Moody teens queuing up to exchange their hard-earned allowance for whiskey flavored cookies. Maybe MADD will be a corporate sponsor. Maybe I will be so successful the Today Show will invite me to film a segment with Savannah Guthrie.
“I wouldn’t even know who to talk to about renting a booth at the Belly Million Festival.”
“Béal an Muirhillion,” she says, laughing. “As it happens, my cousin is one of the festival organizers. I told her about your Bánánach Biscuits and how crazy Michael is for your Feckin’ Fiddle and she said she will reserve a booth for us.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that! She has the glad eye for Michael, so that definitely helped.”
“You keep saying us and we. Does that mean you plan on helping me launch Boozy Bites?”
“I sure as shite won’t get rich planning events for a hotel. I plan on hitching my horse to your comet—or however that American saying goes.”
“It’s your wagon to my star, but close enough.” I laugh. “You’re serious about all of this? You’ll really help me?”
“Yeah. No bother, no bother. I’ve been banking my overtime hours for the last year. I can afford the holiday.”
“Why would you give up your time off to be my sous chef?”
“Why?” She frowns. “You’re me mate, aren’t ya?”
“Sure.”
“There you go, then.”
She says it in such a matter-of-fact way, as if it is perfectly natural for her to give up hard-earned vacation days to help a friend sell baked goods at a music festival. Except for Callie, I don’t think any of my Charleston friends would make such a sacrifice, not even to help me launch a cookie empire. My throat tightens.
“Thanks a million, Catriona. Really.”
“Go on with ya,” she says, waving her hand. “The festival is the last weekend in October, it’s a bank holiday. That means we have three weeks to design your brand and logo, order labels and marketing materials, buy supplies, secure a commercial kitchen, and implement a social media campaign.”
“Is that all?” I collapse against the back of my chair, already overwhelmed with my mission to become a cookie mogul. “Brand? Logo? I don’t know anything about branding.”
“Relax, Tara,” she says. “Marketing is my unique skill. I already have some ideas. Boozy Bites is a cute name, but I think it might strike the wrong note. A lot of your recipes are based on old Irish and American recipes, right?”
“Yes. I was inspired by some of the Victorian-era cookbooks I found here in the castle. I tweaked them by adding a little Southern flavor.”
“Didn’t ya say someone wrote in the books? One of the cooks who used to work at Tásúildun?”
“Mrs. Cumiskey.”
“That’s the note we need to strike. Play up the whole castle-Victorian-cook angle.”
“You think?”
“I know!” Her eyes sparkle with the light of inspiration. “Downton Abbey has made people interested in life below stairs. I think I read somewhere that Mrs. Patmore, the cook, was one of the most popular characters on the show. Maybe we use Mrs. Cumiskey’s name but add something to make it more current and a little irreverent.”
“Like what?”
“We can brainstorm first thing tomorrow.” She pulls her bowl back toward her. “Now, scoop me up some more of that pudding and let’s talk about another aspect of your future.”
“What aspect?”
“Me bleedin’ brother.”
“Aidan,” I say, pretending my heart didn’t just skip a beat. “What about him?”
“He bloody loves ya,” she says, fixing me with a serious expression. “Ya know that, right?”
“What?” I sputter. “Aidan? In love with me? Now who’s off her nut? Aidan is not in love with me.”
She narrows her gaze and crosses her arms. “Don’t ya know he’s been in love with ya since ya both were wee ones? Ya were his first love, Tara Maxwell. Sure, he’s dated other women, even loved them, but no love is as powerful, poignant, and enduring as a first love.”
First love. Isn’t that how I have always thought of Aidan? As my first love? I loved Grayson. I really did, y’all, but it was more of a kissing-cousins kind of love. I never pined for him, never felt a pulse racing kind of passion for him. I know that now. Grayson Calhoun is my Ashley Wilkes. He’s the boy from the respectable family everyone expected me to marry, the boy I convinced myself I had to marry, just had to marry, because he was a good catch, a great match. But Aidan . . .
Aidan Gallagher is my Rhett Butler. He is dangerous and exhilarating. He is the sort of man who would flout propriety and tradition to get what he wanted. The sort who would ask me to dance while I was still wearing widow’s weeds.
I love Aidan. I fell in love with him when we were teenagers, but doubts rolled in like the morning miasma that blankets a Carolina swamp. Doubts so thick, so disorienting, they made me turn away from the truth and cling to what I told myself was solid, real.
Like Scarlett, I have been a fool. A silly little fool chasing after a boy who didn’t want me even though I had a man who did, a man who wanted me something fierce.
“Do ya love our Aidan, Tara?”
I look at Catriona’s sandy blonde hair and startling sea blue eyes and the weight of her question hits me hard, knocking the breath from my lungs.
“I do,” I whisper. “I really do.”
“Have ya told him?”
I shake my head.
“Why not? Ya used to tell each other everything.”
I think of the open, easygoing boy Aidan was and the guarded, moody man he had become.
“He’s changed.”
“Our Aidan is a changed man, Tara, but he is still a good man. Do ya know why he changed? Has he told ya what happened to him while he was in service?”
I shake my head.
Catriona exhales and sits back.
“He has a hard time talking about what happened to him over there,” Catriona says, softly. “Don’t ya know our Aidan has always been a sensitive man; still is, beneath his tattoos and behind his fearful scowls.”
I remember the tender way he held me close and kissed my forehead that morning on the lake and the stricken expression on his face when he saw me get out of Sin’s car the next day. Both times I felt as if he was holding back, giving me only a glimpse of what he was really feeling.
“He is so guarded now.”
“He is guarded, but he isn’t unfeeling. Our Aidan has too many feelings, that’s the problem, and every day he battles to keep his emotions from overwhelming him.” Catriona’s bottom lip trembles and I realize she is making a valiant effort to her emotions from overwhelming her. “Aidan was on a mission with his squad when they came across a wee lad standing in a mine field, keening pitifully. Aidan was the squad leader and he made the call to try to save the lad. He followed the tracks in the sand to the boy and was headed back, slowly, when the first shot rang out. It turns out the lad was a decoy for an ambush. One of Aidan’s men accidentally trigged a mine. There was an explosion and our Aidan was wounded by shrapnel. He woke up in a field hospital days later to discover he had saved the wee lad, but lost three of his men, three of his friends. He blames himself for their deaths.”
“What? Why?”
“He believes he made the wrong choice.”
“That’s ridiculous! What choice did he have? He couldn’t have walked away and left that child in a mine field. Not Aidan.”
“We know that, but he thinks he should have placed his squad’s safety over the well-being of the child.” Catriona’s face crumples and my heart breaks for her. The Gallaghers are a close-knit family, but Aidan and Catriona have always shared a special bond. “He blames himself. He says he let his emotions get in the way of logic and training.”
“My God.” I imagine him in a field hospital, wounded and wracked by guilt, and I can’t breathe. I want to go to him, put my arms around him, tell him how proud I am of the man he has become. “He could have died that day. He could have been shot or . . . He risked his life to save another human being. What could be more logical, more right, than that?”
Catriona shrugs. We sink into silence, the rhythmic drip-drip of the leaky kitchen faucet suddenly amplified in the hush. To think, I took Aidan’s quiet, guarded demeanor personally. I made it all about me-me-me when it had nothing to do with me. I have done that a lot throughout my life—allow my less-than-rosy self-esteem to color the way I perceived other people and their feelings for me. It’s about Aidan being in pain. Not me. He’s afraid to trust, to love. He is right. He has told me how he feels, in quiet, meaningful ways, but I was listening for the honeyed words, the flamboyant declaration. I wanted profuse poetry that would convince me he loved me . . . and that I am worth loving. I have been so selfish, so absorbed in healing my wounds, I never stopped to imagine Aidan has wounds of his own.
“He has a scar behind his ear,” I say, remembering the way he flinched when I ran my finger over the mark. “Was it caused by the shrapnel?”
“It was.”
“Is he okay now?” The question sounds ridiculous once I have spoken it. “Did he suffer permanent damage? Is he still in pain?”
“Physically?” She shakes her head. “Some wounds go far deeper than flesh, tissue, and bone. Our Aidan has made a full physical recovery, but he suffers.”
So I was right. The moodiness. The insomnia. The dead-eyed stare. Aidan has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I want to grab my iPhone and google PTSD, but I already know what I need to know. PTSD is a deep, soul-lacerating wound that can’t be seen and can’t be easily cured. I think of Aidan—sweet, charming, ready with a laugh Aidan—suffering with a wound that might never heal and it kills me. Kills me. My neck suddenly feels too heavy to support. I drop my forehead into my hands and let the tears fall—drip, drip—onto the scarred wooden table. Catriona begins speaking again, but it takes a while for her words to sink into my consciousness.
“. . . he wasn’t our Aiden when he returned from Afghanistan. Sure, he looked like our Aiden, but his eyes were distant, as if he were trapped in a place far from Ireland. It was sheer murder watching him sit at the kitchen table with that vacant expression on his face, his cheeks hollow from weight loss. We were almost relieved when it was time for bed. Then he started having nightmares. Screaming and crying.” She swipes a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. “There’s nothing more brutal than watching your big brother weep like a wee lad.”
I nod sadly. “Growing up, I was taught to smile and sweep it under the rug, dahlin’. It’s the Southern way. But some can’t be swept under the rug, can they?”
“No, they can’t.”
“I am sorry, Cat.” I squeeze her hand. “Truly, I am. I hear how much you have hurt—how much you’re still hurting—and it breaks my heart.”
I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. Then, I set myself to pouring her a fresh cup of tea and finding a clean napkin so she can dry her tears.
Steadier, fortified with hot tea in her belly, she tells me about Aidan’s first days home after being wounded in Afghanistan.
“We were too much for him, coddling and nursing as if he were a wee lamb with a gammy leg. He used to come here, to Tásúildun, when our mamming became too much for him. And then, he came home one day and said he was moving to the auld shepherd’s cottage up in the hills to manage Tásúildun’s orchards for your aunt.” She takes a sip of her tea. “Herself knew our Aidan would find his peace through purpose. He always loved this land and tending it gave him a reason to get up in the morning, a purpose.”
“Is that how he got the idea to start Bánánach Brew?”
“The cider was your aunt’s idea.”
“It was?”
“Aidan grew up working on our farm and he used to make cider with our grandfather. Your aunt had loads of apples—more than poor auld Mrs. McGregor could turn into jams and cakes—so she told him to make cider.”
A wave of grief washes over me. Living in my aunt’s home, spending time with the people she loved, should make me feel more connected to her, but it only makes me feel her absence more keenly. It also makes me confused. Why did she leave Tásúildun to me? Aidan is obviously more worthy of the inheritance and Sin more capable of preserving it.