Page 29 of Trying Sophie

Chapter Eleven

Sophie

I satat the long copper counter that ran the length of the back half of the pub, reading through another article about how to successfully transition an old restaurant into a hip, new one. It wasn’t entirely applicable, but I hoped I might find some kernel of knowledge that could prove the tipping point in my ongoing negotiations with my grandparents. I was chewing on the end of my pen, my brow furrowed in concentration as I tried to devise a way for them to raise their prices without offending their customers, when a shaft of light broke through the dimly lit interior.

“Sorry, we’re not open yet,” I called out without looking up from my computer.

Checking the time on my screen, I saw we still had an hour before opening. A time, mind you, that was noted quite legibly on a plaque flanking the entrance.

“I come bearing food that isn’t on your menu,” the visitor replied jovially.

I turned in my stool to see Declan standing a few feet from me, a brown paper bag in his hand.

“Hey there, stranger,” I said, smiling as I stood.

He passed me the bag and when I opened it I was enveloped by the salty, succulent scent of corned beef on rye, the waft of warm steam from the piping hot sandwich making my mouth water.

“It smells divine.”

I groaned in appreciation and his gaze fixed on my mouth, his jaw clenching.

“Thank you,” I started to say but the words came out a whisper. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Um, Thanks.”

I was thrilled when my voice didn’t crack that time.

Declan adjusted his stance and the hard edge of his shoulders relaxed a bit. “Not a problem.”

His voice came out strained, gravellier than I remembered. The moment was broken when he blinked and smiled down at me, all trace of the heat I’d seen in his eyes cloaked behind a placid mask of friendliness.

“Your granny’s a great cook but I thought you might be tired of pub food after eating it nonstop for a few weeks straight.”

I laughed over his idea that I’d been subsisting on pub grub. I’d get scurvy in no time at all if that was the case.

“You do know that my grandma cooks more than fish and chips, right? So far she’s made me spaghetti and meatballs, meatloaf, something called a Dublin coddle, and all the scones I could ever possibly eat.”

“Are they the same scones she won the baking contest with?” he asked, smacking his lips as he rubbed his hands together greedily. “Because if so, I demand a trade.”

“She didn’t say anything about them being award winning, but she did say they were her secret recipe and if I ever divulged the special ingredient to Mrs. McNamara she’d lock me in the closet and never let me out.”

“Oh yeah, those are the ones,” he chuckled. “She and Mrs. McNamara have a long-standing competition to see who’s the best baker in Ballycurra. Your granny winning as often as old Bonnie McNamara is a sore point since the McNamara’s own the bakery down the road. Can’t have her livelihood being upstaged by the village publican, now can she?”

“Aww, poor Mrs. McNamara.”

I briefly wondered if theirs was a friendly rivalry or something more sinister. Small town politics could be terribly dramatic.

“My grandma said she makes the best pie in three counties so hopefully there aren’t too many hard feelings.”

“Oh, that she does. And the best brown bread, birthday cakes, pastries, and meringues as well. Don’t you worry, Mrs. McNamara is doing just fine, despite your granny’s excellent scones.”

With our easy banter, I felt like I could stand there and chat with Declan all day without tiring of him, or of learning all the little ins and outs of Ballycurra from him. Whereas Cian’s insights could be biting, Declan provided me with an insight into the village that made it sound like a lovely, happy place to be. His knowledge might prove invaluable as I worked through the next evolution of Fitzgerald’s Pub.

“Anyhow,” he muttered before I could ask him what he was doing later so I could pick his brain. “I don’t want your food to get cold. Why don’t you sit and tell me what you’ve been doing to keep yourself busy?”

Sliding into a red leather banquette in one of the snugs on the far side of the room, I removed the sandwich and unrolled the greasy white paper.

“What’ll you have?” Declan asked, walking behind the bar and pulling down a glass.

“Um, are you allowed to be back there?”

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