Page 21 of Driving Maisie Crazy

“Oh, absolutely. It was so unique with the barley in it. I think it’ll be a hit in Boston.”

Daphne’s eyes grew distant. “Maybe I’ll mention it to our wary investor.”

Maisie finished off the last of her soup, the empty mussel shells lying in the bottom of the bowl, as if she had spent the last hour collecting them from the beach outside instead of dining on them.

“He’s still on the fence about investing, then?” she asked, putting down her spoon.

Her meal was done, and so was her time off.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Daphne said. “Briggs said he’ll call me soon with any updates. I just can’t understand why Mr. Johnson is so nervous to invest, when none of the others are. He is the largest investor, so that might be why, but we’ve proven ourselves over and over again.” She rolled her eyes. “I mean, we’ve spent months in Europe researching the menu alone, for heaven’s sake. Surely that’s proof enough that I’m serious about making this work.”

Maisie couldn’t understand it either. She didn’t claim to know anything about the business side of opening up a restaurant, but she did know that if their largest investor pulled out now, Daphne’s dream would either be pushed back by at least a year or vanish into thin air completely—thereby ending Maisie’s dream of working on the menu, as well.

“Would it help him if he actually held a menu in his hand?” Maisie suggested. “Or a placeholder, at least?”

Daphne sighed, rolling the shrimp over on her platter with clearly no intention of eating it. “I don’t know. I mean, it couldn’t hurt.”

“I can throw one together this week,” Maisie suggested. “I’ve got most of the information already. It shouldn’t take too long.”

“Okay, sure. Yeah, I actually think that might help him if he’s more of a literal person. You sure it won’t be a problem?”

“Nope, not at all,” Maisie said.

And it wouldn’t be. With Daphne’s inevitable busyness each night, Maisie would have more time to work, too.

Not that she wanted to. But she’d do anything for Daphne because Daphne had always been there for her, almost as much as Mom and Dad had. Shopping for prom dresses and a graduation gown. Encouraging her to pursue a career in food after culinary school. Picking up the pieces of Maisie’s broken dreams and piecing them together to form new ones—including starting up this restaurant.

In reality, Maisie knew the reason Daphne liked her so much was because Maisie was so similar to Mom, but there was one distinguishing factor that separated the two.

Mom was married. Maisie was not.

A few minutes later, Daphne pushed her half-eaten plate away and asked for the bill. After paying, the two of them made their way out of the restaurant and down the street toward the hotel.

The rain had stopped, and the clouds had broken on the horizon, allowing a sliver of pink light to grace the empty space between cloud and sea. It would be a shame to spend such a gorgeous evening in a hotel room with a single window that overlooked a busy street instead of this view.

“Wanna take a quick walk?” Maisie suggested, fastening the buttons of her coat. “It might help clear your mind for a minute.”

Daphne hesitated, checked her phone, then shrugged. “Sure. I’ve been holed up for too long today.”

The two of them ventured along the pathway down a road adjacent to the receding waves. They chatted about nothing in particular, then spotted a bridge that stretched out toward a rock bed resting in the sea.

Maisie recognized it at once as Pans Rock Bridge, having seen the structure in images during her research of Ballycastle. But, as usual, the sight was even better than the photos.

With nearly a dozen steps to the top of the bridge, the wooden structure stood sturdy on multiple stone pillars burrowed far into the sand, angling off to one side as it neared the large, flat rock to which the bridge led.

With it being low tide, the waves only lapped at the pillars near the rock bed, leaving the large boulders and pointed stones near the steps of the bridge untouched, though they glistened with moisture and vibrant green moss.

Together, Maisie and Daphne made their way down the bridge, but just as they reached the halfway point, Daphne’s phone rang, interrupting the peace of the sea’s waves and the herring gulls crying above.

“Okay, here we go,” she murmured, eying the phone.

She held it up for Maisie to see the name, “Briggs”—her lawyer—stretched across the screen.

“Wish me luck,” Daphne said.

“Good luck,” Maisie repeated, feeling a twinge of nerves on Daphne’s behalf.

Her aunt answered the phone, then wandered down to the end of the bridge.