Wedding Bel Blues: A Belfast McGrath Mystery (Bel McGrath Mysteries) by Maggie McConnon Page A
Authors: Maggie McConnon
Ads: Link
two years ahead of me in school.
Amy had seen something in him, though, and they had dated his entire senior year, she wearing an iridescent purple dress to the prom that made her look like one of the girls who sang backup for Prince. Cargan had worn a matching bow tie and cummerbund, and together they had looked smashing, if purple was your thing.
“I’m worried,” he said, his fingers still working the Rubik’s Cube, a puzzle, like my brother, I had never been able to solve. His Shamrock Rovers soccer team jersey hung on his thin frame, wrinkled and voluminous. He played soccer on an adult team with a bunch of Ecuadorians in the next town over, his pale skin, often with a layer of unabsorbed sunscreen making him even whiter, blinding in the summer sun next to his darker teammates.
“That more will cancel?” I asked.
He nodded. “That we’ll lose the business. That Mom and Dad won’t have anywhere to live. That we’ll have to move.”
I held up a hand. “Slow your roll, pallie. Slow your roll.” I leaned over and eyed the ledger. Indeed, there were cross-outs through some of the booked parties, but the O’Donnell wedding, this coming weekend, was still a go. If we could pull that off and assure our guests that all was well at Shamrock Manor, in spite of the trouble we had had the weekend before, we might be able to right the ship. “This will blow over and we’ll get our footing back.” I gave him a little chuck to the shoulder. “And wait until you see what I have planned for the kitchen.”
He looked up at me, his eyes red rimmed; poor guy looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. “The kitchen?”
“Yes,” I said, a surge of enthusiasm masking the hollow pit in my stomach at the thought of exactly what the “kitchen,” and I use that word loosely, looked like. “After a few weddings, we’ll be the talk of the Hudson Valley.”
“Because?”
“Because of the food, silly!” I said, wondering why it was that he looked like he was going to vomit instead of embracing my plan wholeheartedly. “Shamrock Manor has an award-winning chef at the helm and wedding fare will never be the same.” Geez, even the publicist I had had back in New York couldn’t have made me sound as fabulous and inventive as I made myself sound to my skeptical brother.
“But we want it to be the same,” he said, standing up behind the desk. I got a glimpse of his baggy soccer shorts, the socks that went to his knees. “We don’t want it to be different. We want it the same as it always was.” He pointed at the ledger. “These people want what they ordered. Ham. Potatoes. Shepherd’s pie,” he said, and stopped me before I could speak, “and not shepherd’s pie with duck crap in it.…”
“It’s call foie gras.” I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to steady my breathing, the tips from anger-management class still front and center in my mind.
“Whatever!” he said, kneeling down to pull up one of his drooping soccer socks, the elastic at the top having died an untimely death in a hot dryer. “We don’t want what you do. We want what we do. Simple. Classic. Irish cuisine.”
That really wasn’t what I had in mind. “People really want shepherd’s pie at a wedding? Really?”
“It’s our reputation. It’s what we serve. People want to eat things that remind them of home,” he said.
We weren’t really getting anywhere and I had work to do. “Well, what did the O’Donnells order?” I asked.
He pushed a piece of paper toward me and I scanned the menu. Canapés. Check. We had those in the freezer. Ham. Check again. We had a lot of ham. It was decent ham and could be manipulated but it was ham nonetheless. And we had potatoes, lots of potatoes for the desired mashed potatoes. We were all set. I grimaced when I looked at the menu and maybe even uttered a little groan.
“Arney was right,” Cargan said.
I arched an eyebrow in his direction. “About what?”
“About you. About how
Amy had seen something in him, though, and they had dated his entire senior year, she wearing an iridescent purple dress to the prom that made her look like one of the girls who sang backup for Prince. Cargan had worn a matching bow tie and cummerbund, and together they had looked smashing, if purple was your thing.
“I’m worried,” he said, his fingers still working the Rubik’s Cube, a puzzle, like my brother, I had never been able to solve. His Shamrock Rovers soccer team jersey hung on his thin frame, wrinkled and voluminous. He played soccer on an adult team with a bunch of Ecuadorians in the next town over, his pale skin, often with a layer of unabsorbed sunscreen making him even whiter, blinding in the summer sun next to his darker teammates.
“That more will cancel?” I asked.
He nodded. “That we’ll lose the business. That Mom and Dad won’t have anywhere to live. That we’ll have to move.”
I held up a hand. “Slow your roll, pallie. Slow your roll.” I leaned over and eyed the ledger. Indeed, there were cross-outs through some of the booked parties, but the O’Donnell wedding, this coming weekend, was still a go. If we could pull that off and assure our guests that all was well at Shamrock Manor, in spite of the trouble we had had the weekend before, we might be able to right the ship. “This will blow over and we’ll get our footing back.” I gave him a little chuck to the shoulder. “And wait until you see what I have planned for the kitchen.”
He looked up at me, his eyes red rimmed; poor guy looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. “The kitchen?”
“Yes,” I said, a surge of enthusiasm masking the hollow pit in my stomach at the thought of exactly what the “kitchen,” and I use that word loosely, looked like. “After a few weddings, we’ll be the talk of the Hudson Valley.”
“Because?”
“Because of the food, silly!” I said, wondering why it was that he looked like he was going to vomit instead of embracing my plan wholeheartedly. “Shamrock Manor has an award-winning chef at the helm and wedding fare will never be the same.” Geez, even the publicist I had had back in New York couldn’t have made me sound as fabulous and inventive as I made myself sound to my skeptical brother.
“But we want it to be the same,” he said, standing up behind the desk. I got a glimpse of his baggy soccer shorts, the socks that went to his knees. “We don’t want it to be different. We want it the same as it always was.” He pointed at the ledger. “These people want what they ordered. Ham. Potatoes. Shepherd’s pie,” he said, and stopped me before I could speak, “and not shepherd’s pie with duck crap in it.…”
“It’s call foie gras.” I crossed my arms over my chest, trying to steady my breathing, the tips from anger-management class still front and center in my mind.
“Whatever!” he said, kneeling down to pull up one of his drooping soccer socks, the elastic at the top having died an untimely death in a hot dryer. “We don’t want what you do. We want what we do. Simple. Classic. Irish cuisine.”
That really wasn’t what I had in mind. “People really want shepherd’s pie at a wedding? Really?”
“It’s our reputation. It’s what we serve. People want to eat things that remind them of home,” he said.
We weren’t really getting anywhere and I had work to do. “Well, what did the O’Donnells order?” I asked.
He pushed a piece of paper toward me and I scanned the menu. Canapés. Check. We had those in the freezer. Ham. Check again. We had a lot of ham. It was decent ham and could be manipulated but it was ham nonetheless. And we had potatoes, lots of potatoes for the desired mashed potatoes. We were all set. I grimaced when I looked at the menu and maybe even uttered a little groan.
“Arney was right,” Cargan said.
I arched an eyebrow in his direction. “About what?”
“About you. About how
Similar Books
