The Mills & Boon Ultimate Christmas Collection. Kate Hardy

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       Chapter Eight

      “So, canapés, my darling!” Georges, the caterer, brandished a plate of tiny morsels that had my mouth watering. He was a big, round, jovial sort, with a shiny, bald head and a whopping great laugh. I’d known him ever since I was a little girl when he worked for Aunt Bessie before starting his own catering company. Unfortunately, his business was flailing, according to word around town. I felt for Georges – it would’ve been darn near impossible to make a living here catering. He traveled far and wide for clients out of necessity, but the costs were exorbitant and ate into his profit. Today he’d arrived with tasting plates for the canapés for Imelda’s party and I hoped we’d be able to work together going forward.

      “Georges, wow. I wasn’t expecting anything so inventive! These look amazing! What’s this?” I pointed to a shot glass filled with yellow soup, and topped with some kind of mini bread.

      “That’s a saffron and prawn bisque with shrimp toast. Very popular. And this…” He pointed to a Chinese soupspoon filled with fragrant meat and fresh herbs. “…Is Peking duck-inspired. All of these are miniature versions of gourmet meals. There’s not a prawn cocktail or chicken skewer in sight!”

      I let out a volley of laughter. Poor Georges – how I’d underestimated him. “Sorry, Georges. It was unforgiveable, what I said. I thought…”

      “You thought because we live in a backwater my culinary skills were also stuck in the nineties. It’s OK. I get it.” His rotund body shimmied as he laughed. “Let’s take a look at the kitchen,” Georges said, bundling up our napkins.

      I gathered up the tasting plates and followed behind.

      “There’s one problem, Georges. The kitchen is not exactly finished. Or…” I gulped. “…Even started yet. But it will be. Trust me, by party time you’ll have yourself a shiny new spick and span space with all the modern gadgets you could ask for.” I only hoped that was true. Our craftsman was dillydallying and time was running out. We wandered into the kitchen, Georges casting a keen eye over the old cooktop.

      He folded his arms over his chef whites and his face paled to match. “When are they starting it?”

      “Soon,” I said. “Very soon.”

      Georges sighed good-naturedly and shook my hand, silently agreeing on a partnership I hoped would last us decades. “I can see this being the start of a beautiful friendship.” He winked and laughed that deep, belly cackle of his. “Let’s just hope I don’t have to cook in this…”

      The next day I bounced out of bed and went to my office, taking a pot of coffee big enough to drown in, planning to tick off my to-do list. I updated social media for the Lodge, sharing more photos, and checking the insights to see how the pages were growing. I had an enquiry about a baby shower, which I replied to, sending examples of menus and room styles and sizes. I tried not to worry about the salons being finished on time, and instead focused on responding enthusiastically about Cedarwood’s charms. It was only an enquiry, not a booking, so I could panic later if they wanted to go ahead.

      Next on the list was gathering interest for the wedding expo. I uploaded some stunning black and white shots of the chapel from a distance. Its rustic façade would make a great backdrop for professional wedding photos. I searched for bridal websites and took out some paid advertisements, describing Cedarwood Lodge and its amenities. Perhaps the start of December would give me enough time to organize the expo? Would that be enough to get the chapel fixed, and furnished? I wrote furiously about all the things I’d need to do in order for it to happen. I paused again, wishing Amory was here to help. We usually worked together on weddings and big events, and I missed brainstorming with her. Whenever I erred on the side of caution, she pushed me over that precipice into believing I could do it.

      Once notes were made, I designed an e-newsletter and sent it to my contact list with a subscription link to sign up.

      There was a knock at the door, and Kai stuck his head in. “You’re early,” I said, stating the obvious – he was always ahead of schedule.

      “I’ve always been an early riser, can’t help it. Usually I go surfing before work, but there’s no surf here, and the lake is a little flat… so here I am.” His tousled hair was windblown, and not quite as blond without weeks of sunlight to bleach it.

      “The lake?” I laughed, picturing Kai trying to surf on the still water on this chilly autumn morning. In summer it would be great СКАЧАТЬ