Page 11 of Cooking Up My Comeback

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to make an extra batch of snickerdoodles. You know, just in case.

The recipe cards are still spread across the kitchen table, Grandma’s handwriting catching the overhead light. I gather them carefully, one by one, and place them back in the tin.

But I don’t put the tin away.

Instead, I leave it on the counter, where I’ll see it first thing in the morning. Right next to the bills that remind me why playing it safe isn’t actually safe anymore.

Maybe it’s time I stopped listening to the voice in my head that sounds like my ex-husband telling me my dreams are unrealistic, and started trusting the woman who’s been keeping everything together all along.

Maybe it’s time to find out what Brett Walker is planning for that old restaurant. And maybe, just maybe, it’s time to see if there’s room in Twin Waves for someone who knows how to make food taste like hugs.

Even if that someone has to work with the grumpiest man in town.

FOUR

BRETT

I’m standing in the middle of my restaurant project, holding a bottle of sweet tea that’s already sweating in the late August heat. The faded menu from Murphy’s that Hazel gave me last week is spread out on what used to be the bar counter, alongside the 1978 photograph of all those happy faces gathered around tables, looking like they belong exactly where they are.

That photograph messes with my head every time I look at it. All those people sharing fish dinners, laughing over platters of what was probably the catch of the day, creating the kind of memories that stick around. It’s what this place used to be. What it could be again.

Maybe.

If I knew what I was doing.

I’ve flipped dozens of properties over the years—houses, small commercial buildings, even a defunct gas station that I turned into a coffee shop before selling it. But restaurants? That’s uncharted territory, which probably explains why I’ve been staring at Murphy’s menu for the better part of an hour like it holds the secrets to the universe.

Jack’s testing the stability of what’s left of the bar while Hazel examines the ocean-facing windows with the intensity of someone planning either a military operation or an elaborate dinner party.

We’re kid-free for once, which feels both peaceful and vaguely suspicious. Ellen’s being watched by Amber for a couple hours since Lila and Kira both had sports tonight and Mads is working at the boutique—something about me needing Jack to walk through the electrical situation before I electrocute myself more than the usual amount.

The afternoon light streaming through those salt-stained windows turns everything golden, and I can almost see what this place could become. Almost. If I squint and ignore the part where I have no clue what comes next.

“So,” Hazel says, turning away from the windows with that look that means she’s about to reorganize my entire existence whether I want it or not, “what’s the plan here, Brett?”

I hold up the vintage menu like it’s evidence in a court case. “Step one is figuring out what happened toMurphy’s secret clam chowder recipe. Step two is probably involving a treasure map.”

“I’m serious,” she says, though she’s trying not to smile at my deflection. “You’ve been working on this place for months. What happens when you’re done?”

Jack looks up from the bar, which chooses that exact moment to shift under his weight with a groan that sounds like it’s contemplating early retirement. He grabs the edge to steady himself, and a cascade of dust rains down from the ceiling, coating his hair in what looks like powdered sugar.

“Well, that’s encouraging,” Jack mutters, creating small dust clouds every time he moves his head.

“The structural integrity is better than it looks,” I say.

“That’s what they said about the Titanic,” he points out, still patting dust out of his hair.

“The Titanic wasn’t brought down by questionable carpentry.”

“No, just questionable confidence in unsinkable things.”

Fair point.

The thing is, Hazel’s question hits closer to home than I want to admit. I’ve been in Twin Waves for eighteen months now, which is approximately seventeen months longer than I usually stay anywhere. My truck’s been getting restless in the driveway, and I’ve caughtmyself looking at road maps when I should be reviewing electrical schematics.

But every time I’d seriously considered moving on, I’d think about Mrs. Samuel and her morning window routine, or Bernice needing steady work, or the way Amber handled that health inspection last week like she was defusing a bomb instead of losing her job.

“I figured I’d sell it when it’s finished,” I say, which is what I always tell myself. Even if the words taste wrong lately.