Page 139 of Cooking Up My Comeback

“Holy cow, Amber,” Jack’s voice comes from the doorway. He must have arrived during the phone call. “Did I hear You’re nominated for the Grants?”

“They want to nominate us for an award.”

“Before you’ve even been open six months,” I say, grinning. “Do you know what this means?”

“That I’m definitely going to anxiety-clean everything in my house tonight?”

“It means,” Jack says, “you’re not opening a restaurant. You’re creating something extraordinary.”

I pull Amber up from her chair and spin her around, right there in the middle of our dining room, while the kids cheer and Tally takes pictures.

When I set her down, she’s dizzy and laughing and more beautiful than I’ve ever seen her.

“We don’t even know if we’ll win anything,” she says.

“Doesn’t matter. They know who you are. They’re paying attention. Recognition means something.”

“What if we’re not ready for this level of attention?”

“What if we are?” I counter. “What if this is exactly what’s supposed to happen?”

Amber looks around the restaurant, at her kids celebrating like we’ve already won, at the space we’ve built together from nothing but dreams and stubbornness.

“I need to call Michelle,” she says suddenly. “And my parents. And probably organize seventeen different contingency plans.”

“There’s my girl,” I say, and she beams.

When I get back to the restaurant, Amber’s in the kitchen prepping for tonight’s service, talking rapidly into her phone while simultaneously stirring sauce.

“Yes, Mom, the Emmeline Grant Culinary Foundation. No, I’m not making it up. Yes, it’s a big deal.”

She’s got sauce on her cheek and flour in her hair, and she’s never looked more beautiful.

This woman. This incredible, stubborn, brilliant woman who turned my life upside down in the best possible way.

“How’s it going?” I ask when she hangs up.

“Good. I think. Maybe. Ask me again after we actually survive another dinner rush and I figure out how to fill out a an Emmaline Grant application.”

“You know what I think?”

“I’m overthinking everything?”

“I think your grandmother would be proud.”

She stops stirring and looks at me with eyes suddenly bright with unshed tears.

“You think so?”

“I know so. You’ve taken her recipes and created something honoring her memory while being completely your own. Not easy.”

“I want to do right by her. By all of it.”

“You are. Every single day, you’re choosing to build something beautiful instead of letting Chad’s bitterness win. Real courage.”

She steps into my arms, and I hold her close, breathing in the scent of her shampoo mixed with vanilla and the tiniest hint of ocean air always seeming to cling to her.

“I love you,” she says against my chest.