Page 36 of Cooking Up My Comeback

My phone buzzes on the counter. It’s a text from Tally, who’s apparently inherited my inability to sleep when there are big decisions lurking:

Tally: Mom, I heard you talking to yourself downstairs. Everything okay?

I smile, typing back:

Me: Just having a board meeting with Grandma’s recipes. Go back to sleep, honey.

Tally: Are you deciding about the restaurant thing?

Leave it to my seventeen-year-old to cut straight to the heart of things.

Me: Maybe. What do you think I should do?

Tally: Mom, you’ve been dreaming about this forever. But... how would we pay the bills while you’re building it? Did he say anything about that?

I stare at the text, my coffee growing cold in my hands. Trust my practical daughter to ask the question I’ve been too caught up in the romance of the dream to properly consider.

Me: That’s... a really good question. I should probably ask that before I say yes.

Tally: Yeah. But if he has a good plan for that part, then definitely do it. It’s not like Dad’s helping with bills anyway.

The casual way she mentions Chad’s absence hits me like it always does—a mix of anger at him and guilt that my kids have to factor his unreliability into our financial planning.

I look at Grandma’s recipes again, then at the kitchen where I’ve been practicing her techniques for thirty years. This house has been my safety net, myrefuge, my anchor. But maybe it’s time to let it also be my launching pad.

I grab my phone and scroll to Brett’s number:

Me: Can we talk? I have some questions about the practical stuff before I give you an answer.

His response comes back almost immediately:

Brett: Of course. Want to come by the building site? I’m there now.

Me: I’ll be there soon.

By the time I get the kids fed and launched into their respective educational adventures—Tally driving herself in the Honda Civic that represents the only reliable thing Chad’s done in the past two years, Crew catching the bus while muttering about how his math teacher “doesn’t understand his creative approach to geometry,” and Mason deposited at daycare with three backup snacks because apparently I’m raising a tiny survivalist—I’ve ping-ponged between confidence and sheer terror approximately seventeen times.

I walk in to find Brett attacking a section of rotted baseboard with a crowbar, wearing safety glasses and a look of intense concentration. There’s already a pile of debris in the corner that suggests he’s been at this for a while.

“Aggressive renovation therapy?” I ask.

He looks up, scowling. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I might as well make myself useful.” He sets down the crowbar and walks over to me, all business. “So. Ready to talk logistics?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, then take a breath. “Okay, here’s the thing. I want this more than I’ve wanted anything in years. But I need to know how I’m supposed to keep my kids fed and my mortgage paid while we’re building this place. Because unless you’ve invented a way to run a household on dreams and sawdust, I need an actual plan.”

He nods curtly, like he was expecting this. “I’ve been thinking about that. What if I paid you a salary during construction? Market rate for a project manager, since that’s essentially what you’d be doing.”

I blink. “You want to pay me to learn how to renovate the restaurant I’m going to run?”

“I want to pay my business partner for her time and expertise while we build our shared investment. There’s a difference.”

His tone is so matter-of-fact, so businesslike, that it almost stings. Here I am getting all emotional about dreams and legacies, and he’s treating this like a construction contract.

“Brett, I can’t let you?—”

“Amber.” His voice is flat, no-nonsense. “This isn’t charity. This is smart business. You know more about restaurant operations than I ever will. Your input duringconstruction isn’t just helpful. It’s essential. I’d be an idiot not to pay for that kind of consulting.”

I study his face, looking for warmth, for any sign that this matters to him beyond the bottom line. But there’s nothing but professional efficiency in his expression. “What’s market rate for restaurant project management?”