Page 5 of Cooking Up My Comeback

I’ve been moving from project to project for years, never staying long enough to put down roots or make plans beyond the next job. Learned the hard way that permanent plans have a way of falling apart when you least expect it.

But somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking about our properties in Charleston and started wondering what I was still doing here.

The afternoon sun slants through these ocean-facing windows, turning the whole space golden. Beyond the glass, the Atlantic stretches toward forever, and I can just make out the old fishing pier. Weathered wood pointing straight into tomorrow. There’s a deck out back that’s seen better decades, but it sits right on the water with views that could make a grown man forget he’s supposed to be checking for dry rot.

The location doesn’t hurt either. It’s right here on the boardwalk, between Michelle’s coffee shop and Hazel’s boutique, walking distance from everything that matters in Twin Waves. Prime real estate that someone let slip away because they couldn’t see past the peeling paint.

The door bangs open, and Jack stumbles in with a cardboard box that’s clearly plotting against him.

“Don’t ask,” he says before I can comment.

I peer at the box.YeOlde Cutlassesblazes across it in font that probably gives graphic designers nightmares. “Wasn’t planning to.”

He kicks the door shut and sighs like he’s carrying the weight of a thousand tiny plastic swords. Which he probably is. “Hazel sent me to pick up pirate party supplies. She ordered a fog machine.”

“For kids?”

“Apparently pirate ambiance is non-negotiable.” He drops the box on a stool that wobbles but doesn’t give up entirely. “Her exact words were ‘atmosphere is everything, Jack, and children deserve quality entertainment.’”

I grunt something that might be sympathy. “Living the dream.”

“You know what?” Jack gets that expression I’ve seen too much of lately. Soft around the edges and content in a way that makes my ribs feel tight. “I really am.”

And there it is, that quiet happiness that makes me want to get back to work instead of standing around talking about feelings.

“Place is looking...” Jack surveys the destruction around us. “Well, it’s still standing.”

“Barely.”

“But that view though.” He nods toward the windows where waves roll onto the beach in perfect rhythm, and the old pier stretches toward the horizon.

Yeah. The view’s the only thing that makes senseabout this project. The kind that makes you forget why you usually avoid places where people linger over morning coffee and expect you to care about their problems.

“You miss it?” Jack asks quietly. “Working together, I mean.”

There’s genuine curiosity in his voice, like he actually wonders if I’m okay flying solo these days. Which is exactly the kind of conversation I’m not interested in having.

“Some days,” I admit, because it’s easier than explaining that I miss a lot of things that don’t matter anymore. “But you’ve got your pirate empire to build.”

“Stubborn as ever.” Jack grins with that mix of fondness and exasperation I know too well. “You know I could still help with the heavy lifting when I’m not wrangling tiny buccaneers.”

“You’re in too deep now. There’s no going back.”

“We’re booked solid through Labor Day. You should come by sometime, see what we’ve built.”

“I’m good.”

Jack studies me for a moment, like he’s deciding whether to push. Smart man chooses not to.

“What’s your timeline looking like?” he asks instead.

“Six months if everything cooperates. Eight if this place decides to surprise me with its creative interpretation of ‘up to code.’”

“And then?”

I run my thumb along a groove someone carved into the bar counter years ago. Initials, maybe. Or just someone fidgeting through a long conversation. Someone who believed those marks would still be here decades later. That kind of faith in permanence used to make sense to me. Now it feels naive.

“Haven’t figured that part out yet. I used to be good at long-term planning. Had a whole life mapped out once. Now I take things as they come.”