Page 56 of Cooking Up My Comeback

Mason immediately spots the tile samples scattered across our work table and makes a beeline for them like they’re treasure.

Crew wanders over to examine the blueprint pinned to the wall. “Is this where the fresh fish display will go?”

“That’s the plan so far,” I tell him.

Tally drops her backpack with theatrical emphasis. “This is my life now. Pirate debates and seafood displays.”

And suddenly I’m standing in the middle of what’s supposed to become a sophisticated restaurant, watching chaos unfold. Mason’s arranging tile samples by some system only he understands, and Tally’s pretending to be annoyed while secretly taking photos of her brothers being ridiculous.

And Amber’s in the middle of it all, managing the mayhem with practiced ease.

This is what I’d be signing up for, I realize. This loud, messy, wonderful reality that’s nothing like the quiet, controlled existence I thought I wanted.

It should terrify me. A year ago, it would have sent me looking for the nearest exit.

Instead, I find myself thinking that maybe—just maybe—this kind of chaos might be exactly what I need.

Even if I’m not ready to admit it yet.

THIRTEEN

AMBER

Brett’s already at the restaurant when I arrive, wrestling with one of the sample rugs in front of what will eventually be our hostess stand. I’m carrying a stack of printed menus—mock-ups, really—to help us visualize what we’re building.

Dad’s standing at the bar counter, squinting at our seafood supplier list like he’s deciphering ancient hieroglyphics. Which, to be fair, he might be. The man knows every fishing boat captain from here to Wilmington, but paperwork makes him twitchy.

“You sure about this distributor?” he asks, tapping the paper with a weathered finger. “Because Jimmy Jacobson’s got the freshest grouper this side of the Gulf Stream. Brings it in every Wednesdayand Friday. None of that frozen stuff that’s been sitting in a truck for a week.”

I love watching Dad in his element. The man spent thirty years on charter fishing boats before his knees finally convinced him to semi-retire to weekend trips with Crew. He knows more about local seafood than anyone in a fifty-mile radius, and he’s been practically vibrating with excitement since I told him I wanted fresh-caught fish on our menu.

“What about red snapper?” Brett asks, looking up from his tape measure with that slightly grumpy expression he gets when he’s concentrating.

Dad nods approvingly. “Bill Franklin’s your man for snapper. His boat’s smaller, but he knows every reef where they hide. Gets the best price too, because he’s not trying to supply half the coast.”

“And flounder?” I add, scribbling notes in my composition book.

“Flounder’s tricky,” Dad says, warming to his subject. “You want day-boat stuff. None of that netted mess that’s been dragged through the mud. There’s a woman—Captain Sarah—she knows where they bed down in the sound. She’ll treat you right.”

This is why I wanted Dad here today. Crew gets his fishing obsession honestly. They spend every weekend Dad can manage on his little boat, learning knots and tides and which bait works when. Crew’s already better at reading the water than most adults.

“What about clams?” Brett asks. “For chowder.”

“Now you’re talking,” Dad grins. “Rachel Morrison’s got the best oyster beds in the county. Her clams are so sweet you could eat them raw. And her prices won’t make you cry, which is always a bonus when you’re starting out.”

I write down names and phone numbers, feeling certainty settle in my chest. This is real. This is happening. We’re actually going to serve food that tastes like this place, not like it came from a freezer truck three states away.

“You planning on doing whole fish specials?” Dad asks.

“I was thinking about it,” I say. “Maybe whatever comes in fresh that day.”

“Smart girl. That’s how you know a place is serious about seafood. They tell you what the boats brought in, not what they defrosted.”

Brett glances between us with that slightly skeptical look he gets when things sound too optimistic. “How reliable are these small boat operations? Weather delays, equipment failures, seasonal availability issues?”

Dad chuckles, unfazed by Brett’s pessimism. “Been dealing with those challenges for thirty years. They’re manageable if you know what you’re doing.”

“But they are challenges,” Brett persists. “What happens when Captain Sarah can’t deliver and we’ve got forty covers booked expecting flounder?”