Page 6 of Cooking Up My Comeback

Jack checks his watch. “Speaking of disasters, I promised Hazel I’d grab lunch from that new sandwich place. Want me to bring you back anything?”

“I’m good.”

After Jack leaves with his pirate supplies and lunch mission, I’m alone with the building again. The light has shifted, painting new shadows across the floor, and I can finally think without someone trying to analyze my life choices.

The kitchen needs a complete overhaul. The dining area has good bones, but the flow makes about as much sense as a chocolate teapot. Everything needs new wiring, new plumbing, and probably a small miracle to bring it back to life.

But that ocean view? That’s worth the headache. And this building has character you can’t fake—you just have to be patient enough to uncover it. Some things are worth the slow work of restoration. Buildings, anyway.

I spend the rest of the afternoon pulling out baseboards that gave up during the Reagan administrationand making lists of what stays versus what goes. It’s methodical work that keeps my hands busy and my brain focused on practical problems instead of bigger questions that don’t have clean answers. Like why I keep thinking about how Amber handled that health inspector yesterday. Professional. No excuses, no blame, just dealt with the reality and moved on. That kind of competence under pressure doesn’t come from nowhere. Makes me think this town used to have people who knew how to run things properly.

Makes me think about Mrs. Sanders needing her morning routine, and Bernice needing steady work, and all the regulars who just lost their gathering place. This town used to have spots where people belonged. Maybe it just needs someone to remind it what that looks like.

By evening, I’ve filled two contractor bags with debris and only electrocuted myself once, which I’m counting as a win.

The August heat finally starts backing off as the sun dips toward the horizon, painting everything amber. I step outside and take a long look at the view that sold me on this project. Some things are worth the investment, even when the return isn’t guaranteed.

My phone buzzes just as I’m considering calling it a day.

Hazel.

“What do you want?” I answer.

“Well, hello to you too, sunshine. I’m inviting you todinner. Nothing fancy. Just burgers on the grill and whatever vegetables I can bribe the kids to eat.”

“I’ve got plans.”

“Chinese takeout doesn’t count as plans, Brett. Bring it over. We’ll make it a potluck. Ellen’s been asking when Uncle Brett is coming to visit again.”

Ellen’s not actually my niece, but she decided months ago that I needed an honorary family title, and Uncle Brett stuck. Hard to argue with four-year-old logic, even when you want to.

“Besides,” Hazel continues, “Jack found something when he was cleaning out the storage unit. Thought you might want to see it.”

“What kind of something?”

“The kind that relates to your project. That’s all I’m saying.”

I stare out at the ocean, weighing Chinese takeout in peace against whatever family chaos Hazel’s offering. The smart choice is obvious.

“Fine.”

An hour later, I’m on Jack and Hazel’s newly remodeled back deck, overlooking the Atlantic, with surprisingly decent takeout, watching Ellen demonstrate her latestgymnastics routine while her older sister Kira provides running commentary.

“Look! Look! I can do a flip!” Ellen announces, then proceeds to execute what could generously be called a cartwheel if you squinted and had a very flexible definition of cartwheel.

“That’s not a flip,” Kira says with the authority of someone who’s twelve and knows everything. “And your arms were all bendy.”

“They were not bendy!” Ellen protests, lower lip jutting out. “They looked like a graceful swan!”

“More like a baby bird falling out of a tree.”

I nearly choke on my lo mein. “Harsh critic.”

“I’m graceful!” Ellen insists, attempting another cartwheel that somehow involves even more arm-wobbling than the first one.

“Sure you are, sweetheart,” Hazel says diplomatically. “Very... enthusiastic gracefulness.”

The whole scene is aggressively wholesome in a way that makes my chest tight. All this domestic happiness should probably annoy me more than it does.