Page 71 of Cooking Up My Comeback

Amber: Ferry leaves at two Saturday. Meet at the terminal?

Me: See you there.

I set the phone down and lean back in my chair, trying to decode whether this is Amber being practical about market research or Amber finding excuses to spend time together. With her, it could easily be both.

The truth is, I’ve been off-balance since that night in her kitchen. The way she looked at me when she said she was tired of letting other people decide what was too risky. The way her hand felt in mine when she said she wanted to see what we were building together.

I’ve spent forty-three years perfecting the art of keeping things simple, uncomplicated, and temporary. But nothing about Amber Bennett is simple. And I’m starting to think that might be exactly what I need.

The ferry terminal is packed with the usual weekend crowd—families dragging coolers, couples taking selfies, teenagers who clearly consider this family vacation torture. I spot Amber walking through the chaos, and something in my chest settles the way it always does when she’s around.

She’s wearing a blue sundress and that smile she gets when she’s excited about something, the one thatmakes her look like she’s planning either a great adventure or a minor revolution.

“Ready for some professional development?” she asks, falling into step beside me as we join the boarding line.

“That’s what we’re calling it?”

“Market research. Competitive analysis. Very legitimate business activities.”

“Of course.” I grin. “And this has nothing to do with you wanting to spend a day on the water.”

“I’m deeply committed to understanding our market position,” she says with mock seriousness. “The fact that it requires a scenic ferry ride is purely coincidental.”

We board with the crowd, and I follow her to the upper deck where the view is better and the noise level slightly more tolerable. She leans against the rail, closes her eyes, and tilts her face toward the sun like she’s storing up warmth for later.

“I forgot how much I love being out here,” she says. “Away from schedules and phone calls and people asking when we’re opening.”

“Getting a lot of pressure about opening dates?”

“Some. Mostly from people who want to plan events around us.” She opens her eyes and looks at me. “Good problem to have, I guess.”

“Better than peoplenot caring when we open.”

“True.”

We stand watching the mainland shrink behind us, and I relax in a way I haven’t since we started this project. Maybe it’s the ocean air, or maybe it’s just being here with her without the pressure of permits and contractor schedules and Penelope’s thinly veiled threats about sophisticated competition.

“So tell me about this place we’re visiting,” I say as the island comes into view.

“The Harbor House. I heard about it from Dad—one of his fishing buddies swears it’s the best seafood on the Outer Banks. Family-owned, been there about ten years, sources everything locally.”

“Sounds like our business model.”

“That’s what I thought. Figured we should see how they make it work in practice instead of just theory.”

She pulls out her notebook—the same composition book she’s carried since day one, now filled with supplier contacts, menu ideas, and architectural sketches. “I’ve got questions about everything. Staffing, seasonal fluctuations, how they handle tourist crowds without losing their local base.”

Of course she does. Because even when she suggests what could be a romantic day trip, she’s still thinking about making our restaurant the best it can be.

“What’s our strategy?” I ask. “Beyond eating lunch and taking notes.”

“I was thinking we could talk to the staff, maybe theowners if they’re around. Find out what works, what doesn’t, what they’d do differently if they were starting over.”

“You want to interview the competition?”

“I want to learn from people who’ve done what we’re trying to do. There’s a difference.”

She’s right, as usual. And the fact that she’s thinking strategically about this instead of just romantically makes me appreciate her even more.