Page 2 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

“Sorry, Mom,” Tally says. “I tried to get it out, but it was a lot.”

“Thank you for all you do,” I say, then head to the kitchen to figure out dinner.

At least my pantry remains well-stocked.

Old habits from childhood summers spent in my grandmother’s kitchen mean I keep real ingredients on hand: fresh herbs growing on the windowsill, good cheese in the fridge, eggs from the farmer’s market.

Feeding my family well remains one area I can still control.

Somewhere upstairs, something crashes. Mason shouts, “I fixed it!” which translates to: I broke it worse, but with excellent intentions .

I rest my forehead against the cool surface of the fridge door and breathe.

The reality hits me: no paycheck, no health insurance, no daily routine that gets me out of this house and into a place where I’m competent and necessary.

The math remains simple and terrifying. Three kids, a mortgage, and now no steady income.

If my savings were there, it would be one thing, but I just dumped my entire nest egg into replacing the air conditioner unit at the start of summer.

The doorbell rings.

When I open it, Hazel stands there with a casserole dish and that expression only another mom can pull off: part battle-hardened, part benevolent fairy godmother.

“Emergency chicken enchiladas. Non-spicy. Green peppers on the side so Crew doesn’t accuse me of culinary sabotage.”

I might cry. Or propose marriage.

“You are a gift from the universe.”

“You coming to our Bookaholics Anonymous meeting tomorrow night? You need a distraction.”

I glance back into my noisy house with its small adventures and juice-based natural disasters. “Hazel...”

“Come drink wine with us and swoon over deliciously grumpy heroes.”

“Well, I did read the book this time.”

She grins. “Perfect. And crying into wine remains totally acceptable—that’s what book club exists for.”

M y kids are fed, bathed, and temporarily contained with screen time and exactly three gummy worms each—the sacred bribe that buys me two hours of peace. I arrive at book club carrying homemade snickerdoodles I whipped up from muscle memory and nervous energy.

“Where’s Mads?” I ask, glancing around for Hazel’s oldest daughter when I step into the beautiful living room of the Hensley House, the Victorian beach house Hazel and Jack fixed up together last year.

“She and Spencer are fighting again. With my wedding to Jack coming up, it’s the last complication we need.” Hazel massages her temples, then catches herself. “Sorry, you’ve got enough on your plate without listening to my kid’s troubles.”

“That’s what friends exist for—sharing the madness.”

We settle in with wine and literary analysis, but eventually the jokes fade and we’re left with truth peeking out from behind the snack trays.

“So.” Michelle raises her eyebrows at me. “You okay?”

I shrug. “Define ‘okay.’ The diner’s closed for thirty days, and I’m never going back.

Health department finally caught up with equipment that should have been replaced ages ago.

So now I’m officially unemployed, the kids believe everything’s fine, and I’m about to master the art of creative grocery budgeting. ”

“You considering applying anywhere else?” Jessica asks softly.

“I applied to a pizza place that uses frozen crusts and a chain seafood restaurant that serves shrimp in plastic martini glasses. Living the culinary dream.”

Hazel leans closer. “You ever consider opening your own place instead of settling for someone else’s broken dreams?”

I laugh, and it comes out sharper than intended. “I have three kids and about fourteen hundred dollars in my checking account, Hazel. What would I open it with? Hope and a prayer?”

“You have more than that,” Michelle says quietly. “You have skills that most people spend years trying to develop. You run a kitchen as though you were born to it.”

The compliments feel warm and terrifying at the same time. “I don’t even know where to start with something that big.”

“You already started,” Hazel says, leaning forward. “When you didn’t quit despite every reason to walk away. When you raised those kids while keeping that place running.”

The room goes quiet except for the distant sound of waves through Hazel’s open windows. I stare at the wine in my glass and feel the weight of their belief pressing against my chest as a challenge I’m not sure I’m ready to accept.

“It’s a nice dream,” I whisper, because admitting I want it feels like handing it the power to break my heart all over again.

“Then chase it,” Jessica says softly.

A fter book club, when I get home, the kids are asleep, and I pass a pile of clothes Mason has grown out of that I set aside last week. Luckily, I have some of Crew’s old clothes in the attic that I’ve been saving for exactly this purpose.

The attic remains hot and dusty, filled with boxes labeled in my own handwriting from different eras of my life. As I’m searching for the 5T boys’ clothes, I spot a box I haven’t opened in years, labeled simply Grandma’s Kitchen.

Inside, wrapped in an old dish towel that still smells faintly of vanilla, sits a battered metal recipe tin—cream-colored with slightly rusted edges and flowers painted around the rim. My grandmother’s handwriting loops across each card in blue ink that’s faded but still legible.

Crab cakes with Old Bay and love. Gumbo that takes all day and feeds a crowd. Lemon pie that made people propose marriage.

I sit on the attic steps and flip through them. The cards are stained and soft from decades of use, some splattered with evidence of successful experiments, others marked with little notes in the margins: Add more pepper or Kids love this one or Perfect for Sunday dinner.

They smell of old spices and warm kitchens and safety I haven’t felt in years.

Grandma Pearl died right before everything fell apart with Chad—before the pregnancy grew heavy, before he grew distant, before that woman appeared in his life with suspicious timing that he swore meant nothing.

After the divorce, when Mason was barely walking, I moved here with the kids to start over in the house that had always meant love.

I spent childhood summers here with Grandma Pearl, learning that cooking wasn’t simply about feeding people—it was about creating something that mattered, something that brought folks together around a table and made them feel as though they belonged somewhere.

And suddenly I’m crying. Quiet tears for everything I’ve lost and everything I’m too scared to reach for. But also for the possibility that maybe my dream didn’t die when my world fell apart with a baby on my hip and two other children to protect.

Maybe it’s simply been waiting up here in the attic, wrapped in dish towels and memories, for me to remember how to dream it again.

I don’t know if I’m brave enough to try.