Page 22 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

THIRTEEN

AMBER

B rett’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 Wednesday and 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? ”

“Then you adapt,” I say, jumping in before Dad can launch into one of his stories about weathering storms. “You call the customers, explain the situation, offer alternatives. People appreciate honesty.”

Brett’s eyebrow arches. “You think people will appreciate calling ahead to confirm their dinner is still available?”

“I think people will appreciate knowing their fish was swimming yesterday instead of sitting in a warehouse for months.”

“That’s assuming they can tell the difference.”

“Of course they can tell the difference! Fresh fish doesn’t smell fishy, it has better texture, the flavor is?—”

“I’m just saying we should have backup plans.”

“And I’m just saying we should have faith in our suppliers.”

Dad looks between us with amusement. “You two sound like an old married couple.”

We both immediately stop talking and focus very intently on our respective tasks. Brett goes back to measuring rug placement with unnecessary precision. I flip through my notebook like it contains state secrets.

My phone buzzes against the makeshift planning table. Chad’s name appears on the screen, and my stomach immediately knots. He never calls unless there’s a problem—usually one that costs me money or peace of mind.

I glance at Brett and Dad, both of whom suddenly become very interested in supplier lists. “Excuse me for a second.”

I step outside onto the boardwalk to take the call.

“Chad.”

“Hey, Amber. Look, I need to talk to you about the custody schedule.”

No pleasantries. No asking how the kids are. Straight to business, which is actually an improvement over his usual approach.

“What about it?”

“I need to make some adjustments. I’m looking at a job opportunity in Charlotte—could be six months, maybe longer. Good money, great connections.”

My heart sinks. Not because I’ll miss him, but because I know exactly what this means for Mason and Crew. Another broken promise. Another disappointment they’ll have to absorb and pretend doesn’t hurt.

“So you’re moving to Charlotte.”

“Maybe. Temporarily. The thing is, I won’t be able to do my regular weekends for a while. But I’ll make it up to them when I get back.”

I close my eyes and count to five. “Chad, they’re not subscription boxes you can pause and restart. They’re your children.”

“I know that. This is about providing for their future. Building something stable.”

“You mean like the ‘stable opportunity’ in Raleigh last year? Or the ‘game-changing position’ in Virginia Beach the year before that?”

Silence on the other end. Then: “I’m trying to do better, Amber.”

“By leaving again.”

“By creating opportunities. This could lead to something permanent. Something that lets me provide for them properly.”

The irony would be funny if it wasn’t so exhausting. He spends money on surf trips to Costa Rica but claims he needs a better job to support his kids.

“What about your weekends through the spring?”

“I’ll probably need to skip most of them. But like I said, I’ll make it up to them.”

“Fine,” I say, because fighting about it won’t change anything. “But I’m not explaining this to them. You call and tell them yourself.”

“Of course. I was planning to.”

But we both know he won’t. He’ll text them instead, or worse, he’ll let me break the news and then act surprised when they’re disappointed.

“Anything else?”

“Actually, yeah. I heard through the grapevine that you’re opening a restaurant. That’s... wow. Good for you.”

There’s surprise in his voice, tinged with what might be skepticism. Like he can’t quite believe I’d be capable of such a venture .

“We’re working on it.”

“We?”

“My business partner and I.”

“Right. Well, that’s... ambitious. I hope you’ve thought it through. Restaurants are risky. High failure rate.”

The patronizing tone makes my jaw clench. “I’m aware of the statistics.”

“I’m just saying, with the kids to think about, maybe something more stable?—”

“I should go.”

“Sure. I’ll call the boys later this week.”

He won’t, but I don’t have the energy to point that out. “Goodbye, Chad.”

I hang up and stand there for a moment, letting the salt breeze cool my frustration. Through the window, I can see Brett and Dad still discussing suppliers, and the sight steadies me. This is what consistency looks like.

When I step back inside, both men look up with carefully neutral expressions.

“Everything okay?” Brett asks, his voice softer than usual.

“The usual,” I say, tucking my phone away. “Where were we with the clam supplier?”

Dad studies my face for a moment, then mercifully returns to business. “Rachel Morrison. I’ll give her a call this afternoon.”

T he front door chimes, and the click of heels on our newly finished floors announces a visitor. Penelope Waters, the mayor’s wife, steps inside wearing oversized sunglasses and one of those flowy tunics that probably cost more than my monthly grocery budget.

Brett straightens instinctively. I set down my notebook and arrange my face into polite professionalism.

“Well, this is lovely,” Penelope says, removing her sunglasses to survey our space. “I was stretching my legs after my tourism board meeting and thought I’d take a peek at how our newest local venture is coming along.”

She moves through the restaurant with the careful attention of someone evaluating an investment. “This place has such character. Very authentic coastal charm.”

“We’re still under construction,” Brett says, his voice measured.

“Oh, I can see that. But the vision is coming together beautifully.” She pauses near our sample chalkboard where we’ve written potential menu items. “Seafood focus, I see. That’s... well, it’s certainly what people expect around here.”

There’s something in her tone that makes me pay closer attention.

“Is that a concern?” I ask .

“Oh, not a concern exactly. It’s just that Twin Waves has quite a few seafood options already. The Rusty Anchor, Johnson’s Pier House...” She trails off diplomatically. “I suppose my question is about positioning. How do you plan to differentiate yourselves in an established market?”

It’s a fair question, actually. One we’ve been working through ourselves.

“We’re focusing on fresh, local catch,” I say. “Day-boat fish, local suppliers, competitive pricing.”

“That’s wonderful. Very community-minded.” Penelope nods approvingly. “I do hope you’ve considered the challenges, though. Seasonality, weather delays, the reliability issues that come with small boat operations.”

Dad looks up from his supplier list. “Good think I know what I’m doing.”