Page 3 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

TWO

brETT

T he building creaks like it’s trying to warn me off, but I’ve never been good at taking hints.

I stand in the middle of what used to be a restaurant, boots planted on floorboards that sag under decades of neglect.

My coffee’s gone cold, but I barely notice because this place—this broken, stubborn mess of a place—has potential written in every warped board and cracked window.

Paint curls off the window trim, and mice celebrate in the ceiling. I’m choosing not to investigate just yet.

But underneath all the decay, there’s a foundation worth saving. The kind that makes me run my palm over the scarred bar counter and think about structural integrity instead of whatever nonsense had me considering Sunday morning coffee earlier.

Jack and I had a good thing going for years.

Vacation rental properties scattered along the coast—Charleston, Wilmington, and a handful of gems here around Emerald Isle and Twin Waves.

We’d buy the run-down beach houses that everyone else walked away from, fix them up, and rent them to families who wanted that authentic coastal experience without the authentic coastal plumbing disasters.

But eighteen months ago, Jack had this pull toward Twin Waves that went deeper than property values. His daughter, Caroline, was struggling, and he took her back to Twin Waves to spend more time with her grandparents. It sounded like a good opportunity for growth, so I followed.

When he decided to start the campground and settle down here permanently, I stayed to help him transition our shared properties.

I planned to stay a year, maybe two, before heading back to managing our Charleston investments.

They practically run themselves anyway, steady income that lets me take on projects like this building that probably need more stubbornness than sense.

Then I made the mistake of eating breakfast at the Seaside Spoon three mornings a week and learned more than I wanted to about Mrs. Samuel’s window preferences and Bernice’s four decades in restaurant kitchens.

And I noticed things I shouldn’t have noticed. Like how some people handle every crisis with competence that makes you forget why you stopped believing things could work out.

I’ve been moving from project to project for years, never staying long enough to put down roots or make plans beyond the next job. Learned the hard way that permanent plans have a way of falling apart when you least expect it.

But somewhere along the way, I stopped thinking about our properties in Charleston and started wondering what I was still doing here.

The afternoon sun slants through these ocean-facing windows, turning the whole space golden.

Beyond the glass, the Atlantic stretches toward forever, and I can just make out the old fishing pier.

Weathered wood pointing straight into tomorrow.

There’s a deck out back that’s seen better decades, but it sits right on the water with views that could make a grown man forget he’s supposed to be checking for dry rot.

The location doesn’t hurt either. It’s right here on the boardwalk, between Michelle’s coffee shop and Hazel’s boutique, walking distance from everything that matters in Twin Waves. Prime real estate that someone let slip away because they couldn’t see past the peeling paint.

The door bangs open, and Jack stumbles in with a cardboard box that’s clearly plotting against him.

“Don’t ask,” he says before I can comment.

I peer at the box. Ye Olde Cutlasses blazes across it in font that probably gives graphic designers nightmares. “Wasn’t planning to.”

He kicks the door shut and sighs like he’s carrying the weight of a thousand tiny plastic swords. Which he probably is. “Hazel sent me to pick up pirate party supplies. She ordered a fog machine.”

“For kids?”

“Apparently pirate ambiance is non-negotiable.” He drops the box on a stool that wobbles but doesn’t give up entirely. “Her exact words were ‘atmosphere is everything, Jack, and children deserve quality entertainment.’”

I grunt something that might be sympathy. “Living the dream.”

“You know what?” Jack gets that expression I’ve seen too much of lately. Soft around the edges and content in a way that makes my ribs feel tight. “I really am.”

And there it is, that quiet happiness that makes me want to get back to work instead of standing around talking about feelings.

“Place is looking...” Jack surveys the destruction around us. “Well, it’s still standing.”

“Barely.”

“But that view though.” He nods toward the windows where waves roll onto the beach in perfect rhythm, and the old pier stretches toward the horizon.

Yeah. The view’s the only thing that makes sense about this project. The kind that makes you forget why you usually avoid places where people linger over morning coffee and expect you to care about their problems.

“You miss it?” Jack asks quietly. “Working together, I mean.”

There’s genuine curiosity in his voice, like he actually wonders if I’m okay flying solo these days. Which is exactly the kind of conversation I’m not interested in having.

“Some days,” I admit, because it’s easier than explaining that I miss a lot of things that don’t matter anymore. “But you’ve got your pirate empire to build.”

“Stubborn as ever.” Jack grins with that mix of fondness and exasperation I know too well. “You know I could still help with the heavy lifting when I’m not wrangling tiny buccaneers.”

“You’re in too deep now. There’s no going back.”

“We’re booked solid through Labor Day. You should come by sometime, see what we’ve built.”

“I’m good.”

Jack studies me for a moment, like he’s deciding whether to push. Smart man chooses not to.

“What’s your timeline looking like?” he asks instead.

“Six months if everything cooperates. Eight if this place decides to surprise me with its creative interpretation of ‘up to code.’ ”

“And then?”

I run my thumb along a groove someone carved into the bar counter years ago. Initials, maybe. Or just someone fidgeting through a long conversation. Someone who believed those marks would still be here decades later. That kind of faith in permanence used to make sense to me. Now it feels naive.

“Haven’t figured that part out yet. I used to be good at long-term planning. Had a whole life mapped out once. Now I take things as they come.”

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 administration and 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 to dinner. 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.”

A n hour later, I’m on Jack and Hazel’s newly remodeled back deck, overlooking the Atlantic, with surprisingly decent takeout, watching Ellen demonstrate her latest gymnastics 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.

After dinner and the Great Cartwheel Debate, Jack disappears into the house and returns with a cardboard box that’s seen some serious life.

“Found this when I was cleaning out the storage unit that came with the campground property,” he says, setting it carefully on the table. “Previous owners left it behind. Thought you might find it interesting. ”

Inside the box: old photographs, yellowed newspaper clippings, and a collection of menus from restaurants that used to call Twin Waves home. Some date back to the sixties.

“Look at this one,” Hazel says, pulling out a faded menu. “ The Lighthouse Inn. Fresh caught fish, prepared with love and served with a smile. They really don’t write copy like that anymore.”

I flip through the photographs. Black and white snapshots of families gathered around tables, waitresses in checkered aprons, chefs standing proudly behind counters loaded with fresh seafood. This town had a real food culture once. Places where people gathered not just to eat, but to belong.

“This is your building,” Jack says, pointing to a photograph dated 1978. “It was called Murphy’s back then.”

In the photo, my gutted disaster looks completely different.

The windows sparkle, flower boxes burst with color, and a hand-painted sign promises The Best Clam Chowder on the Coast. People sit at the window tables with coffee cups and genuine smiles, looking out at the same ocean I’ve been staring at all afternoon.

A waitress is caught mid-laugh at the counter.

It looks warm. Welcoming. Everything I usually avoid.

“What happened to it?” I ask, though I think I already know .

“Same thing that happened to most of the local places,” Jack says quietly. “Tourism shifted in the eighties. When it came back, people wanted chain restaurants and familiar names. The family places couldn’t keep up with the marketing budgets, so they just... faded away.”

I study the photograph, trying to imagine that warmth and laughter back in the building I’ve been rewiring. The foundation is still there. The view is still spectacular. Question is whether anyone still wants that kind of place.

“You should keep this,” Hazel says, sliding the menu and photograph toward me.

I nod and tuck them carefully into my jacket pocket. “Thanks.”

“Uncle Brett,” Ellen pipes up from where she’s been practicing her questionable gymnastics, “are you gonna make a restaurant?”

“Maybe, kiddo. Still figuring that out.”

“Can you make it have ice cream?”

“Ellen,” Hazel says gently, “restaurants don’t always have ice cream.”

“They should,” Ellen declares with the confidence of someone who’s clearly thought this through. “Ice cream makes everything better. Right, Uncle Brett?”

I look at this kid with her absolute certainty that the world can be improved with the right dessert, and something in my chest shifts uncomfortably. “Can’t argue with that logic. ”

She beams like I just agreed to personally deliver ice cream to every restaurant in America.

D riving home later with the windows down and ocean breeze cutting through the truck, I keep thinking about that photograph. About the laughter and community and the sense that places could mean more than just square footage and profit margins.

This town used to have that. The foundation is still here, buried under layers of neglect and lost hope. Question is whether it’s worth digging up, or if some things are better left buried.

I pull into my driveway and sit in the truck for a long moment, engine ticking as it cools. The photograph feels heavy in my jacket pocket. Evidence that good things existed here once. That they could exist again, if someone was foolish enough to believe in them.

Maybe that someone doesn’t have to be me. But maybe—just maybe—it could be.