Page 30 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

NINETEEN

AMBER

C hristmas morning, I’m standing at Hazel’s gorgeous marble counter—because of course she has marble counters now that she’s the fancy restoration queen—carefully transferring slices of Grandma Pearl’s famous apple cranberry pie from the carrier to Hazel’s best serving plates.

The recipe that took me three failed attempts to master, even with Grandma’s handwritten notes that look like they were penned by someone having a passionate argument with the English language.

Tally’s beside me, arranging dollops of fresh whipped cream with the precision of a girl who’s been watching too many Food Network shows.

She’s been obsessed with pastry techniques ever since she realized that cooking might actually be her calling, not just something she has to do to help me keep our family fed.

“Mom, you’re being too cautious with the cream,” she says, demonstrating a perfect quenelle technique that makes my amateur dollops look like sad little clouds. “See? It’s all about the confidence in the movement.”

“Since when did you become the whipped cream expert?”

“Since I started watching every episode of The Great British Bake Off ever made. Did you know there’s a whole science to cream consistency? It’s about fat content and temperature and?—”

“Tally,” I interrupt gently, “you’re seventeen. You’re supposed to be obsessing over boys and makeup tutorials, not butterfat percentages.”

She shrugs, but there’s pride in her smile. “Maybe I’m just built different.”

Watching her work in the kitchen these past few months has been like witnessing a person discovering their superpower.

The way she tastes everything with focused intensity, how she instinctively knows when something needs more acid or salt or heat.

It’s the same intuition I have with kids—you just know.

The kitchen is wonderfully loud in that post-Christmas-morning way.

Ellen’s spinning around in her new sparkly princess dress that she absolutely had to wear immediately after unwrapping, because what’s the point of a sparkly dress if you can’t spin in it?

Mason’s building some kind of elaborate fortress out of Lego sets under the kitchen island, making sound effects that I’m pretty sure aren’t architecturally necessary but are definitely enthusiastic.

Crew’s at the kitchen table with Kira, both of them hunched over what appears to be a very serious experiment involving the ribbon from our gift boxes and Hazel’s salt and pepper shakers.

“We’re making fishing weights,” Crew announces when he notices me watching. “If the ribbon can hold up the salt shaker, it’s strong enough for my tackle box.”

I love how his brain works. Everything is either a fishing technique or a potential improvement to his tackle box or a really good excuse to test theories with household items. He’s nine years old and already thinking like he’s going to revolutionize angling with the right combination of science and determination.

Hazel bustles in from the living room, her arms full of wrapping paper that apparently tried to escape during cleanup. Her cheeks are flushed from wrestling with what I’m pretty sure was a twelve-foot Christmas tree that Jack probably cut down himself.

“Okay, I’ve officially given up on making the living room look civilized,” she announces. “There’s glitter on every surface, ribbon in places that defy physics, and Scout is wearing a bow that Ellen insisted would make him ‘more festive.’”

“How’s he handling the bow situation?”

“With the dignity of a dog who knows he’s deeply loved but slightly embarrassed,” she says, washing her hands and eyeing my pie setup. “Oh my goodness, that looks incredible. Just like your grandmother used to make.”

My chest gets tight in that good way, the way it does when someone remembers the people who shaped you. Grandma Pearl’s been gone for five years now, but every Christmas I make her apple cranberry pie, and every year it tastes a little more like home.

“Tally did most of the work,” I say, watching my daughter blush with pride. “She’s got the magic touch.”

“I just followed the recipe,” Tally says, but she’s glowing. “Though I did add a tiny bit more vanilla and a pinch of cardamom. Grandma’s notes mentioned experimenting with spices, so I thought...”

“You thought right,” Hazel says, already reaching for a fork to sneak a taste. “This is restaurant-quality, Tally. Seriously.”

And that’s when it hits me. Watching Tally beam under Hazel’s praise, seeing the way she handled the kitchen this morning with such natural confidence—maybe the restaurant isn’t just about me building something for my family. Maybe it’s about building something my family can grow into .

“You know,” I say carefully, “we’re going to need pastry help when the restaurant opens. An employee who understands desserts and isn’t afraid to experiment.”

Tally’s eyes go wide. “Are you offering me a job?”

“I’m offering you an opportunity to learn from the ground up. If you want it. School comes first, obviously, but weekends and summers...”

“Mom.” She sets down her piping tool and looks at me with an expression I’ve never seen before. Serious and hopeful and maybe a little scared. “Are you saying I could actually be part of the restaurant? Like, really part of it?”

“I’m saying you’ve got talent, baby. Real talent. And if cooking makes you happy the way it makes me happy, then maybe we figure out how to build something together.”

Tally throws her arms around me so hard I nearly knock over the pie, and I can feel her excitement vibrating through her whole body. Over her shoulder, I catch Hazel wiping her eyes with a dish towel and trying to pretend she’s not crying over my kitchen counter family moment.

“This is the best Christmas ever,” Tally whispers against my shoulder.

And it might be. This morning started with Mason trying to eat his Christmas orange like an apple, peel and all, because “pirates aren’t picky about fruit preparation.

” Ellen opened her art supplies and immediately started drawing on the wrapping paper because “it’s too pretty to throw away. ” Chaotic? Yes. Perfect? Absolutely.

Now we’re here in Hazel’s beautiful kitchen, surrounded by the people who’ve become our chosen family, sharing Grandma’s pie recipe and watching my daughter discover she might want to follow in my footsteps. Not because she has to, but because she wants to.

Jack wanders in looking like he’s been wrestling with Christmas morning cleanup and losing. There’s tinsel in his hair and what might be cookie crumbs on his shirt, but he’s grinning like he’s exactly where he wants to be.

“How’s the pie situation?” he asks, sliding his arms around Hazel’s waist and pressing a kiss to her temple.

“Perfect,” Hazel says, leaning back against him. “Amber and Tally have officially restored my faith in holiday desserts.”

“Good, because I may have promised the kids they could have pie for breakfast tomorrow if they actually went to bed tonight without negotiating.”

“Pie for breakfast?” I raise an eyebrow.

“It’s Christmas week,” Jack says with the logic of a man who’s clearly been outnumbered by small people. “Normal rules don’t apply.”

And he’s right. Normal rules don’t apply. Not to Christmas morning, not to kids who want to wear princess dresses while building Lego fortresses, not to seventeen-year-olds who might just have found their calling over a bowl of whipped cream.

My phone buzzes with a text, and I glance down to see Brett’s name on the screen.

Brett: How’s Christmas at the Hensley House?

I snap a quick photo of our pie setup, complete with Tally’s perfect whipped cream quenelles and Ellen photobombing in the background with her princess dress and chocolate-smeared face.

Me: Grandma’s recipe lives on. Tally might be a pastry prodigy.

Brett: Save me a slice? I’m bringing coffee by later, if that’s okay.

My heart does this little skip thing that I’m trying very hard to pretend is just holiday excitement and not the fact that Brett wants to spend part of his Christmas with us.

Me: Always room for one more. Fair warning: chaos levels are high.

Brett: My favorite kind.

I tuck my phone away and catch Hazel watching me with that knowing smile that means she definitely saw me grinning like a teenager at my text messages.

“Brett coming by?” she asks innocently.

“Just dropping off coffee.”

“Uh-huh. On Christmas day. To drop off coffee. Very casual.”

“Hazel. ”

“I’m just saying, the man knows good timing. Pie and coffee and Christmas afternoon? That’s practically a date.”

“It’s not a date. It’s...” I pause, trying to figure out what it actually is. “It’s complicated.”

“Honey, the best things usually are.”

Before I can overthink that statement, Ellen comes spinning into the kitchen like a sparkly tornado, Scout following behind her with his bow slightly askew and the patient expression of a dog who’s accepted his festive fate.

“Mom! Mom! Can we give Scout some pie? He’s been very good today, and he helped me open presents by sitting on the wrapping paper so it wouldn’t blow away.”

“Sweetie, dogs can’t eat pie. It’s not good for them.”

“But it’s Christmas pie! Christmas pie is different!”

“Christmas pie is still pie, baby.”

Ellen considers this with the seriousness of a girl negotiating international treaties. “What if we give him a tiny piece? Like, mouse-sized?”

“How about we give him one of his special Christmas dog treats instead?”

“Fine,” she sighs dramatically. “But, Scout, you’re missing out. This pie is magical.”

And watching her skip over to the dog treat jar, her dress sparkling in the afternoon light streaming through Hazel’s windows, I think she might be right. Maybe this pie is magical. Maybe this whole day is magical.

Maybe Christmas is just another word for finding yourself exactly where you belong, surrounded by the people who see your beautiful chaos and decide they want to be part of it.

My phone buzzes again.

Brett: On my way. Can’t wait to try that legendary pie.

I look around the kitchen—at Tally carefully arranging the final slices, at Ellen negotiating treat distribution with Scout, at Mason’s elaborate Lego city growing under the kitchen island, at Crew and Kira still deep in their ribbon physics experiment.

At Hazel and Jack stealing moments between the chaos, at this house full of laughter and love and the kind of joy that doesn’t ask permission before it settles into your bones.

But underneath the warmth, there’s still that flutter of uncertainty.

Because Brett coming here, wanting to be part of our Christmas chaos—that feels significant in ways I’m not sure I’m ready to handle.

He could take one look at our beautiful mess and decide it’s too much.

What if he’s just being polite about the pie and coffee?

Am I reading too much into text messages again?

Stop it, I tell myself. Stop looking for reasons to doubt good things.

But old habits die hard, especially when those habits kept you safe for so long .

“Mom?” Tally appears at my elbow. “You okay? You got that worry-face thing happening.”

“Just thinking.”

“About Brett?”

I should probably be more concerned that my seventeen-year-old can read me so easily, but instead I’m grateful. “Maybe.”

“He’s going to love the pie. And if he doesn’t, he’s not worthy of our family secret recipes anyway.”

I laugh despite myself. “Very practical.”

“I learned from the best.” She bumps my shoulder with hers. “Besides, anyone who shows up on Christmas day clearly wants to be here. That’s not nothing, Mom.”

And she’s right. Brett choosing to spend part of his Christmas with us—that isn’t nothing. Even if I don’t know exactly what it is yet.

Yeah. I think I’m ready for whatever comes next.

Even if it includes a man who shows up on Christmas day with coffee and a smile that makes me believe in possibility again.