Page 4 of Cooking Up My Comeback (Twin Waves #1)

THREE

AMBER

T he unemployment office smells like industrial carpet cleaner and crushed dreams, with a hint of what might be tuna salad from someone’s lunch.

I’ve been sitting in this plastic chair for forty-five minutes, clutching a folder full of paperwork that’s supposed to prove I’m worthy of temporary financial assistance.

My left leg has fallen asleep, and when I try to adjust my position, the chair makes a sound like a dying goose.

The woman behind the desk has the kind of smile that’s been practiced in a mirror until it lost all connection to actual human emotion. “Mrs. Peterson,” she says, consulting her computer screen with the intensity of someone decoding nuclear launch codes.

I wince. “It’s Ms. Bennett now. ”

Why did I correct her? Now I have to explain my entire life story to someone who clearly doesn’t care.

“Oh.” She clicks something on her computer. “I see you’ve been employed at the Seaside Spoon for six years.”

“That’s correct.”

What I don’t say: I’ve also been under-appreciated, underpaid, and had more conversations with a temperamental coffee maker than most people have with their therapists.

“And you were terminated due to...?”

“Health department closure. The coffee maker died, the freezer gave up on life, and apparently running a restaurant with ancient equipment is ‘not up to code.’”

She blinks at me with the stare of someone who’s heard every story in the book. Her emotional range rivals that of a parking meter. “I’ll need documentation of the closure.”

I slide the health department notice across the desk. Somehow I manage to knock over her coffee mug in the process. We both watch in horror as lukewarm coffee spreads across her desk, soaking into what I really hope weren’t important documents.

“Sorry! Sorry!” I grab for the napkins in my purse, which of course choose this moment to get tangled with my keys, my phone, and what appears to be a melted crayon courtesy of Mason’s last car ride.

She rescues the soggy paperwork with the resigned expression of someone whose day just got worse. “It’s... fine.”

It’s not fine. But she processes my claim anyway, probably just to get me out of her office before I destroy anything else.

“You’ll receive your first payment within ten business days,” she says, handing me a stack of forms. “You’ll need to apply for three jobs per week and report back every two weeks.”

Three jobs per week. I run through the local options—Michelle’s coffee shop pays minimum wage but she’s flexible with hours. Hazel mentioned the beach boutique needs help during tourist season. There’s Jack’s parents’ hardware store, and the ice cream shop where Tally works.

None of those will come close to what I was making at the diner. I wasn’t rolling in money before, but I was managing. The unemployment will cover the basics. Barely.

T ally’s in the kitchen when I get home, making herself a sandwich with the kind of teenage precision that suggests she’s been fending for herself after school since she could reach the counter.

“How’d it go?” she asks, not looking up from her peanut butter and jelly sandwich .

“About as well as you’d expect. I only knocked over one cup of coffee.”

I drop my folder on the counter. Several forms scatter across the floor like confetti from the world’s most depressing party.

“That’s good for you,” she says with a grin, then her expression turns serious. “I picked up two extra shifts this week. And Mrs. Davidson asked if I want to help with her garden Saturday morning.”

My chest tightens. “Tally, you don’t need to?—”

“I know I don’t need to. I want to.” She takes a bite of her sandwich. “Plus, the ice cream shop tips are good during summer.”

She shouldn’t have to worry about money. But arguing with her would just make us both feel worse, and honestly? I’m grateful for her help, even if it makes me feel like I’m failing at the whole responsible adult thing.

“Thank you,” I say, because sometimes accepting help is just good parenting.

“Where are the boys?” I ask, suddenly realizing the house is suspiciously quiet.

“Crew’s at Aaron’s house working on their science project. Mason’s in the living room, supposedly watching cartoons, but I think he’s actually reorganizing your magazine basket again.”

Of course he has. Mason has developed this recent obsession with organizing things into what he calls “proper order,” which means I can never find anything but it all looks very neat.

Yesterday I found my latest issue of Coastal Living tucked between his toy trucks because apparently magazines belong with “things that move around the house.”

I find Mason in the living room, surrounded by magazines sorted into piles that make sense only to him. He’s also sporting what appears to be finger paint in his hair and possibly on the couch.

“Hey, buddy. What’s the organizing system today?”

“Pictures of food go here,” he says, pointing to one pile. “Pictures of pretty ladies go here. And pictures of houses go here.” He holds up a home improvement magazine with the pride of someone who’s just solved world hunger.

“That’s a very good system. What happened to your hair?”

He reaches up and touches the blue streak with surprise, like he’d forgotten it was there. “Art happened.”

“I see. Did art happen to the couch too?”

“Maybe a little bit.” He gives me his most innocent smile.

I survey the damage—it’s not too bad, mostly washable finger paint and one very organized living room. This is actually one of his tamer creative episodes.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up before Crew gets home.”

“Can we make cookies after?”

“What kind of cookies?”

“The ones that taste like hugs.”

And there it is. The thing I’ve been afraid to admit to myself, delivered by a little boy with finger paint in his hair.

I know how to make food that tastes like hugs.

I learned it from watching Grandma, and I’ve been practicing it every day for the past six years, even in a kitchen full of broken equipment.

W hile Mason’s getting cleaned up, I dig through the bills stacked on the kitchen counter.

Mortgage. Utilities. Groceries for three kids that somehow cost more every week.

The unemployment will cover the basics, but there’s no room for emergencies.

Or soccer cleats. Or the million tiny expenses that come with raising kids.

I spread the bills out like I’m looking for a miracle, hoping to find some hidden message that says “everything will be fine.” Instead, they just remind me that being a single mom means every month is a balancing act between what we need and what we can afford.

That’s when I remember the recipe box .

The attic stairs creak under my weight, and the air up here is thick with August heat and decades of accumulated memories. Grandma’s recipe box sits where I left it yesterday, cream-colored with painted flowers and slightly rusted edges.

I settle on the dusty floor and open it carefully. The cards feel fragile in my hands, like they might crumble if I handle them too roughly. Her handwriting is everywhere—instructions, modifications, notes in the margins that make me hear her voice.

Don’t overmix the batter, sweetheart. Just until it comes together.

Add a pinch of cayenne to the chocolate cake. Trust me on this one.

This was your grandfather’s favorite. He’d eat the whole pan if I let him.

I was eight when I started spending full summers here. Dad was obsessed with his fishing boat, but Mom insisted I needed some “practical life skills” beyond baiting hooks. So mornings were for fishing with Dad, afternoons were for cooking with Grandma.

That’s where I learned the secrets. Toast your spices for thirty seconds before adding them to anything. The secret to perfect mashed potatoes isn’t butter—it’s warming the milk first. A dash of coffee enhances chocolate better than vanilla ever could.

But more than techniques, Grandma taught me about intention. About how the mood you bring to cooking affects everything you make.

“Food is love made visible,” she used to say, elbow-deep in bread dough or stirring a pot of soup that could feed half the neighborhood. “When you cook for someone, you’re telling them they matter.”

I pull out a card that’s more stained than the others—her famous crab cake recipe.

The one that made people propose marriage, according to family legend.

The secret was Old Bay, obviously, but also a touch of Dijon mustard and just enough breadcrumb to hold everything together without masking the crab.

This could work. These recipes, this knowledge—it’s more than just cooking. It’s creating experiences. Making people feel welcome and fed and cared for.

The question is: am I brave enough to try?

“Mama?” Mason appears in the attic doorway, now clean and wearing dinosaur pajamas even though it’s only four in the afternoon. “Whatcha doing?”

“Looking at Grandma’s recipes.” I make room for him on the dusty floor.

He settles next to me with the boneless grace of a wiggly boy, picking up a card with a drawing of a cat in the corner—Grandma used to doodle when she was thinking. “Can we make cookies now?”

“We can make cookies. The hug kind.”

“Yay!” He bounces up, then pauses. “Mama? Are you sad? ”

“A bit sad. But sometimes being sad about missing someone is okay, because it means you loved them a lot.”

He nods solemnly, then brightens. “Cookies make everything better.”

Hard to argue with that logic.

B y the time Crew gets home from Aaron’s house, the kitchen smells like snickerdoodles and the recipe box is sitting on the counter next to my pile of bills. Crew’s got that childlike energy that suggests his afternoon involved either sugar or mild destruction.

“Ooh, cookies!” He drops his backpack and makes a beeline for the cooling rack.

“One,” I say firmly. “We’re having real dinner first.”

“But they smell so good. And I’ve been working really hard on my volcano project.”

“How’s the volcano coming along?”

“Great! Jake’s mom let us use her good baking soda, and we figured out how to make the lava different colors.” He takes a bite of his allocated cookie and closes his eyes dramatically. “These taste like when you hug me after I have a bad dream.”

There’s that phrase again. Food that tastes like comfort, like safety, like love.

“Mom,” Tally says, appearing in the doorway with her work uniform draped over her arm, “Hazel called. She wants to know if you can babysit Ellen tomorrow night while she and Jack go to some contractor meeting. She’s paying twenty-five dollars.”

“Of course. Did she say what kind of meeting?”

“Something about that old restaurant building near the pier. Apparently, Brett’s the one fixing it up.” She pauses with a knowing look. “She also said to tell you that your ‘favorite grumpy customer is single and very easy on the eyes,’ which I assume is her way of being subtle about matchmaking.”

My cheeks warm. Of course it’s Brett. “Hazel means well, but she has zero subtlety.”

“Do you like him?” Crew asks with the directness that only kids can manage.

“We’re just... friendly. He was a regular at the diner.”

“He seems nice,” Tally says diplomatically. “He always asks how you’re doing when he stops by the ice cream shop.”

He asks about me? I file that information away for later examination. Or possibly for ignoring completely, depending on my mood.

“Can we invite him for dinner?” Mason pipes up. “I want to show him my dinosaur collection.”

“We’re not inviting anyone for dinner,” I say quickly, though the idea makes my stomach do this flutter thing that I’m choosing to ignore.

“But Mama, you always say food makes people happy. And he looked sad when he ordered praline pecan last week.”

Out of the mouths of babes. Brett did look sad. Comes with the grumpy territory, I suppose, but Mason’s right—there was something deeper there. Something that made me want to fix it with a good meal and maybe a slice of pie.

A fter a dinner of grilled cheese and tomato soup, because some nights you just need comfort food that doesn’t require thinking, I’m loading the dishwasher when my phone buzzes.

Hazel: Meeting got moved to tomorrow afternoon instead. Can you still watch Ellen?

Me: Of course! What time?

Hazel: 2:00. And I may have mentioned to Brett that you make amazing cookies...

I stare at my phone. Of course she did.

Me: Hazel.

Hazel: What? I’m just being neighborly! He’s working so hard on that restaurant project. Everyone needs cookies.

Me: You’re incorrigible .

Hazel: I prefer ‘invested in my friends’ happiness.’ See you tomorrow!

I set my phone down and catch my reflection in the kitchen window. My cheeks are pink, and there’s a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth that I can’t quite suppress.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to make an extra batch of snickerdoodles. You know, just in case.

The recipe cards are still spread across the kitchen table, Grandma’s handwriting catching the overhead light. I gather them carefully, one by one, and place them back in the tin.

But I don’t put the tin away.

Instead, I leave it on the counter, where I’ll see it first thing in the morning. Right next to the bills that remind me why playing it safe isn’t actually safe anymore.

Maybe it’s time I stopped listening to the voice in my head that sounds like my ex-husband telling me my dreams are unrealistic, and started trusting the woman who’s been keeping everything together all along.

Maybe it’s time to find out what Brett Walker is planning for that old restaurant. And maybe, just maybe, it’s time to see if there’s room in Twin Waves for someone who knows how to make food taste like hugs.

Even if that someone has to work with the grumpiest man in town.