Page 107 of Cooking Up My Comeback
About fifty people gather for the walk—families with kids bundled in winter coats, older couples holding hands, college students home for the holidays. When Maggie Denton announces The Salty Pearl will have hot food waiting, actual cheers erupt.
“We’re really doing this,” I whisper to Brett as the group heads toward the water.
“We’re really doing this,” he agrees, squeezing my hand.
For twenty blissful minutes, everything flows perfectly. The clam chowder smells divine. The fish tacos achieve golden perfection. Grandma Pearl’s hush puppies could win awards. I’m mentally planning our grand opening menu when my phone rings.
Unknown number. Never a good sign.
“Hello?”
“Amber Bennett? This is Dr. Ellswood from the county health department.”
My stomach drops to my toes. “Yes?”
“I’m calling about your food service operation. We’ve received a complaint regarding unsafe food handling practices.”
The world tilts sideways. “What kind of complaint?”
“Anonymous report about potential contaminationissues. I’m required to shut down your operation immediately pending investigation.”
“But we received our permits yesterday?—”
“I understand this creates inconvenience, but we take all food safety reports seriously. The complaint specifically mentioned today’s event.”
I sink onto a cooler, my legs suddenly made of jelly. “How long will an investigation take?”
“Could be several days to weeks. We’ll need to inspect your entire operation, test equipment, and review procedures.”
Days to weeks. The beach walkers will return in fifteen minutes expecting hot chowder, and I have to tell them we can’t serve anything. The town council considering us for regular catering will think we’re unreliable. Our restaurant opening next week will have to be canceled.
Everything we’ve worked for. Gone.
“I understand,” I manage. “We’ll shut down immediately.”
Brett reaches me before I finish hanging up. “What’s wrong?”
“Health department. Anonymous complaint about food safety. We have to stop serving. Now.”
Color drains from his face. No beach walk service. No grand opening. No catering contract. Possibly no restaurant at all.
“This has Chad written all over it,” he says grimly.
“Or Penelope.” But it’s probably my ex, who couldn’t stand watching me actually succeed and probably spent his morning crafting the perfect complaint to destroy everything right when it was going right.
“What do we tell everyone?” I gesture helplessly toward the beach where fifty hungry people expect us to feed them.
Brett runs his hands through his hair, looking as devastated as I feel. “I don’t know.”
Mom appears beside us like she has radar for family crises. “What’s happened?”
“Health department complaint,” I say numbly. “We can’t serve food. Anonymous tip about safety violations.”
Margaret overhears and marches over. “Absolute nonsense. I’ve watched you work—everything’s cleaner than my own kitchen.”
But nonsense or not, we’re shut down. The happy beach walkers are starting to return, rosy-cheeked and energized, and I have to crush their expectations.
“We’ll fight this,” Brett says fiercely, taking my hand. “Whatever it takes.”
