Page 137 of Cooking Up My Comeback
There it is. The fear happiness is temporary. That success gets yanked away right when you start believing you deserve it. I understand completely. I spent years thinking the same thing before I met her.
“You want to know what I think?”
“Not really, but you’re going to tell me anyway.”
“I think you’re scared because you’ve never had something this good before. Because for the first time in years, you’re not surviving—you’re absolutely thriving.”
“Very therapeutic, thanks.”
“I also think,” I continue, ignoring her sarcasm because I know it’s her defense mechanism, “we’ve built something sustainable here. Something real. This isn’t luck or a fluke or fifteen minutes of fame. This is the result of incredible food, genuine hospitality, and the fact people can feel the love in everything we do.”
She smiles at that. A real smile, not the polite one she uses with customers who ask if our fish is “fresh” when we’re literally on the coast.
“Together,” I say.
The word has become our anthem. Our promise. Our shorthand for whatever comes next, we’ll face it side by side.
“Remember when you thought the family night idea might be too ambitious?” Amber asks.
“I remember suggesting it might be either brilliant or a complete disaster.”
“And?”
“Turns out it was brilliant. Families love having a place where kids can actually be kids.”
Tally appears from the dining room, balancing a tray of empty plates with the efficiency of someone who’s been doing this for months instead of weeks.
“Table seven wants to know if we’re still doing the family night special on Wednesdays,” she says, setting the tray on the counter. “And table three asked if I’mrelated to the ‘marine biology kid’ because apparently we have the same sarcastic delivery style.”
“You’ve been working here four months and already have a reputation,” I observe.
“I prefer to think of it as establishing my brand. Professional but not overly enthusiastic about tourists who ask if our fish is ‘fresh’ when we’re literally on the coast.”
This is Tally in her element. She took to restaurant work with surprising enthusiasm, probably because it lets her practice her future career in diplomacy while earning money for college. Plus, she gets to perfect her eye-rolling technique on demanding customers.
“Speaking of which,” she continues, “Grandma Hensley from table nine wants to personally thank whoever taught me to ‘gracefully handle difficult customers.’ Should I tell her it was years of dealing with Mason’s public meltdowns?”
“Let’s keep that between us,” Amber says, but she’s grinning.
Mason appears at the front door, pressing his face against the glass with the dedication of someone conducting very important surveillance work.
“Is that my favorite four-year-old visitor?” I ask, going to unlock the door.
“I’m not visiting,” Mason announces, marching in with the dignity of someone wearing his best shirt. “I’m checking on you and Mama.”
“Checking on us?”
He studies us with serious eyes. “Tally said you guys work too much and might forget to eat lunch.”
He’s not wrong—we’ve been so busy with dinner prep we completely skipped lunch. Again. This is becoming a terrible habit.
“Your sister is very wise,” Amber says, crouching down to Mason’s level. “What do you think we should do about it?”
“Sandwiches,” he declares with absolute certainty. “And maybe some of those cookies from yesterday.”
“Excellent suggestion.”
Crew arrives from school, carrying what appears to be his tackle box and looking pleased about something.
