Page 145 of Cooking Up My Comeback
“You okay?” Amber asks quietly as the salad course arrives.
“Thinking.”
“About?”
“About how proud I am of you. How far we’ve come. How grateful I am to be here with you.”
She reaches under the table and squeezes my hand. “We’re here together. That’s what matters.”
The dinner passes in a carefully orchestrated dance of courses I’m too nervous to fully appreciate and speeches from culinary legends I’ve only read about in magazines. Amber seems calmer than I feel, chatting with the other nominees and asking thoughtful questions about their restaurants and cooking philosophies.
Finally, impossibly, they reach our category.
“The Emmaline Grant Culinary FoundationHeart and Heritage Awardgoes to,” the presenter announces, and my heart starts hammering against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
They read through the nominees, and when they say “The Salty Pearl,” Amber’s hand trembles slightly on her water glass.
“And the winner is…”
The pause feels like it lasts for several geological eras.
“The Salty Pearl, Twin Waves, North Carolina!”
The ballroom erupts in applause, but rushing fills my ears alongside Amber’s sharp intake of breath beside me.
“We won,” she whispers, like she can’t quite believe it.
“You won,” I correct, standing with her as she rises on unsteady legs.
“We won,” she says more firmly, and the look she gives me is so full of love and gratitude and shared joy that I almost forget we’re in a room full of people.
I kiss her quickly, right there at our table, and she tastes like champagne and victory and everything I never knew I wanted.
“Go,” I say against her lips. “Go get our award.”
She makes her way to the stage on legs steadier than they have any right to be, and when she reaches the podium, she’s transformed again. Not the nervous chef from our kitchen or the overwhelmed small business owner from permit hearings, but a woman who belongs on this stage, accepting this recognition, representing everything good about American cuisine.
“When I was a little girl,” she begins, her voice carrying clearly through the ballroom, “my grandmother taught me that food isn’t just nourishment. It’s love made edible. It’s family gathered around a table. It’s the way we take care of each other.”
She pauses, looking directly at our table, and tears shine in her eyes.
“The Salty Pearl exists because of her recipes and her wisdom, but it thrives because of community. Because of the local fishermen who bring us their catch, the farmers who grow our vegetables, and the staff who treat every customer like family.”
Her gaze finds mine across the room.
“And because of the man who believed in this dream even when I was too scared to believe in it myself. Brett Walker, my business partner, my fiancé, my best friend—this award belongs to you too.”
The applause is thunderous, but the woman on that stage holds all my attention—holding a Emmeline Grant Award and crediting me with helping her achieve this moment.
Two years ago, I thought Amber Bennett was going to be the death of my carefully ordered life. Turns out she was going to be the making of it instead.
When she finally makes it back to our table, award in hand and glowing with happiness, I pull her into my arms and spin her around right there in the middle of the ballroom.
“We did it,” I whisper in her ear.
“We did it,” she agrees, laughing and crying simultaneously.
“So what now?” I ask when I finally set her down.
