Page 31 of Cooking Up My Comeback
I stare at the message for approximately three seconds before my thumbs take over my brain.
Me: Now?
Amber: If you’re not busy.
I look around the construction zone that currently passes for a restaurant. There’s drywall dust coatingevery surface, exposed electrical wiring hanging from the ceiling like technological spaghetti, and what appears to be a family of mice who’ve made themselves comfortable in the corner booth. Not exactly the ideal conditions for impressing someone with your vision.
But she wants to see it. Which means she’s seriously considering the partnership. Which means I need to stop overthinking and start hoping.
And hope has always been my weakness.
Me: Address is 847 Ocean Drive. Side door’s unlocked. Fair warning: it looks like a disaster movie set.
Amber: Perfect. I specialize in disasters.
Of course she does. Little Miss Sunshine probably thinks disasters are just opportunities in disguise.
Twenty minutes later, I hear the creak of the side door followed by footsteps on the warped hardwood. I’m still under the prep station, wrestling with a pipe that’s apparently made of pure spite, when her voice drifts across the space.
“You weren’t joking, huh?”
I slide out from under the counter, probably looking like I’ve been wrestling bears instead of plumbing fixtures. Amber’s standing in the doorway, and for a second, I forget why getting involved with optimistic women is a terrible idea.
She’s wearing dark jeans and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her hair’spulled back in a ponytail, but a few strands have escaped to frame her face. She looks professional and practical and like she’s about to find something positive to say about this disaster zone.
Which is exactly the kind of thinking that gets people in trouble.
“That good or that bad?” I ask, getting to my feet and trying to brush the worst of the dust off my shirt.
“Both?” She steps farther into the room, turning slowly to take in the whole space. “It’s worse than I imagined. And also... better somehow.”
I follow her gaze, trying to see it through her eyes. The dining area’s been gutted down to the studs. The kitchen is a skeleton of what it could be. The windows facing the ocean are salt-stained and probably haven’t been cleaned in years.
“Better how?” I ask, because I’m genuinely curious what she sees that I don’t.
“The bones are good. Really good. And the light...” She moves toward the ocean-facing windows. “This is what people will remember. Not just the food, but how it felt to be here.”
See? There it is. The relentless optimism that probably drives everyone around her crazy.
“Tell me about the kitchen layout,” she says, walking toward what will eventually be the heart of the operation.
I pull out the rolled blueprints I’ve been carryingaround and spread them across a sawdust-covered table. “Six-burner gas range here. Prep station with a view of the dining room there. Walk-in cooler in the back corner. Pass-through window...”
I’m talking, but she’s moved to the center of where the kitchen will be, arms crossed, eyes closed. Like she’s imagining scenarios I can’t see.
“What are you thinking?” I ask, probably more gruffly than necessary.
“I’m thinking about flow. About how a line cook moves between stations. About where you’d plate desserts versus where you’d fire appetizers.” She opens her eyes and looks at me. “This could work. The layout could actually work.”
Relief floods through me, which is annoying. I shouldn’t care this much about her approval.
“Yeah?”
“The dining room’s bigger than I expected. You could probably seat forty, maybe forty-five if you’re smart about the table arrangement.” She walks to the ocean-facing windows, trailing her fingers along the warped sill. “And this view...”
“That’s the selling point. That’s what’s going to make people drive twenty miles for dinner instead of just grabbing whatever’s convenient.”
She turns from the window to face me, and there’s a shift in her expression. Less careful evaluation, more genuine excitement starting to break through.
