Page 94 of Cooking Up My Comeback
“Nothing. Forget it.”
But I can’t forget it. Because he does this—makes these little cutting comments suggesting I’m not thinking clearly, then backs away before we can actually fight about it.
“No, say what you were going to say.”
Brett’s jaw tightens. “You really want to do this here?”
“Do what? Have an honest conversation about our business?”
“Fine.” He turns to face me fully. “Sometimes you make decisions based on how you want things to be instead of how they actually are. Like assuming local fishermen will be reliable suppliers just because you have family connections.”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it? You’re building your entire supply chain around relationships instead of contracts.”
Heat flares in my chest. “And you think that’s stupid.”
“I think it’s risky.”
“Everything worthwhile is risky, Brett. But I forgot—you prefer safe and cynical.”
“I prefer sustainable and practical.”
“Same thing.”
Another boat approaches, interrupting our standoff. Dad waves at the weathered captain.
“Bill Franklin,” I tell Brett, forcing brightness into my voice. “Dad mentioned him for red snapper.”
“Amber!” Tommy calls as his boat pulls alongside ours. “Heard you’re opening a restaurant. About time this town got decent fish instead of frozen truck deliveries.”
“My plan exactly,” I call back, shooting Brett a pointed look. “Building relationships with local suppliers.”
“I know these reefs better than my own backyard. You want fish swimming this morning, I’m your guy.”
Another boat joins us—Rachel Morrison with her husband for flounder and clams. Soon three boats tie together, and I’m scribbling notes on a napkin while fishermen quote prices and discuss seasonal availability.
Brett stays close, asking practical questions about delivery schedules and payment terms. His business mode runs sharp and focused, and despite our argument, I have to admit he excels at this part.
“You should try my clam chowder recipe,” I tell him during a lull, an olive branch wrapped in food. “Grandma Pearl’s.”
“If we can establish consistent clam supply,” he says, still in negotiation mode.
“We can. Bill has connections.”
“Verbal promises aren’t contracts.”
And here it comes again. His skeptical tone makes me feel twelve years old, explaining why I need a pet hamster.
“You know what your problem involves?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“You think caring about people weakens business.”
“I think mixing emotions with logistics creates problems.”
“And I think your fear of caring about anything makes you see problems where opportunities exist.”
