Page 120 of Love, Second Chances and Other Nonsense
“I’m glad he’s doing so well.”
“He’s serious about visiting next month,” Adam says with a smile. “Says he wants to see the house and restaurant renovations for himself.”
Adam looks happy and free in a way he never has. His therapy sessions have been helping, peeling back layers of guilt and obligation that his mother spent decades cultivating. He’s lighter now, more present. More himself.
“Hey, hand me that box of napkins?” Rachel calls, breaking into my thoughts as she arranges the pickup counter.
I pass her the box. “Thanks for closing your studio to come help.” I tell her.
“Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this.” She grins, gesturing around the truck.
When we decided to close the restaurant for renovations a month ago, I was all over the place with ideas. Part of me still wanted to chase the trendy gastropub dream, even after the failure of my first menu revamp. It took Adam and Uncle Peter sitting me down one night after closing to help me see what I was missing.
“Louise’s Table isn’t broken,” Adam had said. “It doesn’t need to be something it’s not.”
Peter had nodded, adding, “The people who love our restaurant love it for what it is; comfort food that tastes like home. We don’t need to reinvent that. We just need to remind people it exists.”
They were right. I’d been so focused on competing with the new places opening in Cedar City that I’d lost sight of what made our restaurant special. So instead of chasing trends, we leaned hard into nostalgia. We kept the worn checkerboard floor but refinished it until it gleamed. We replaced the ancient benches with replicas that looked just like the originals. Adam built a wall of frames showcasing photos of the restaurant through the decades, from my grandparents’ grand opening to the present.
“Potatoes are sliced and ready for the fryer,” Daniel announces, emerging from the back prep area. He’s grinning like this is the most fun he’s had in ages. His eyes immediately seek out Lexi, who’s stacking cups near the drink station.
“Thanks,” Lexi says, her voice polite but reserved. She’s been with us for almost three months now, quiet and efficient and endlessly reliable. And completely unaware that Daniel has managed to be at the restaurant whenever she’s working.
“No problem,” Daniel replies, his smile widening. “Anything else you need a hand with?”
I catch Rachel’s eye, and we both suppress a smile. Daniel Wright, Cedar City’s most eligible bachelor, completely smitten and getting absolutely nowhere.
“I’m good, thanks,” Lexi says, turning back to her task without further comment.
Adam appears at my side again, sliding an arm around my waist. “You ready for this?” he murmurs against my ear.
“No,” I admit, leaning into him slightly. “What if no one comes? What if it’s a huge failure? What if—”
“What if it’s a huge success, and this is just the beginning of Louise’s Table’s comeback?” he counters, pressing a kiss to my temple. “The website’s already getting traffic. The social media posts are being shared all over Cedar City groups. People are excited, Caitlin.”
I turn to face him fully, studying the face I know as well as my own. The dark eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles. The short, neat beard I love. The tiny childhood scar near his eyebrow.
Our relationship isn’t perfect. We’re still learning how to communicate, how to trust. Most of our “dates” these past months have involved paint brushes or power tools, working side by side at either the house or the restaurant. But there’s something about building things together, about making spaces beautiful again, that feels right for us. Like we’re creating something new from the broken pieces of what came before.
“Here they come,” Jenny calls from the window, and sure enough, I can see the first festival-goers streaming in.
My stomach clenches with nerves. Everything we’ve worked for comes down to this weekend. If the festival is a success, it could generate enough buzz to make our grand reopening next week a hit. If it fails…
“Hey,” Adam says softly, turning me to face him. His hands cup my face, thumbs gently stroking my cheeks. “Whatever happens, it’ll be okay. We’re in this together.”
He kisses me then, a brief, sweet press of lips that grounds me in the present moment. And I realize he’s right. Whatever happens with the restaurant, with the festival, with our future; we’ll face it together. And somehow, that makes even failure feel less frightening.
“Okay,” I say, with newfound determination. “Let’s do this.”
* * *
“One mushroom swiss burger, one jalapeno burger, and three fries,” Rachel calls out as she slides the ticket onto the rail above the grill. The line in front of our truck has only been growing as word spreads through the festival. Our truck is the place to be, apparently, and I’m equal parts exhausted and exhilarated.
“What can I get for you?” I hear Rachel ask the next couple in line.
“We heard you have amazing cinnamon rolls,” a woman’s voice says. “Our friends were here an hour ago and said we had to try them.”
“Your friends have excellent taste,” Rachel tells her, and I feel pride swelling in my chest. “We use our grandmother’s recipe. Unchanged since 1962.”
