3 DAYS UNTIL I FAIL . . .
“Okay, but why does mine look like a pile of weeds and y’all’s look like wedding-worthy bouquets?”
“Because you can’t be a masterful chef and a florist,” Annie says, completely unbothered, sliding a bold orange ranunculus into a short vase already brimming with chamomile and something pale and elegant I think is called delphinium.
At least that’s what I’m told they’re called. To me, they’re the round orange ones, the tall cone-y blue ones, and the little daisy guys.
Which is why I’m eternally grateful Annie offered to handle the flower arrangements for the soft opening. (Sibling discount included.) My sisters showed up tonight to help prep, and once we’re done Annie will cart the arrangements back to her shop until Sunday.
“I would agree with your theory,” I say, eyeing my green foam brick packed with floral mastery, “except . . . look at Amelia’s.”
We all glance toward her. She’s in a striped boatneck tee, herbrows knit in concentration as she gently inserts a stem, sculpting a work of art. Annie gave her one of the big centerpieces for the hostess stand. Which feels like favoritism, but okay.
I pout. “Not fair that she can be a Grammy-winning singer-songwriteranda floral prodigy.”
Emily haphazardly stabs a flower into her own vase. “Just like how I’m an exquisite teacher, a thriving author,andan incredible florist, right?”
She gestures dramatically at her bouquet, which looks . . . honestly, like it’s been through something traumatic. The stems are uneven, there’s no balance, and even I can tell she’s overdone it on the cone-y ones.
Annie bites her lip, physically holding herself back from fixing it or blurting the truth. Amelia suddenly becomes very interested in her own arrangement, pretending she didn’t hear.
It’s up to me. I reach out and pat Emily on the back. “You are absolutely two of those three things.”
Her mouth falls open. “Rude!” She smacks me on the shoulder with a long-stemmed something.
I predict she’ll spend the rest of the night trying to master floral design out of pure spite. If I’m used to failing, Emily has no concept of it.
“Hey,” Annie says, gently taking the stem from Emily’s hand like she’s disarming a toddler. “Let’s not hurt the flowers. They didn’t do anything to you.”
Amelia props her chin in her hand, zeroing in on me. “So, about the restaurant. You’ve been training all week, right? How are you feeling about the staff? Ready for Sunday?”
Sunday.I can’t believe the soft opening is already here.
Part of me feels the responsibility and wants to strap on my running shoes and take off. But a larger part—the bit that’s nowoutgrown and outsized the other—it’sreadyfor this. Champing at the bit to get this show on the road.
“It’s gone . . . surprisingly well.” I shrug, leaning back in my chair and letting the weight of that truth settle proudly in my chest. “We’re a small but mighty crew. Everyone’s talented and catching on quickly. It actually feels”—I search for the right word—“functional. In a good way.”
I glance at the vase in front of me, letting my fingers trail along the rim while I think of the last few weeks. “There’ve been a few hiccups on the line, stuff I hope will work itself out with more repetition. But overall, it’s working.”
I’ve been tempted more times than I can count to give in to insecurity. Let the voice in my head win, the one that whispers I’m not enough, not ready, not deserving. But I shoved those thoughts away to make room for what Chef Brookes said, about fear being a sign of how much I care rather than a sign of my inadequacy.
And it’s true. Idocare. Deeply. Which is why I’ve been twisting and stretching those chef muscles lately, testing how I want to lead that place.
I’m not Chef Davis, and I’m not Chef Brookes. I’m . . . something in between. Or maybe something entirely different.
I care about plating—not fussy, but intentional. Our meals that resemble the comfort of home must look just as beautiful as the memories they are inspired by.
I care about collaboration—wanting my staff to have a voice. I care about sayingpleaseandthank youand making sure no one’s tank is running on empty by the end of the night. I won’t coddle during service—we’ll have to move too fast for that—but at the end of every night we will decompress together. What worked, what didn’t. What could’ve gone smoother. They know they can come to me privately too. Those are the things that matter to me.
“That’s so amazing, Maddie,” Emily says, her voice warm. “I guess Tommy picked the right candidates.”
I look up. “Oh, no. I picked them.”
Her brow lifts. “You did?”
I don’t like the surprise in her tone. Those two words, packed with so much meaning they come with a U-Haul.
“By yourself?” Annie asks, and that’s the nail in the coffin.
