“Trying?” she quipped and threw her arms out. “I’m being dragged around by a string behind him while he licks his wounds.”
“They aren’t wounds, dear. They’re lost dreams.”
A stillness settled over the three of us then, leaving only the low hum of the dishwasher to fill the silence.
Lost dreams.
Oh, how I had so many.
The dream of being a zoologist when I was six.
My dream was to be a pop star when I was eight, watching recorded tapes of Britney Spears’s Grammy performances in my parents’ living room for days on end.
The dream of being a heart surgeon when I was eleven after my grandmother had passed away from a heart attack.
My dream to be a world-famous chef with a restaurant in New York or Boston.
It didn’t hurt, losing any of those dreams except the last one. In reality, they were unattainable. I was afraid of reptiles, so a career in zoology wouldn’t have worked out. I can’t sing—in fact, when I try, I sound like a dying cat. I realized I didn’t want to be a surgeon at a high school hockey game when I was sixteen. The blade of a player’s skate managed to slice open another player’s face and the sight of all that blood made me puke up my lunch right there in the bleachers. So no, the whole doctor dream had been a bust too.
But a sous chef?
That was a dream I’d held on to. That was a dream I could work for, and I had. God, how I had. I’d never wanted something so bad in all my life, and just when I was close to it, I lost it. Now I was here and with every ounce of creative freedom Margie allowed me to have in her kitchen, that dream was slowlyreviving itself. I’d gone to the Culinary Institute of America in New York City, but just after my graduation, my life went downhill.
“Sometimes, Margie, we have to get over lost dreams,” Rachel whispered before letting out a tired sigh. She looked into the dining room and then back to the restaurant owner. “You sure? I feel like the customers would love me.”
“They already love you at the Buoy,” Margie replied, glancing at me. “But should it really and truly become too much for you, then yes, you have a job here. But you’ll have to quit Joey first.”
I moved over to the fridge and yanked open the heavy steel door with a soft grunt. As I stepped inside, tiny black spots filled my vision and I threw my hand out, bracing myself on the cold doorway as the bright fruits and veggies stared back at me. Too much energy, not enough sugar. Without a second thought, I grabbed a small red apple, dropping it into my apron to snack on during my prep.
Last year, after I’d gotten myself established in this town, registered my vehicle, and signed up for health insurance, I’d made an extensiveCatch-Up List. This list included several doctor appointments. After what I’d gone through, I needed to make sure my health, both physical and mental, was maintained. Despite Death and I having a handful of meetings during my life, I wasn’t ready to leave this world. In fact, I fully intended to live a long and fulfilling life. My therapist said that my mentality was one of the most impressive he’d ever seen, and I had my grandmother to thank for that. She was the strongest woman I knew. When she finally allowed Death to take her, she was ninety-two years old but still a force of nature. She’d seen the best and worst of times in this world, survived a multitude of wars and famine, and healed from countless heartbreaks, big and small. Still, she managed to rise with the sun andstay up into the night talking to the moon and stars about the adventures she’d had that day.
Perhaps her spirit lived on in me.
I wasn’t going to let anyone—not even that bastard who’d taken two years of my precious life away—ruin my chance at finding peace.
The first hiccup I stumbled across on theCatch-Up Listwas my eyes. My left retina had been torn. It was a tiny tear, far away from my optic nerve and macula, but it was enough for the ophthalmologist up north to suggest a laser procedure. The second hiccup was when I was sent back to the ophthalmologist after the pathologist found abnormal blood sugar levels. My A1C had been 10.3. Somewhere along the way, I’d developed type-two diabetes, but it was early. After discussing the trauma I’d endured, my team of doctors suspected that I’d been insulin resistant my entire life and the stress had triggered the disease. Every week, I had to get an insulin shot, which was fine, all things considered.
“Angel!”
I jumped, shaking off my thoughts. “Just a second,” I called as I grabbed the pie crusts I’d prepped yesterday, along with the cookie dough Margo had dropped off. When I reemerged, Rachel was gone and the head chef, Felix Kolby, was in her place, staring down at the prep station with a furrowed brow.
Felix was where I wanted to be, career wise. At thirty-six years old, he’d cooked all over the world, had worked under some of the most brilliant chefs, and curated special menus every month alongside adding to Marg’s original one.
“Good morning, Chef,” I said in a huff as I set the stuff down at my station.
He turned to me, breaking from his stupor, and gave me a forced closed-mouthed smile. He adjusted his round tortoiseshell glasses and asked, “Cookies?”
“For the book signing at Rossy’s.”
“Ah, I see,” he drawled, his Boston accent coming out. “Big things happening this week.”
I did a double take. “Things? As in plural?”
He nodded and ran a hand over his shaved head. He’d told me once he used to wear his hair down to his shoulders, but that was before culinary school. “Yeah, the book signing, the health inspection, and the new indoor farmers’ market.”
Oh shoot, I’d forgotten about the indoor farmers’ market.
I needed to make another list.
