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ChapterOne
Cash
The first thingI plan to do is shovel a massive bowl of homemade ice cream into my mouth.
Coffee flavored. My favorite.
But I’ve only just crossed the big bridge and an hour’s drive remains until I’m on Paradise Lane.
Driving over the bridge that spans the strait—Lake Michigan to the left, Huron to the right— settles something in my bones.
I cannot wait to get home.
I zip past the farm pastures and wooded rural roads of the Upper Peninsula, going way above the speed limit, and I can already taste that coffee ice cream.
I haven’t visited in over a year. When my mom said she could use help sprucing up the place, the guilt hit hard. That’s code for “Dad needs help.”
My parents, Bonnie and Bill Young, are my heroes. My mom taught me everything she knows about business and people skills. My dad got me interested in fixing everything mechanical, and I inherited my stubborn streak from him.
None of us like change much, and none of us Youngs enjoy asking for help.
But I know Dad won’t fuss too much if I show up and pick up a hammer. It’s the asking that chaps him. So, I dropped everything after talking to Mom, and booked the next flight to Detroit.
The drive through the Northwoods in the rental Jeep restores something in me that I can’t explain. Dallas is a great city, but something’s missing.
Maybe it’s the trees. The fresh air. Cooler climate. The wildlife. And the people.
Interstate 75 stretches all the way to Canada, but I take the last US exit at Three Mile Road and meander west and north toward home.
Paradise Lane, a tiny bayside enclave around a decommissioned lighthouse on Lake Superior— that’s home. Freaking freezing in the winter, but in the summer it’s a respite from the Texas heat.
There’s the post office: my last chance to check email and answer phone calls—if I even had my phone turned on. But I turned it off as soon as my plane landed in Detroit. The seventeen restaurants in the Young Dallas Foods family of fine dining establishments are in good hands, each one with managers more than capable of handling anything that comes up.
I’m a hands-on type of boss but I’m learning to delegate. I still like to show up and fix equipment when things go south at any of my restaurants; kitchen components are costly, and I’ve saved a ton of money over the years by DIY-ing it.
This trip is a true test to see if I’ve learned to let the business run itself.
I roll down my window and breathe in deeply.
Soon enough, the shroud of firs, birch, and cedar opens up, and the bay comes into view, the vast Lake Superior gleaming in the distance.
A few small boats bob in their slips at the small marina at Snug’s Landing. The dockside restaurant is the only place to dine out on Paradise Lane, and for outsiders, it’s mainly accessible by boat. Snug’s is a hidden gem. My mouth waters as I inhale the aroma of fried fish and spicy chicken wings.
I roll up the road toward my parents’ bait store/boat repair shop/general store, and my stomach growls.
Dietitians love to say that food can’t love you back, but they haven’t tried the ice cream and Young’s Bait Shop and Boat Repair.
I don’t see Mom or Dad anywhere, but Matthew Brendan, who runs one of the small fishing resorts on Paradise Lane, greets me with his signature firm handshake that could break a man’s hand off.
“It’s good to have you home,” he says. I notice he’s got a bit of engine grease on his cheek, which is weird.The man’s a licensed medical doctor, so it’s pretty odd to see him looking like he’s been tearing apart outboard motors.
“Good to be back. What’s happening? My dad teaching you how to fix boat engines?”
Matthew gives me an odd look. “He didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
Sheepishly, Matthew replies, “I thought that’s why you came back.”
