Chapter 2
IVY
The seed packets are already laid out in precise rows when Lila arrives at the greenhouse, cheeks pink from the cold, her younger brother trailing behind.
"We're not late, are we?"
"Right on time." I gesture to the worktable where six stations wait, each with a tray of soil, small pots, and labeled envelopes. "Pick a spot. We'll start when everyone gets here."
Lila gravitates to the station nearest the window, the one with the best light. Smart kid. Her brother, Tommy, grabs the seat beside her and immediately starts poking at the soil.
"Tommy, wait for instructions."
He pulls his finger back like the dirt might bite.
The other kids trickle in over the next few minutes. Maya's nephew, two sisters from the Johnson farm, and a quiet boy whose grandmother volunteers at the library. Seven total. A good number for hands-on work.
I close the greenhouse door against the March wind and turn to face them.
"Morning. Today we're starting with something special." I hold up a glass jar filled with wrinkled brown seeds. "Cherokee Purple tomatoes. Anyone know what makes them different from the tomatoes at the grocery store?"
Lila's hand shoots up. "They taste better?"
"True. What else?"
Silence.
I set the jar down and pick up another, this one full of pale beans. "These are Hidatsa Shield beans. Grown by the Hidatsa people for over two hundred years. And these,"—a third jar, tiny golden seeds—"are Lemon Drop peppers from Peru."
Tommy leans forward. "Are they hot?"
"Very. But that's not the point." I line up the jars in front of them. "These are heirloom seeds. That means they're open-pollinated. If you plant one, save its seeds, and plant those, you'll get the same plant. The same flavor. The same story."
One of the Johnson girls frowns. "Why wouldn't it be the same?"
"Because most seeds you buy at the store are hybrids. They're bred for shipping, not flavor. And they don't come back true from seed. You have to buy new ones every year."
Lila tilts her head. "That sounds like a scam."
I can't help the small smile. "A little bit, yeah."
I walk them through the process. Soil first, loose and damp but not soaking. Press it gently into the pots. Make a shallow divot with your finger.
"Two seeds per pot. Not one, because sometimes seeds don't germinate. Not three, because then you're wasting."
Tommy drops four into his pot before I can stop him.
"Tommy."
"Oops."
I hand him a fresh pot. "Try again."
He does, slower this time, tongue poking out in concentration.
We work in near silence, the only sounds the patter of soil and the occasional whispered question. I move between stations, adjusting depth, demonstrating how to water without flooding.
Lila finishes first and looks up. "Miss Ivy? What happens if we forget to water them?"
"They die."
Her eyes go wide.
"But," I continue, "if you keep them moist and warm, in about a week you'll see the first leaves. Two weeks, they'll be strong enough to transplant. By summer, you'll have tomatoes."
"And then we save the seeds?"
"Exactly."
She grins, gap-toothed and proud.
I hand out wooden stakes and markers. "Label everything. Variety, date, your initials. If you don't label it, you'll forget what it is."
They hunch over their pots, writing in careful block letters.
This is my favorite part. The quiet focus, the way their small hands cradle something that will grow into food. The promise of it.
When the last pot is labeled and watered, I gather them around the propagation bench where seedlings from last month are already thriving.
"These are the beans we started in February. See how strong they are?"
The kids crowd close, fingers hovering just above the delicate leaves.
"Can we eat them?" Tommy asks.
"Not yet. But in a few months, yes. And then you'll save seeds from the best plants and start the whole thing over."
Lila touches one leaf, barely a brush. "It's like a loop."
"Exactly like a loop."
I let them explore the greenhouse after that, pointing out the lettuce beds, the early peas climbing their trellis, the flats of onion starts destined for Farmer Hank's plot. They ask questions, good ones, about frost and composting and why some seeds need cold to germinate.
When their parents start arriving to pick them up, I hand each kid their pots in a recycled egg carton, stable and snug.
"Keep them on a sunny windowsill. Water every other day. Bring them back in two weeks and we'll check progress."
Lila lingers after the others leave, her brother already halfway to the car.
"Miss Ivy?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you think Miss Cora's nephew will keep doing seed nights?"
The question lands heavier than it should.
"I don't know yet."
"My mom says he's from the city. She says city chefs don't care about where food comes from."
I crouch so we're eye level. "People can surprise you. We'll see what kind of chef he is."
She nods, unconvinced, and runs to catch up with Tommy.
I watch them go, then turn back to the greenhouse and start cleaning up.
The rumor mill in Pine Hollow runs on caffeine and proximity.
By the time I stop at the general store for potting soil that afternoon, I've already heard three versions of Rogan Thorn's arrival.
Version one: He's a hotshot chef from New York who thinks he's too good for small-town cooking.
Version two: He's broke and desperate, here to flip the bistro and sell to developers.
Version three, courtesy of Maya, who I run into near the checkout: "He made me a grilled cheese at midnight and it was borderline transcendent."
I heft the soil bag onto the counter. "That's not reassuring."
"Why not?"
"Because a good grilled cheese doesn't tell me anything about his sourcing."
Maya leans at the counter, arms crossed. "You're worried he'll bring in sysco trucks and freeze-dried garnishes."
"Aren't you?"
She shrugs. "Cora wouldn't have left him the place if she thought he'd trash it."
"Cora was sentimental."
"Cora was sharp as hell and you know it."
I do know it. Which is why the whole thing makes me uneasy.
Cora and I built the seed nights together three years ago, back when the bistro was struggling and she needed a draw.
I brought the seeds, the farmers, the stories.
She brought the food, the warmth, the space.
It worked because we both cared about the same thing: keeping Pine Hollow's agricultural roots alive.
Now she's gone and some city chef has the keys.
The cashier rings me up and I load the soil into my truck.
Maya follows me out. "You're going to the soft opening, right?"
"I wasn't planning on it."
"Ivy."
"What? I'm busy."
"You're scared."
I slam the tailgate harder than necessary. "I'm not scared. I'm cautious. There's a difference."
"He asked about you."
That stops me. "What?"
"Last night. Called me at eleven asking how to get in touch with you. Said he found Cora's notes about seed nights."
I gaze at her. "And?"
"And I gave him your number. But I'm guessing he hasn't called yet because he knows you'll bite his head off."
"Smart man."
Maya sighs. "Just come to the soft opening. Thursday night. See what he's about before you write him off."
"I'm not writing him off."
"You're doing the thing where you decide someone's going to disappoint you before they get the chance."
"That's not a thing."
"It's absolutely a thing."
I climb into the truck. "I'll think about it."
"That means no."
"It means I'll think about it."
She steps back, hands up. "Fine. But if you don't show, you lose the right to complain when he turns the bistro into a foam-and-tweezers nightmare."
I start the engine. "Noted."
Back at the greenhouse, I unload the soil and check the seedlings. The tomatoes are right on schedule, the beans are climbing, and the lettuce is ready to transplant into the community garden plots.
I yank out my field notebook and update the log. Dates, varieties, germination rates. Everything labeled, everything tracked.
Control. That's what keeps systems running.
I'm in the middle of mixing a fresh batch of potting soil when my phone lights up.
Unknown number.
I consider ignoring it, but curiosity wins.
"Hello?"
"Ivy Hale?"
The voice is warm, a little rough, like he's been talking all day. Or maybe that's just how he sounds.
"Speaking."
"This is Rogan Thorn. I'm Cora's nephew. I was hoping we could talk."
I set down the trowel. "About?"
"Seed nights. My aunt's notes mentioned you run the program. I'd like to keep it going."
Careful. Non-committal. Could mean anything.
"Seed nights weren't just a program. They were a partnership. Cora provided the space and the food. I provided the seeds and the farmers."
"I know. That's why I'm calling."
"What exactly do you want from me?"
A pause. "Honestly? I want to understand how it worked. What mattered to people. How to do it right."
The answer surprises me. Not flowery, not presumptuous. Just direct.
"And if I say it can't work with someone who doesn't know the town? Someone who hasn't spent years building relationships with the growers, understanding the rhythms of this place?"
There's a beat of silence. When he speaks again, his voice has lost none of its warmth, but there's steel underneath. "Then I'll prove you wrong."
There's no arrogance in it. No bluster. Just certainty—the kind that comes from having been underestimated before and outlasted the doubters.
I sit against the worktable, phone pressed to my ear, watching a moth circle the single bulb overhead. My free hand finds the edge of my notebook, fingers tapping the worn cover. "The soft opening is Thursday."
"Yeah." He doesn't elaborate, doesn't try to sell me on it.
"I'll come. I'll see what you're serving and how you're sourcing. Then we'll talk about whether this partnership makes sense." I keep my tone measured, professional. This is an assessment, not a commitment.
"Fair enough."
I should hang up. The conversation has reached its natural end. But something makes me add, "One more thing."
"Shoot."