Chapter 2 #2
"If you're using hothouse tomatoes in March or flying in microgreens from California, we're done before we start." I let each word land with precision. "I don't care how pretty the plate looks. If it comes from a distribution center three states away, you and I have nothing to discuss."
A low laugh rumbles through the line, surprised and genuine. "Noted. See you Thursday, Ivy."
He hangs up before I can respond.
I gawk at the phone, then at the rows of seedlings, then at the seed jars lining the back wall.
Cora's voice echoes in my head, fond and exasperated. Give people a chance, Ivy. You might be surprised.
Maybe.
But I've been disappointed enough times to know better than to hope.
I tuck the phone away and get back to work.
Thursday will tell me everything I need to know.
The community center smells like burnt coffee and photocopier toner. I'm early for the monthly planning committee meeting, which means I get stuck helping Mayor Elsie fold chairs and arrange the donation table for the spring food drive.
"How's the greenhouse?" She doesn't look up from the folding chair in her hands, just snaps it into place with practiced efficiency.
"Good. Started the tomatoes with the kids on Saturday. Lila asked about seed nights."
That gets her attention. Elsie pauses mid-fold, her expression softening. "Smart girl. What did you tell her?"
"That we'll see."
Elsie sets the chair down and reaches for another. "You talked to Rogan yet?"
"On the phone. Tuesday."
"And?"
I grab three chairs from the rack and carry them to the semi-circle we're building. "And I'm going to the soft opening. That's all I'm committing to right now."
"Fair." Elsie adjusts a chair that's slightly out of alignment. "He came to see me Monday morning. Brought the bistro's books."
I stop. "Why?"
"Because Cora kept him in the dark and the numbers are worse than he expected.
" She pulls a tin of shortbread cookies from her canvas tote and sets it on the donation table.
Comfort food. Which means the conversation is about to get uncomfortable.
"Property taxes are overdue. Suppliers haven't been paid in full since January. The walk-in needs replacing."
My stomach lurches. "How bad?"
"Bad enough that he's got maybe three months to turn it around before the bank starts making noise." Elsie meets my eyes, her gaze steady and kind and unyielding. "And before you ask, yes, I've already had two calls from that developer. The one who's been sniffing around the edge parcels."
The room suddenly feels smaller.
"What did you tell him?"
"That the town isn't interested in selling." She picks up another chair, her movements brisk. "But if Rogan can't keep the bistro afloat, the bank will sell the property, and the developer's already made it clear he'll pay above market rate. Cash offer. No inspection contingencies."
I sink into one of the folding chairs, the metal cold even through my jeans. "So we lose the bistro, the seed nights, and the community space. All at once."
"Unless Rogan pulls off a miracle." Elsie sits beside me, her hand warm on my shoulder. "Which is where you come in."
"Me?"
"Ivy. You know every farmer within twenty miles. You know who grows what, when it's ready, what they can spare. If Rogan's serious about sourcing local, you're the person who can make that happen." She squeezes gently. "And if he's not serious, you're the person who'll know first."
I search the far wall, at the corkboard covered in flyers for barn dances and 4-H meetings and volunteer fire department fundraisers. Pine Hollow in paper form.
Cora's face flashes through my mind. The way she'd sit at the bistro bar after seed nights, a glass of wine in hand, listening to Farmer Hank complain about aphids or Mrs. Lawson worry about late frost. The way she'd send people home with soup when they were sick, hire teenagers for summer shifts, comp meals for families going through rough patches.
The bistro was never just a restaurant. It was a living room. A safety net.
And now it's balanced on a cliff, held up by a city chef with a scar on his jaw and a voice that sounds like he's used to fighting uphill.
"What if he can't do it?" The question comes out quieter than I intend. "What if he tries and it's not enough?"
Elsie's hand stays steady on my shoulder. "Then we'll have tried. And we'll figure out what comes next." She stands, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt. "But we don't get to give up before we start. That's not who we are."
She's right. I hate that she's right.
I push to my feet and grab more chairs.
The planning meeting is the usual mix of budget updates and festival logistics. Farmer Hank wants better signage for the farmstand cooperative. Mrs. Lawson proposes a summer concert series in the park. The librarian floats the idea of a seed library, which I immediately volunteer to help organize.
Halfway through, Maya slides into the seat beside me and passes me a folded piece of paper.
Soft opening menu. Thought you'd want to see it early.
I unfold it carefully, keeping it low so the others won't notice.
The first thing that strikes me is the handwriting. Not typed, not printed. Handwritten in neat block letters, like he took the time to make it personal.
Soft Opening Menu – March 21
Starter: Roasted beet salad, whipped chèvre, candied walnuts, honey-thyme vinaigrette
Main: Braised lamb shoulder, sunchoke purée, charred radicchio, salsa verde
Side: Herbed focaccia, cultured butter
Dessert: Brown butter pear tart, vanilla crème fra?che
I read it twice, then a third time, my pulse ticking up with each line.
Beets. Sunchokes. Pears. All in season, all grown locally if he's sourcing right.
But the devil's in the details. Hothouse beets look the same as field-grown until you taste them. Sunchokes can be shipped from California. Pears could be cold-storage imports from Washington.
I fold the menu and tuck it into my notebook.
Maya leans close, her voice barely a whisper. "What do you think?"
"I think I need to see the actual plates."
"That's not a no."
"It's not a yes either."
She grins and sits back, satisfied.
After the meeting, I corner Elsie near the coffee station.
"You said Rogan brought you the books. How honest was he?"
Elsie pours herself a cup, adds two sugars, stirs slowly.
"Brutally. Didn't try to minimize or make excuses.
Just laid it all out and asked what municipal resources might be available.
" She takes a sip, grimaces at the taste, adds a third sugar.
"I respect that. A lot of people would have tried to charm their way through or pretend everything was fine. "
"So you trust him?"
She considers the question, her gaze distant. "I trust that he loved Cora. And I trust that he wants to make this work. Whether he can is a different question."
I nod slowly. "If I help him and it falls apart anyway, the farmers lose twice. Once when Cora died, and again when the bistro closes."
"And if you don't help him and he fails because he couldn't find reliable sourcing, you'll spend the rest of your life wondering if it would have been different.
" Elsie sets her cup down, her expression gentle but firm.
"You don't get to protect people from disappointment, Ivy.
You just get to show up and do the work. "
The words settle like stones in my chest.
I leave without finishing my coffee.
Thursday arrives cold and clear, the kind of early spring day that promises warmth and delivers wind instead. I spend the morning transplanting lettuce starts into the community plots, my hands numb despite gloves, my mind circling the same questions.
What if his sourcing is garbage? What if it's not? What if I help him and he leaves anyway, pulled back to the city by a better offer or the sheer exhaustion of fighting a losing battle? What if I don't help him and watch the bistro die because I was too stubborn to take a risk?
By noon, my back aches and my thoughts are no clearer. I go home, shower, stand in front of my closet for ten minutes before realizing I'm stalling.
It's a soft opening. Not a wedding. Not a contract signing. Just food.