Chapter 3 #2
She sets the fork down with a deliberate click against the ceramic, her expression carefully neutral, unreadable as a closed book. Then she says, quietly, almost reluctantly, "The eggs are perfect."
It's not a compliment, not exactly. It's a concession, dragged out of her by honesty and maybe the lingering taste on her tongue. But I'll take it. I'll take any ground I can get with her.
"Thanks," I say simply, keeping the triumph out of my voice because I know she'll hear it and regret the admission.
"The chorizo's oversalted," she adds immediately, like she needs to balance the scales, to take back a little of what she just gave me.
"Martin likes it that way," I counter, then add, because it matters, "So do I. It's bold. It's supposed to punch through."
"Your plating's chaotic," she says next, and now there's the faintest hint of something that might be amusement tucked into the corner of her mouth, so small I might be imagining it.
"My plating's energetic," I correct her, gesturing toward the plate with one hand, defending my artistic choices even though I know exactly what she means with the spill of chorizo, the way the yolk threatens to escape, the herbs scattered like they were tossed from a distance.
"That's not a culinary term," she says, dry as dust, but her eyes are lighter now, less guarded.
"Should be," I insist, holding her gaze, letting the grin spread across my face because I can feel the shift between us, the way the conversation has turned from interrogation into something closer to sparring, something almost enjoyable.
The couple behind her laughs again, and this time Ivy's mouth curves, just barely, before she catches herself and flattens it back into neutrality.
"I'll be at the soft opening," she says.
"Looking forward to it."
She turns to leave, then pauses, glances back. "Move the burner. Seriously."
"Yes ma'am."
She walks away, clipboard tucked under one arm, and I watch her go, the braid swinging between her shoulder blades, her boots crunching over gravel.
Maya grins like a fox.
"That went well," she announces, her voice pitched low and conspiratorial, like she's delivering state secrets.
I glance at her, wiping my hands on my apron. "She called my plating chaotic."
"And yet," Maya says, drawing out the words with theatrical satisfaction, "she ate your food. Every bite. Didn't leave a scrap on that plate."
"She also threatened me with a fire hazard," I point out, nodding toward the burner that's apparently been offending her since the moment she arrived.
Maya waves this away with one flour-dusted hand, utterly unbothered.
"Because she cares. If she didn't care, she'd just let you burn the whole tent down and write it up in her little clipboard afterward.
" She reaches over and steals a piece of chorizo directly from the skillet, popping it into her mouth with zero shame. "You're growing on her. I can tell."
"Like mold," I mutter, cracking another egg with more force than strictly necessary.
"Mold's a fungus," Maya says, chewing thoughtfully, grinning around the words. "Fungus is valuable. Decomposes things. Makes soil rich. You're fine."
I crack another egg and try not to think about the way Ivy's face softened when she took that first bite.
Ten o'clock. The market hits full swing, the crowd thickening, voices layering into a low hum of negotiation and greeting. I'm plating steadily now, the rhythm easy, the banter automatic. A woman buys three portions to take home. A man asks if I do catering. A teenager wants to know if I'm hiring.
I'm in the middle of explaining the soft opening menu when a gust of wind punches through the park, strong enough to rattle the tent poles and send napkins skittering.
The banner snaps loose from one corner and flaps wildly.
I lunge for it, miss, and the loose edge catches the burner's flame.
It doesn't explode. It just starts smoking, a lazy curl of gray that thickens fast, and somewhere behind me a rooster, an actual, living rooster that someone's brought to the market in a crate, starts screaming.
The crowd turns, half-alarmed, half-delighted.
I yank the banner down, stomp the smoldering corner, wave smoke out of my face. The rooster keeps shrieking. A kid laughs. The soap vendor shouts something about fire safety.
And then, because the universe has a sense of humor, I knock the paprika jar off the table.
It hits the ground, shatters, and a crimson cloud explodes upward, coating my boots, the table leg, and the bottom six inches of my jeans.
I stand there, paprika-dusted and smoking, the banner crumpled at my feet, the rooster still losing its mind in the background.
Maya's voice yells through the chaos, bright with barely contained laughter.
"You good?"
I look at the skillet. Still hot. Eggs still intact. Chorizo still edible.
"Yeah. I'm good."
I scoop the eggs onto a plate, drizzle the hot sauce, scatter chives. Hold it up.
"Who wants the disaster special?"
A kid in a frog backpack raises his hand, bouncing on his toes.
"Me!"
His mom looks horrified. I hand it over anyway.
He takes a bite, grins, and shouts, "This is the best breakfast ever!"
The crowd laughs, warm and genuine, and the tension breaks. People step closer. Someone asks if I'm okay. Another person asks for a plate. The rooster finally shuts up.
I glance across the market, and Ivy's standing by the tomato stand, watching. Her arms are crossed, her clipboard forgotten at her side, and her face is doing something complicated. Not quite a smile. Not quite approval.
But not disapproval either.
She shakes her head, just once, and turns back to her conversation.
I grin, wipe paprika off my hands, and crack another egg.
The show goes on.
The market winds down around noon. The crowds thin, vendors start breaking down their tents, and I'm scraping the last of the chorizo fat from the skillet when I notice Ivy circling back.
She's got that purposeful walk, the kind that says she's thought something through and made a decision. Her braid swings with each step, and she's tucked the clipboard under one arm like she's off duty now, or at least pretending to be.
I rinse my hands in the water jug, shake them dry. "Back for seconds?"
"Back for information." She stops at the table, one hand resting on the weathered wood. "You asked about local sourcing earlier."
"I did."
"Most chefs don't ask. They just order from wherever's cheapest and call it farm-to-table."
I lean against the table, crossing my arms. "I'm not most chefs."
Her mouth does that thing again, the almost-smile that she fights back. "So you say." She shifts her weight, glances at the nearly empty skillet. "Tell me something. When you say you want to source local, what do you actually mean? Are you talking about radius? County lines? Regional networks?"
"I'm talking about knowing where my food comes from," I say, keeping my voice steady. "I want to meet the people who grow it. I want to know the names of their farms. I want to understand what grows well here and what doesn't."
She studies me, her green eyes sharp. "Why?"
"Because food tastes better when it comes from somewhere. When it means something." I rub the scar on my jaw, thinking. "My aunt used to say every ingredient tells a story. I want to know the stories here."
Ivy's still for a moment, her fingers tapping against the clipboard edge. Then she says, "How much do you know about heirloom varieties?"
"Enough to know I don't know enough."
"That's more honest than I expected." She sets the clipboard down on the table, flips to a page covered in neat handwriting and small sketches.
"Heirlooms are open-pollinated plants that have been passed down through generations.
They're not bred for shelf life or shipping durability.
They're bred for flavor, for adaptation to specific climates, for resilience. "
I lean forward, interested. "And Pine Hollow has these?"
"Pine Hollow has dozens. Tomatoes that only grow well in this valley.
Beans that have been saved by the same family for a hundred years.
Squash varieties you won't find in any catalog.
" Her voice shifts, warmer now, less guarded.
"The seed program I run exists to preserve them.
To keep them in circulation so they don't disappear. "
"Why would they disappear?"
"Because farmers retire. Because land gets sold.
Because someone decides hybrid seeds are easier and stops saving the old ones.
" She taps the page, her finger landing on a sketch of what looks like a lumpy tomato.
"This is a Hollow Heart. It's a paste tomato that grows nowhere else.
The skin's thin, the flesh is dense, and it has this umami depth that makes every sauce taste like it's been simmering for hours. "
My mouth waters just thinking about it. "Can I buy some?"
"Not yet. They're not in season until July." She flips the page, shows me another sketch. "But this is a Purple Moon radish. It's ready now. Sweet, peppery, beautiful purple streaks through the flesh. Grows fast, stores well, and tastes incredible raw or roasted."
"Where do I get it?"
"Farmer Hank grows them. He's at the north end of the market." She pauses, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Fair warning, he's not a fan of city chefs. You'll have to win him over."
"Story of my life," I say, grinning.
She almost smiles again, then catches herself and flips the clipboard closed. "I'm not trying to make your life difficult, Rogan. I'm trying to make sure you don't mess up what we've built here."
"I get that." I meet her eyes, let the grin fade into something more serious. "I'm not here to mess anything up. I'm here to make this place work. And I can't do that if I don't understand the land and the people who work it."