Chapter 8 #2
"Or maybe he'll convince you he's right."
"He's not right."
"No," Rogan agrees. "But he's not exactly wrong either. Those farmers are hurting. If we can't offer them something real, what are we asking them to sacrifice?"
The question sits heavy between us.
I don't have an answer. Just a pocket full of seeds and a notebook full of plans that don't add up to the kind of money that pays for hip surgery or tiller parts or another season.
"I need to think," I say.
Rogan nods. Doesn't push. Just stands there in the cold parking lot like a fixed point while everything else tilts.
"Let me know if you need backup," he says finally.
"For what?"
"Whatever comes next."
He walks to his car. I watch him go, then climb into my truck and sit in the dark cab with Marcus Webb's business card in my hand and three weeks press down on my chest.
End of month. That's when Jensen closes.
Three weeks to find an answer I don't have.
Mayor Elsie's office smells like cinnamon rolls and old coffee. She sits behind a desk piled with papers, reading glasses perched on her nose, a half-eaten pastry on a napkin beside her keyboard.
"Come in, come in." She waves me toward the chair. "I've been expecting you."
I sit. My notebook feels heavy in my lap.
"You saw the meeting," I say.
"I did." She takes off her glasses. Rubs the bridge of her nose. "Marcus Webb is very persuasive."
"Too persuasive."
"Maybe." She picks up her coffee mug. Takes a sip. Grimaces at the cold liquid. "But he's offering something real, Ivy. Cash. Security. Things people need."
"Things that destroy what makes this town worth saving."
"I know." Her voice is tired. "Believe me, I know."
I lean forward. "There has to be another option. A cooperative model. Something that keeps the land in production while supporting the farmers."
"Like what?"
"Community-supported agriculture. A land trust. Collective ownership with profit-sharing.
" I flip open my notebook. Show her the sketches I made last night at two in the morning when I couldn't sleep.
"If we pool resources, negotiate bulk contracts with restaurants and institutions, create a distribution network—"
"Ivy." She holds up a hand. "How long would that take to set up?"
I pause. "Six months. Maybe a year."
"Jensen closes in three weeks."
The words hit like cold water.
"Then we convince him to wait," I say.
"With what leverage?" She sets down her mug. "The man is seventy-one. He's got medical bills. His daughter lives in Phoenix and wants him to move closer. Webb is offering him a clean exit."
"So we just let it happen?"
"I didn't say that." She stands. Walks to the window.
Looks out at the main street where pickup trucks angle-park in front of the hardware store and the diner.
"I'm saying we need time. And diplomacy.
We can't fight this head-on. We need to build consensus, show people there's a viable alternative. "
"Consensus takes time we don't have."
"Then we buy time." She turns back to me. "Talk to Webb. Hear him out. See if there's room to negotiate a pause. Meanwhile, I'll work the phones. Reach out to regional ag nonprofits, see what grants or programs might be available."
"You want me to sit down with him."
"I want you to gather information." Her expression softens. "I know it's not what you want to hear. But we're outgunned here, Ivy. He's got money and lawyers and glossy presentations. We've got passion and history and not much else. If we're going to win this, we need to be smart."
I close my notebook. Press my palms flat against the cover.
"Fine," I say. "I'll meet with him."
"Good." She sits back down. "And Ivy? Don't go in angry. Go in curious. Find out what he really wants. Sometimes the devil you know is easier to negotiate with than the one you don't."
I stand. My legs feel stiff.
"How long do you think we have?" I ask.
"Before it's too late?" She picks up her pastry. Studies it like it holds answers. "Honestly? I don't know. But the clock is ticking. And every day we delay is a day closer to losing what we can't get back."
I walk out into the hallway. The municipal building is quiet. Just the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of someone typing.
Three weeks.
The number loops in my head like a countdown.
The bistro kitchen is chaos when I arrive. Steam rises from multiple pots. Maya barks orders at a temp worker who looks ready to cry. Rogan moves between stations like a conductor, tasting, adjusting, redirecting.
He sees me and calls out, "Give me five minutes."
I rest against the doorframe. Watch him work. There's a rhythm to it. A kind of controlled improvisation that shouldn't work but does.
He plates three dishes in rapid succession. Sends them out. Wipes his hands on his apron and gestures me into the small back office.
The space barely fits two people. A desk covered in receipts. A filing cabinet. A corkboard with photos of his aunt pinned beside health inspection notices.
I sit on the desk. He leans against the filing cabinet.
"What's up?" he asks.
"I need to talk about the catering money."
His expression shifts. Guarded. "What about it?"
"How much did you make?"
"Enough to cover two months of debt payments and restock the walk-in."
"That's good."
"I sense a 'but' coming."
I grab the developer's brochure from my pocket. Unfold it. "This is what's coming. Marcus Webb. Crestview Development. He's been buying up farmland around Pine Hollow. Hank, Miller, Jensen. Maybe more."
Rogan takes the brochure. Scans it. His jaw tightens.
"How does my catering money factor into this?"
"Because money flowing into the local economy makes the town look viable. Which makes it more attractive for development. Which accelerates the buyouts."
He looks at me. "You're saying I shouldn't have taken the job."
"I'm saying we need to be careful about what signals we're sending."
"The signal I was sending is that the bistro isn't going under." His voice hardens. "That I can pay my suppliers and keep people employed. That's not a bad thing, Ivy."
"It's not about good or bad. It's about timing."
"No." He tosses the brochure on the desk. "It's about you wanting to control every variable. You see one developer sniffing around and suddenly everything I do is suspect."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" He crosses his arms. "You've been waiting for me to screw up since day one. Watching for the moment I choose profit over principles. Well, guess what? Sometimes you need profit to have principles. Sometimes you take the job that pays because the alternative is bankruptcy."
My chest tightens. "I'm not saying you made the wrong choice."
"You're absolutely saying that."
"I'm saying we need to think strategically. Every decision we make right now matters. If the bistro succeeds too fast, it proves Webb's point. That economic growth is the answer. That development brings prosperity."
"And if it fails?" His voice drops. "If I can't make payroll and have to close? What does that prove? That we should all just give up and let him pave over everything?"
"Of course not."
"Then what do you want from me, Ivy?"
The question hangs between us.
I want him to slow down. To see the bigger picture. To understand that sometimes the right choice isn't the profitable one.
But I also know what I'm asking. And I know it's not fair.
"I want us to be on the same side," I say quietly.
"We are on the same side. We're just fighting different battles." He rubs the scar on his jaw. A tell. "You're trying to preserve the past. I'm trying to survive the present. Those things don't always line up."
"They have to. Or we've already lost."
He doesn't answer. Just looks at me with something that might be frustration or disappointment or both.
Maya pokes her head in. "Rogan, we've got a grease fire."
"On it." He pushes off the filing cabinet. Pauses at the door. "For what it's worth, I'm not your enemy here. Even if it feels like it."
Then he's gone. Back to the chaos of the kitchen.
I sit alone in the tiny office. The brochure stares up at me from the desk. Pine Hollow Commons. Where comfort meets community.
I fold it carefully. Tuck it back in my pocket.
We're on the same side. Just fighting different battles.
Maybe that's the problem.
The records room at the municipal building is in the basement. Concrete floors, metal shelves, boxes of documents that smell like dust and old paper.
I open the zoning files for the northeast quadrant. The section that includes Hank's farm, the Miller property, and Jensen's land.
Most of it is straightforward. Agricultural zoning dating back decades. A few variance requests for outbuildings. Nothing unusual.
Then I find a file marked "Proposed Rezoning - Pending Review."
My hands go still.
I open it.
Inside: a survey map. Professional grade. Color-coded parcels with ownership labels. Proposed zoning changes highlighted in yellow.
Hank's farm. Miller's land. Jensen's property.
And one more.
A parcel highlighted in red with a notation: "Priority Acquisition - Strategic Access."
The bistro.
I trace the boundary lines with my finger. The parcel includes the building, the parking lot, and the two acres behind it where Rogan's aunt used to keep a kitchen garden.
A sticky note is attached to the corner of the map. Handwriting I don't recognize.
"Rezoning application to be filed pending acquisition. Projected timeline: 90 days."
Ninety days.
Three months to buy the land. Rezone it. Turn it into whatever Marcus Webb's glossy brochures promise.
My heart rate spikes.
Does Rogan know?
I grab my phone. Dial his number.
It rings four times. Goes to voicemail.
"Rogan. It's Ivy. Call me as soon as you get this. It's urgent."
I hang up. Peer at the map.
The bistro is the keystone. The piece that opens access to the entire corridor. Without it, the development stays fragmented. With it, Webb can connect the parcels into one continuous project.
Which means Rogan isn't just another business owner trying to survive.
He's the linchpin. The target.
And if Webb gets to him before we do, the whole town falls.
I take a photo of the map with my phone. Then another of the sticky note. I want documentation. Evidence.
Footsteps echo in the hallway outside.
I close the file. Slide it back onto the shelf. Step away from the records just as the door opens.
Marcus Webb walks in.
He stops when he sees me. Surprise flickers across his face. Then that smooth smile returns.
"Ms. Hale. What a coincidence."
"Not really." I keep my voice level. "Public records are public."
"Indeed they are." He glances at the shelf where I was standing. "Doing research?"
"Always."
He steps closer. Not threatening. Just present. "Find anything interesting?"
"Depends on your definition of interesting."
"I imagine we have different definitions of a lot of things." He pulls a file from a different shelf. Doesn't open it. Just holds it. "I meant what I said at the meeting. I'd still like to talk. Off the record. Just two people who care about this town's future."
"When?"
"Tomorrow. Lunch. There's a cafe in Millbrook. Neutral territory."
I should say no. Should walk away. But Mayor Elsie's words echo: Gather information. Find out what he really wants.
"Noon," I say, forcing the word out steady and firm.
"Perfect." He tucks the file under his arm with practiced ease, like this is all routine. Like we're scheduling a pleasant catch-up over coffee. "I look forward to it."
He leaves without another word. The door clicks shut behind him, the sound sharp in the quiet records room.
I count to thirty in my head. Slow breaths. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Making absolutely certain he's not coming back.
Then I grasp the rezoning file again.
My fingers move fast, flipping it open to where I'd left off. The survey map should be right there, tucked between the property assessment and the environmental impact forms.
It's gone.
I check the neighboring files, yanking them off the shelf with less care than I should. Flip through folders that have nothing to do with waterfront rezoning. Search the entire shelf, running my hand along the back of the space where documents sometimes slip.
Nothing.
He took it.
Right under my nose. While I was standing there trying to play it cool, he lifted the one piece of hard evidence I needed. Which means he knows I saw it. Knows exactly what I was looking at. Knows I have questions he doesn't want publicly answered.
And he's counting on lunch tomorrow to control the narrative. To spin whatever story he needs me to believe before I can tell anyone else what I found.
My phone shakes against my hip. A text from Rogan lights up the screen: "Kitchen emergency over. What's urgent?"
I type back with hands that aren't quite steady: "Meet me at the bistro. One hour. Don't talk to anyone before then."
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again like he's deleting and rewriting.
Finally: "Cryptic. Fine. See you soon."
I walk out of the records room, pulling the door shut behind me with deliberate quiet. Up the stairs, my boots echoing on the worn linoleum. Into the late afternoon light that slants through the town hall's tall windows, turning everything gold and deceptively peaceful.
Ninety days.
The timeline burns in my mind like I've stared too long at the sun.
We don't have three weeks anymore.
We have less.