Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Alexis
The Field and Fork parking lot spreads before us like a puzzle with no empty spaces. This place has been celebrated for sourcing nearly every ingredient locally and it’s been written up all over the country. It’s no shock that it’s a full house.
Noah circles the rows slowly, his truck’s engine purring as we search for any gap between the gleaming cars.
“Wow.” He finally spots an opening at the far end. “It’s packed. Do you know if it’s sold out?”
I shift in my seat, my anxiety and frustration mounting, the pressure on my bladder already making itself known. “Probably. People go nuts for this place.”
The truck lurches slightly as Noah navigates over a pothole, and I press my hand to my abdomen.
The ride from Pine Island was thirty minutes of trying to find a comfortable position that doesn’t exist when you have interstitial cystitis.
Every bump in the road sent a little spike of discomfort through me.
And now, I have to sit through a long, possibly multi-hour tasting event.
My mind drifts to the box left on my doorstep – newspaper clippings of every negative review I’ve written, with that note: This is all your fault. I will ruin your career like you ruined mine. My hands tremble slightly as I smooth my dress over my thighs.
“You okay?” Noah’s warm fingers find mine, and his thumb traces gentle circles over my knuckles.
The simple touch grounds me, pulls me back from the edge of panic. “Just on edge. I don’t want to screw this up.”
“You won’t. You’re an amazing writer, and I promise I’ll take detailed notes if you have to miss anything.”
The earnestness in his voice makes my chest tight. “I appreciate it.”
But I can’t bring myself to unbuckle my seatbelt yet. The words tumble out before I can stop them. “This... reviewing... I don’t know how much longer I can do it. Working on your cookbook, that’s what I really love. I just want to edit.”
“Do you think you’re burnt out?”
I let my head fall back against the headrest, feeling the weight of exhaustion that goes beyond physical tiredness. “Maybe.”
“Hm.”
“What?” I turn my head just enough to study his profile in the evening light filtering through the windshield.
“You’ll get the editing job.” His voice carries such certainty, like he’s stating a fact rather than offering hope. “I know you will, and then you’ll be able to stop doing things like this.”
“Thank you.”
My fingers hover over the seatbelt release.
Part of me wants to suggest we leave right now, pick up sandwiches from that little deli on Market Street, find a quiet spot by the water where I can stretch out on a blanket and not worry about sitting properly or taking notes or whether the owner is watching my every move.
But this is my job. For now.
Noah appears at my door offering his hand. Smiling, I click the seatbelt open and slide my fingers between his as he guides me out. His touch grounding.
“Ready?” Noah gently squeezes my hand.
I take I deep breath and nod. I’ve got this.
The restaurant sprawls across what must have been a grand estate a century ago.
The original farmhouse has been lovingly restored, with wide porches wrapped around it like embracing arms. New decks extend from various levels, creating intimate spaces for outdoor dining.
Massive oaks and maples tower overhead, their leaves rustling in the evening breeze, casting dancing shadows across the weathered wood.
Inside, the excitement is palpable. Couples lean close together, their voices creating a pleasant hum of anticipation. The host, a young woman with her hair pulled back in a sleek bun, guides us through the main dining room – all exposed beams and candlelight – to the outdoor patio.
Our table sits beside a small fountain, its gentle splashing providing a soundtrack to the evening.
The sun hangs low, painting everything in shades of gold and amber.
Noah pulls out my chair, and I lower myself carefully, already calculating how long I can sit before the pressure becomes unbearable.
The menus wait on our table like promises. My eyes scan the evening’s offerings: seven courses of locally-sourced artistry, not including the amuse-bouche and the petit-fours.
Local oysters on the half shell, because of course – we’re in New Hampshire, after all.
A summer salad that probably features vegetables picked this morning.
Apple and cheddar soup that sounds like autumn in a bowl despite the warm evening.
Beet carpaccio, lamb with lavender-infused honey glaze, risotto with locally foraged mushrooms, a charcuterie board, spiced maple panacotta, and a selection of small tarts served with coffee and tea.
Everything sounds amazing, and I can’t wait to taste it all. Too bad I already feel the need to find the bathroom, and we’ve barely sat down.
“You doing okay?” Noah unfolds his napkin with practiced ease, smoothing it across his lap as our server approaches with the first course.
“I’m okay, thanks.” The lie flows smoothly from my lips, anxiety thrumming in time with my pulse. I need to shift in my seat to relieve some pressure on my lower back, but I force myself to sit still.
The oysters arrive on a bed of crushed ice, each one nestled in its shell like a pearl.
I pull out my notepad and pen, then fumble with my phone to capture the presentation.
The camera never quite captures what the eye sees – the way the ice catches the light, the delicate placement of microgreens, the artful drizzle of mignonette sauce.
I can feel eyes on me. Not Noah’s – his gaze is warm, patient.
But from across the patio, I catch the owner watching from the doorway to the kitchen.
His expression is carefully neutral, but I know what he’s thinking.
My review could make or break his summer season.
One negative comment about service or seasoning could mean empty tables when he needs them full.
The weight of that responsibility presses on me almost as much as my bladder.
“Thank you for coming with me,” I tell Noah, needing him to know how much his presence means.
“You think I would miss the opportunity to come to a tasting like this?” His fingers slide across the white tablecloth to capture mine. “I’m kidding. I’m here because I get to be with you.”
Despite everything, I find myself smiling. “You sure you aren’t here for the lavender-infused honey glazed lamb?”
“She’s my backup, in case you decide to dump me tonight.”
That word – dump – sends a flutter through my stomach. It implies we’re together, really together, not just circling each other in this complicated dance we’ve been doing.
“I’m not dumping you.”
His brown eyes soften, catching the golden light. “Good. So, we’re in agreement.”
“Yeah. We are.”
The summer salad arrives as the oyster shells are whisked away.
I photograph the careful arrangement of greens, the paper-thin radish slices, the edible flowers scattered like confetti.
My pen moves across the notepad: Delicate balance of bitter and sweet, crunch of candied pecans against soft goat cheese. ..
But the pressure is building, insistent and uncomfortable. I shift in my chair, cross my legs, uncross them. Nothing helps.
“I need a break,” I whisper, hating how weak it sounds, how unprofessional.
“It’s okay. Go for it. Your next plate will be here waiting for you, and I’ll take initial notes.” His squeeze of my hand is reassuring, understanding.
“Thank you.”
Standing makes it worse, as it always does. I navigate between tables, trying not to rush, trying to look like someone taking a casual stroll rather than someone desperately seeking relief.
The restaurant’s interior maintains the farmhouse charm – wide plank floors that creak softly underfoot, walls covered in local artwork, mason jar light fixtures casting warm pools of light.
The bathroom is exactly what I feared: a converted closet with a single toilet and barely enough room to turn around.
And there’s a line.
Two women stand ahead of me, deep in conversation. I lean against the wall, trying to look casual while my body screams at me.
“Ooh, I love Magenta Bakery,” the taller woman says, her voice carrying that particular enthusiasm people reserve for their favorite food spots. “That’s my favorite.”
“Really? Not Rye Again?” her friend responds, genuinely surprised.
My attention sharpens despite my discomfort.
The first woman’s nose wrinkles. “Their sourdough is good, but didn’t you hear about the additives?”
“What? They use additives?”
My stomach drops like I’ve missed a step going downstairs.
“Mm hmm.” The woman nods with the authority of someone sharing insider information. “That’s why his first place closed down.”
“I thought it was that bad review.”
The hallway suddenly feels too warm, too close. That review. My review. The words I wrote three years ago still echoing, still causing damage.
“No,” the first woman continues, oblivious to my distress. “The health inspector found preservatives in his bread. I also heard he doesn’t pay his employees a fair wage. It’s such a shame, he’s so handsome.”
The scoff escapes before I can stop it. A health inspector wouldn’t even be checking for preservatives – that’s not part of their job. But the truth doesn’t matter when rumors spread faster than clarifications.
Both women turn to look at me. I quickly shift my gaze to an oil painting on the wall – a pastoral scene of cows in a field that suddenly seems fascinating.
They turn back around as the bathroom door opens. The first woman disappears inside, and I shuffle forward, my mind racing faster than my heart.
Noah used preservatives once. One time, when his kitchen assistant messed up the recipe and dinner service was starting. One moment of desperation that I happened to catch, that I reported on without knowing the context.
And now it follows him everywhere.
The bathroom door opens again. My turn. But even as I find relief, my mind is spinning, pieces clicking together.
The trolls online who never let up. The comments on every YouTube video he posts. The whispers that follow him from New York to Portsmouth. It’s like watching someone bleed from a thousand paper cuts, none fatal on their own but collectively draining.
And then – the idea hits me with such clarity I nearly gasp.
An article. Not just defending Noah, but exposing the whole toxic culture.
The way competition has turned the food industry into a battlefield where rumors are weapons and truth is collateral damage.
The bakery in England accused of using illegal sprinkles.
The farm-to-table restaurant in California destroyed by false claims about their sourcing.
The coffee shop in Seattle that closed after fake reviews flooded their page.
This could be bigger than just Noah’s story. This could actually matter.
I wash my hands quickly, my mind already structuring paragraphs, finding sources, crafting arguments. I’ll write it on spec first, make it so compelling that outlets will fight to publish it. Time it to come out right after my Rye Again review, use my credibility to give weight to the defense.
The walk back to our table feels lighter despite my physical discomfort. Noah looks up as I approach, and something in my expression must show because his welcoming smile falters slightly.
“You okay?” He asks quietly as I settle back into my chair.
“Yeah, all the sitting is hard for me but it’s a lot better with you here. I’m really glad you came with me.”
This time his smile reaches his eyes, crinkling them at the corners in that way that makes my heart skip. “It’s my pleasure.”
He gestures to the plate that appeared in my absence. “Here, try this salad with walnuts, goat cheese, and cranberries. The goat cheese makes it savory, while the cranberries give a burst of sweetness. Then, when you get a bite with a piece of walnut, it adds the perfect crunch.”
His enthusiasm for food, his instinctive understanding of flavor and texture, makes me laugh. “I think you have a real future in food reviewing.”
“Just doing what I can to help.”
I reach across the table and squeeze his hand, feeling the calluses from years of kneading dough, the strength in his fingers. “I really do appreciate it, Noah.”
“There’s no other place I’d rather be tonight.”
The servers continue to bring out artfully designed dishes for us to sample, and my pen moves across the notepad with each taste. But my mind is elsewhere, already composing opening lines, considering angles.
I’m going to write this article. I’m going to write it so well that it changes the conversation. Not just for Noah, but for every chef, baker, restaurant owner who’s been crushed by the brutal machinery of public opinion.
He deserves this. He deserves success and recognition and freedom from the shadow of one bad night three years ago. And I’m going to help give it to him.