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."
"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 MayorElsie fold chairs and arrange the donation table for the spring food drive.
