"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 meetingis 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.
