Then she's gone, and it's just me and the bistro.
The building looks worse up close. Whitewash peeling in strips. Front door warped enough that I have to shoulder it open. Inside smells like must, old wood, and the ghost of a thousand meals. Chairs stacked on tables. Dust motes swimming in the afternoon light.
I drop my bag and stand there, listening to the floorboards creak under my boots.
What the hell am I doing?
The kitchen is a crime scene.
I push through the swinging door and stop dead. Stainless steel prep table coated in grime. Range hood thick with grease. A tower of mismatched pots teetering beside the sink. Shelves sagging under the jars, cans, boxes, all jumbled together like someone played Jenga with the inventory and lost.
I pick up the nearest jar. Apricot chutney. Expiration date two years ago.
Fantastic.
The walk-in fridge hums in the corner, angry and arthritic. I yank the handle. Cold air gusts out, along with the smell of something that died and made peace with it. A carton of cream, solidified into cottage cheese. Vegetables in various stages of mummification. A foil-wrapped brick that could be butter or could be a bioweapon.
I slam the door and lean against it.
The ledger sits on the little desk by the back exit, spine cracked, pages swollen from humidity. I flip it open. Cora'shandwriting loops across columns, income, expenses, notes in the margins.Sold out of pot roast again, make extra Thursday.Elsie's birthday, comp the pie.
The numbers get tighter toward the end. Red ink starts showing up. I trace a finger down the final page and find the total.
Ominousdoesn't cover it.
I close the book and scrub a hand over my face. The scar on my jaw courtesy of a mandoline and teenage overconfidence, itches under my palm.
"Okay." My voice bounces off the tile. "Okay."
I'm good under pressure. Thrive in it, even. Burned-out city brigade chef to small-town rescue mission? I've done harder pivots. Probably.
I roll up my sleeves and start pulling jars off the shelves. Expired tomato paste. Cornstarch turned to cement. A tin of anchovies with a best-by date from when I was still in culinary school.
But then tucked behind a bag of fossilized lentils, I find it.
A jar of Cora's plum chutney. Hand-labeled, wax-sealed. I crack it open and the smell hits me: cinnamon, star anise, a whisper of black pepper. I dip a finger in and taste.
Oh.
Sweet and sharp and complex, the plums cooked down until they're almost jam but not quite, the spice building slow and warm at the back of my throat. It's perfect. It'sCora—bold and comforting and unapologetically herself.
I look at the jar.
Then I grab a saucepan.
Ten minutes later I've got the chutney warming on the stove with a splash of red wine I found in the cupboard, a squeeze of lemon juice, a pinch of brown sugar. I taste, adjust, taste again. The sauce thickens, glossy and dark.
I find a hunk of bread in the freezer, stale but salvageable, and toast it over the gas flame until it's charred at the edges. Slather the sauce on top.
The first bite is ridiculous. Smoky, tangy, sweet. The kind of thing you'd charge fifteen dollars for at a wine bar and people would Instagram it.
I lean on the counter and chew slowly, letting the flavors settle.
Okay. This place has bones.
The door swings open behind me.
"Knock knock." A woman in a floral blouse and pearls steps in, smiling like she's selling something. "You must be Rogan. I'm Elsie Harper. Mayor, unofficial welcome wagon, and president of the Pine Hollow Preservation Society."
