"I heard you're opening the bistro," she says, her tone friendly but assessing. "Your aunt ran a wonderful place. I'm curious to see what you'll do with it."
"Trying to honor her work while making it my own," I say, which sounds better thanflailing wildly and hoping for the best.
Margot smiles, the kind of smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I'd love to feature you in an upcoming piece. A profile on new chefs revitalizing small-town dining. You'd be perfect."
Every instinct I have is screaming that this is both an incredible opportunity and a potential disaster. "What would that involve?"
"An interview, some photos of the space, and a tasting." She taps her pen against the notebook. "I'd want to see a sample menu using local ingredients. Something that showcases your style and your commitment to the community."
Local ingredients. Of course.
I think of Ivy, of the seed packet in my pocket, of Farmer Hank and his skepticism.
"When would you need this?"
"I'm planning to run the piece in the April issue, which means I'd need to visit in the next two weeks. Before your officialopening, ideally." She tilts her head, watching me closely. "Is that doable?"
Two weeks. Before the soft opening. Before I've even finalized the full menu or hired more than Maya and a dishwasher.
"Absolutely," I hear myself say, because apparently my mouth has disconnected from my brain's risk-assessment functions.
Margot's smile warms, just slightly. "Wonderful. I'll email you to set up a date. And Rogan?" She glances at the farmers market around us, at the vendors packing up, at the signs advertising local honey and fresh greens. "Make it authentic. Readers can smell a fake from a mile away."
"Understood."
She nods, tucks the notebook into her bag, and walks away like she didn't just casually hand me the opportunity and the pressure of a lifetime.
I stand there, frozen, until Maya pokes her head out of the truck.
"Who was that?"
"Clearwater Eats."
Her eyes go wide. "The magazine? The one that gave Ember & Oak three pages and a cover photo?"
"Yeah."
"And?"
"She wants a tasting. Local ingredients. Two weeks."
Maya's quiet for exactly three seconds. Then she starts laughing, loud and bright and slightly unhinged.
"We're doomed," she says cheerfully.
"Probably."
"What are you going to serve her?"
I gather the radish seeds from my pocket, hold them up to the light. "No idea. But I've got three weeks to grow part of it."
Maya stops laughing. "Wait. You're actually going to plant those?"
"Ivy gave them to me. I'm not wasting them."
"You've never grown anything in your life."
"First time for everything." I pocket the seeds again, slam the truck gate closed. "Come on. We've got work to do."
