Maya climbs into the passenger seat, still grinning. "This is either going to be brilliant or a complete catastrophe."
"Why not both?"
She laughs again, and I start the engine, pulling out of the market lot as the last vendors pack up behind us.
The seed packet feels heavier now, weighted with more than just radishes. It's Ivy's test, Margot's expectation, my aunt's legacy, and my own stubborn need to prove I belong here all folded into something I can hold in one hand.
I drive back toward the bistro, already mentally cataloging what I need. Soil. Containers. A grow light, maybe, if the weather turns. A crash course in not killing plants.
And a plan. A menu that's bold enough to impress a critic, rooted enough to satisfy Ivy, and honest enough to honor the town that's giving me a chance I probably don't deserve yet.
No pressure.
Maya's interrupts my thoughts. "You know she's going to taste those radishes and know immediately if you screwed them up, right?"
"I know."
"And if you screw them up, Ivy's going to hear about it."
"I know."
"And then the whole town's going to hear about it."
"Maya."
"I'm just saying." She grins, utterly unsympathetic. "You've got a critic coming, a botanist watching, and a town waiting to see if you're serious. That's a lot of people to disappoint at once."
"Thanks for the pep talk."
"Anytime, Chef."
I turn onto the main road, the bistro's crooked sign visible in the distance, and I can't help but grin despite the mounting panic.
This is either the best idea I've ever had or the fastest way to crash and burn.
Probably both.
I press my hand to my apron pocket, feeling the outline of the seed packet and my aunt's note folded beneath it.
Keep the door open.
I plan to. Even if it means learning to grow radishes, charming a skeptical farmer, and impressing a food critic who could make or break me with a single paragraph.
The truck rattles over a pothole, Maya yelps and grabs the dashboard, and the radish seeds shift and settle.
Three weeks to grow them. Two weeks to plan a menu. One chance to prove I'm not just another city chef playing farmer.
I grip the steering wheel and floor it toward the bistro, already tasting the menu in my mind.
CHAPTER 4
IVY
The bistro smells like rosemary and desperation.
I push through the front door at eight in the morning, field notebook tucked under one arm, my canvas satchel heavy with samples and soil test results I printed last night. The dining room is empty except for a single table where someone's left a coffee mug and what looks like a half-sketched menu on butcher paper.
"Hello?"
