I swallow and brush my hands on my jeans. "Mayor. Hi."
"Cora spoke about you often." Her gaze sweeps the kitchen at the pile of expired goods, the lone saucepan on the stove, the general apocalypse, and her smile doesn't waver. "Big plans for the bistro?"
"Working on it."
"Wonderful. The town's very invested, you know. This place is a landmark. Cora fed half of Pine Hollow at one point or another." She clasps her hands. "We're all rooting for you."
The weight of expectation settles on my shoulders like a wet coat.
"That's... great. Thanks."
"Of course, there are some community standards to consider. Noise ordinances, health inspections, the historical character of the building..." She's still smiling. "I'm sure you'll navigate it all beautifully. Do let me know if you need guidance."
Guidance.Right.
She spots the toast. "Oh, is that Cora's chutney?"
"Yeah. Found a jar."
"May I?"
I hand it over. She takes a bite, chews thoughtfully, and her expression softens.
"She always did have a gift." A pause. "I hope you do, too."
Then she's gone, leaving the door swinging and the faint scent of lavender perfume.
I look around the kitchen. The mess. The busted equipment. The legacy I've inherited along with the deed.
My hand goes to the apron pocket. Cora's fabric, worn soft from years of use.
You got me into this, Auntie.
I grab another jar off the shelf and get back to work.
The health inspector shows up at seven a.m. on day three.
I'm elbow-deep in the grease trap when I hear the knock. Sharp, official, the kind that saysI have a clipboard and I'm not afraid to use it.
"Just a second!" I holler, yanking my arm free. Grease splatters across my boots.
The woman at the door wears a county polo and an expression that could curdle milk. She holds up a laminated ID.
"Robert Maris couldn't make it. I'm Sandra Mills, filling in." She steps past me without waiting for an invitation. "Let's start with the kitchen."
Of course we are.
I follow her in, watching her gaze sweep across the space. I've been scrubbing for two days straight. The range hood gleams. Prep table sanitized within an inch of its life. Floor mopped so hard I nearly took the finish off.
But the walk-in still wheezes like it's got pneumonia. The tiles near the dishwasher are cracked. And the basement, well. I haven't been brave enough to tackle the basement yet.
Mills grabs a thermometer and stabs it into the fridge. Frowns. Makes a note.
"Temperature's borderline."
"It's on my list."
"Needs to be forty degrees or below." She moves to the dry storage, eyeing the shelving. "These need to be six inches off the floor."
