Not the polite, controlled chuckle I've heard from her before when she's being professional. This is a real laugh, surprised and genuine and slightly unhinged, bubbling up from somewhere deep. "Well," she manages between breaths, "that's perfectly on brand for tonight."
I can't help it. I join her, the sound rough and relieved in my throat. Maya picks it up next, her shoulders shaking. Even the temp staff, looking mortified and simultaneously relieved that we're not yelling, let out nervous giggles.
The fiddler, sensing what he apparently interprets as an opportunity for musical accompaniment, immediately launches into a triumphant, soaring chord that belongs in a victory montage.
"He's really, truly committed to exactly the wrong energy," I say, wiping my eyes.
"He's doing his best," Ivy says, but she's still smiling.
"So are we."
She peers at my eyes across the wreckage of broken plates and successful service. "Yeah," she says softly. "We really are."
The last order comes in at nine-fifteen. By nine-forty-five, the dining room is empty except for Farmer Hank, who lingers over coffee and pie.
The kitchen looks like a battlefield. Every surface covered in pans, plates, cutting boards. The temp staff left an hour ago. Maya's counting the till. The fiddler packed up and left with a generous tip and a promise to practice quieter songs.
Ivy and I stand at the sink, shoulder to shoulder, washing dishes in the kind of companionable silence that only comesafter shared disaster. The hot water runs over my knuckles, soothing the burns I didn't notice accumulating throughout the night. She scrubs methodically, precisely, attacking each plate like it personally offended her organizational sensibilities.
"We survived," I say finally, setting a clean sauté pan on the drying rack with more ceremony than it deserves.
"Barely." She doesn't look up from the plate she's attacking with the scrub brush.
"Still counts."
"Does it?" But there's no real bite in the question. She hands me a clean pan, our fingers brushing briefly in the exchange. "The oven needs to be fixed before the critic comes. Properly fixed, not jury-rigged with whatever questionable improvisation you were planning."
"I know." I take the pan, dry it with slow, deliberate movements.
"And the fiddler needs direction. Actual direction. A setlist. Volume guidelines. Something."
"I know." Another pan joins the stack.
"And you need twice the prep you think you need. Maybe three times, considering tonight's potato situation."
"Ivy."
"What?" She finally looks up at me, eyebrows raised, still holding a dripping plate.
"We survived. Can we celebrate that for five minutes before you start fixing everything?" I gesture vaguely at the disaster zone surrounding us. "Just... five minutes where we acknowledge that it was chaos and mess and completely unhinged, and we somehow pulled it off anyway?"
She pauses mid-scrub, water dripping from the plate still suspended in her hands. Considers. The furrow between her brows softens slightly. "Five minutes," she says finally, setting the plate down with careful precision. "Then we make a list."
"Deal."
We wash in silence. Outside, Farmer Hank's truck rumbles to life. He waves through the window. I wave back.
"He stayed the whole night," Ivy says.
"He did."
"That means something. In a town like this."
"What does it mean?"
She hands me another pan. "It means they're giving you a chance. Don't waste it."
"I won't."
