"Nothing's wrong. Actually, something might be very right." Maya holds up an envelope. "Courier just dropped this off. It's addressed to the bistro."
I take it. Heavy paper, professional printing. My name typed across the front.
"Open it," Maya says.
I tear the envelope. Inside, a single sheet of letterhead.
Pine Hollow Bistro
We are writing to request catering services for the Heritage Foundation's annual fundraiser. Event date: three weeks from today. Guest count: approximately 150. Budget: attached.
I flip the page. Look at the number at the bottom.
Look again to make sure I'm reading it right.
"That's..." I trail off, doing math in my head. "That's more than half what we owe on the bistro's debts."
"Let me see." Ivy takes the letter, scans it quickly. Her eyes widen at the budget line. "This is legitimate. The Heritage Foundation is real. They do this fundraiser every year, usually in the city."
"Why would they want us?" I ask. "We're barely functional. We had our first real service tonight and it was held together with hope and stovetop improvisation."
Maya grins. "Check your phone. Your little social media moment? It's gone viral. Not internet-viral, but Pine-Hollow-and-surrounding-counties viral. People are talking about the scrappy local bistro that fought back against a mean critic. The Heritage Foundation probably saw it and thought you'd be perfect for their 'authentic local experience' angle."
I read the letter again. Three weeks. A hundred and fifty people. Money that could actually save this place.
"Can we do it?" Ivy asks.
"I have no idea."
"That's not a no."
"It's not a yes either." I look at the walk-in around us, the carefully sorted vegetables, the slim resources we're stretching to cover basic service. "We'd need equipment. Staff. A real plan, not just me throwing things at a pan and hoping they work."
"Systems," Ivy says. "You'd need actual systems."
"I'd need help."
She reaches my eyes. "You have help."
"I mean real help. Someone who knows how to organize chaos into something functional."
"I know." She doesn't look away. "I'm offering."
Maya clears her throat. "I'm also here. In case anyone forgot."
"You're already doing everything," I say. "Front of house, social media, apparently fighting critics on the internet."
"So hire more people. Use some of this catering money as advance investment. Build the team you need." She taps the letter. "This is the break you've been hoping for. Don't overthink it."
The walk-in suddenly feels smaller. Colder. Possibility pressing down like atmospheric pressure before a storm.
"Three weeks," I say.
"Three weeks," Ivy confirms. "We'd need to start planning immediately. Source everything local if we want to maintain integrity. Test recipes. Coordinate with the Foundation on dietary restrictions and service flow."
"You've already got a mental checklist going, don't you?"
"Obviously." She pulls out her ever-present notebook. "We start tomorrow. First thing. Before regular service."
