"They're five."
"Six is code."
I bite back a comment about municipal overreach and nod instead. "I'll adjust them."
She works through the space with surgical precision, pointing out violations I haven't had time to fix yet. Loose outlet cover. Missing hand soap dispenser in the staff bathroom. Vent filter clogged with God knows what.
By the time she's done, the violation list runs two pages.
"You've got thirty days to address these." She tears off my copy. "I'll be back for reinspection. If you're not compliant, you won't get your operating permit."
"Understood."
She pauses at the door, expression softening a fraction. "Cora was good people. I hope you can make this work."
Then she's gone, and I'm standing there with a list that might as well be a death sentence.
I crumple the paper, smooth it out again, and pin it to the corkboard beside the desk.
Thirty days.
Right.
The voicemail comesthat afternoon while I'm rewiring the temperamental stove.
I've got my head inside the oven cavity, flashlight between my teeth, when my phone lights up. I ignore it. It buzzes again. And again.
For crying out loud.
I wriggle free and check the screen. Three missed calls. Two from numbers I don't recognize, one from Mayor Elsie Harper.
The voicemail notification blinks.
I hit play.
"Rogan, it's Elsie." Her voice is warm but strained, like she's smiling through a headache. "I wanted to give you a heads-up before the town council meeting tonight. There's been some discussion about the bistro's, ah, viability. A few members are concerned about the building's condition and whether it meets current safety standards. Nothing to worry about yet, but I thought you should know people are watching. I'm in your corner, dear. Just keep making progress. The town needs this place." A pause. "We need it to be what Cora built. Keep the door open, as she used to say. Call me if you need anything."
The message ends.
I play it again.
The town needs this place.
People are watching.
Keep the door open.
I sink onto the desk chair and look at the violation list, the busted equipment, the mountain of work between me and a functioning restaurant.
Cora's voice echoes in my head, not from the voicemail but from memory. Her laugh, big and shameless. The way she'd taste something and declare it "needs more joy" before dumping in another handful of herbs.
Keep the door open.
She'd said it a hundred times. To customers lingering after close. To me, when I'd shown up at sixteen, angry and directionless, looking for somewhere to hide. To the entire town, apparently, because this place wasn't just a bistro. It was a refuge. A gathering spot. A heartbeat.
And now it's mine to save or screw up.
I unfold the apron from my pocket, Cora's apron, and press it to my face. It still smells faintly of rosemary and wood smoke.
