The words hit like cold water.
"Then we convince him to wait," I say.
"With what leverage?" She sets down her mug. "The man is seventy-one. He's got medical bills. His daughter lives in Phoenix and wants him to move closer. Webb is offering him a clean exit."
"So we just let it happen?"
"I didn't say that." She stands. Walks to the window. Looks out at the main street where pickup trucks angle-park in front of the hardware store and the diner. "I'm saying we need time. And diplomacy. We can't fight this head-on. We need to build consensus, show people there's a viable alternative."
"Consensus takes time we don't have."
"Then we buy time." She turns back to me. "Talk to Webb. Hear him out. See if there's room to negotiate a pause. Meanwhile, I'll work the phones. Reach out to regional ag nonprofits, see what grants or programs might be available."
"You want me to sit down with him."
"I want you to gather information." Her expression softens. "I know it's not what you want to hear. But we're outgunned here, Ivy. He's got money and lawyers and glossy presentations. We've got passion and history and not much else. If we're going to win this, we need to be smart."
I close my notebook. Press my palms flat against the cover.
"Fine," I say. "I'll meet with him."
"Good." She sits back down. "And Ivy? Don't go in angry. Go in curious. Find out what he really wants. Sometimes the devil you know is easier to negotiate with than the one you don't."
I stand. My legs feel stiff.
"How long do you think we have?" I ask.
"Before it's too late?" She picks up her pastry. Studies it like it holds answers. "Honestly? I don't know. But the clock is ticking. And every day we delay is a day closer to losing what we can't get back."
I walk out into the hallway. The municipal building is quiet. Just the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of someone typing.
Three weeks.
The number loops in my head like a countdown.
The bistro kitchenis chaos when I arrive. Steam rises from multiple pots. Maya barks orders at a temp worker who looks ready to cry. Rogan moves between stations like a conductor, tasting, adjusting, redirecting.
He sees me and calls out, "Give me five minutes."
I rest against the doorframe. Watch him work. There's a rhythm to it. A kind of controlled improvisation that shouldn't work but does.
He plates three dishes in rapid succession. Sends them out. Wipes his hands on his apron and gestures me into the small back office.
The space barely fits two people. A desk covered in receipts. A filing cabinet. A corkboard with photos of his aunt pinned beside health inspection notices.
I sit on the desk. He leans against the filing cabinet.
"What's up?" he asks.
"I need to talk about the catering money."
His expression shifts. Guarded. "What about it?"
"How much did you make?"
"Enough to cover two months of debt payments and restock the walk-in."
"That's good."
