I let them explore the greenhouse after that, pointing out the lettuce beds, the early peas climbing their trellis, the flats of onion starts destined for Farmer Hank's plot. They ask questions, good ones, about frost and composting and why some seeds need cold to germinate.
When their parents start arriving to pick them up, I hand each kid their pots in a recycled egg carton, stable and snug.
"Keep them on a sunny windowsill. Water every other day. Bring them back in two weeks and we'll check progress."
Lila lingers after the others leave, her brother already halfway to the car.
"Miss Ivy?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you think Miss Cora's nephew will keep doing seed nights?"
The question lands heavier than it should.
"I don't know yet."
"My mom says he's from the city. She says city chefs don't care about where food comes from."
I crouch so we're eye level. "People can surprise you. We'll see what kind of chef he is."
She nods, unconvinced, and runs to catch up with Tommy.
I watch them go, then turn back to the greenhouse and start cleaning up.
The rumor millin Pine Hollow runs on caffeine and proximity.
By the time I stop at the general store for potting soil that afternoon, I've already heard three versions of Rogan Thorn's arrival.
Version one: He's a hotshot chef from New York who thinks he's too good for small-town cooking.
Version two: He's broke and desperate, here to flip the bistro and sell to developers.
Version three, courtesy of Maya, who I run into near the checkout: "He made me a grilled cheese at midnight and it was borderline transcendent."
I heft the soil bag onto the counter. "That's not reassuring."
"Why not?"
"Because a good grilled cheese doesn't tell me anything about his sourcing."
Maya leans at the counter, arms crossed. "You're worried he'll bring in sysco trucks and freeze-dried garnishes."
"Aren't you?"
She shrugs. "Cora wouldn't have left him the place if she thought he'd trash it."
"Cora was sentimental."
"Cora was sharp as hell and you know it."
I do know it. Which is why the whole thing makes me uneasy.
Cora and I built the seed nights together three years ago, back when the bistro was struggling and she needed a draw. I brought the seeds, the farmers, the stories. She brought the food, the warmth, the space. It worked because we both cared about the same thing: keeping Pine Hollow's agricultural roots alive.
Now she's gone and some city chef has the keys.
The cashier rings me up and I load the soil into my truck.
