"Guaranteed?" Hank's voice resounds through the murmuring. It wavers in a way I've never heard before, Hank, who faced down my spicy pepper experiments without flinching, sounds suddenly uncertain. Vulnerable.
"Guaranteed." Webb yanks out a glossy folder. "I have the full terms here. No obligation. Just information so you can make an informed choice."
Ivy steps forward. Her notebook is clutched so tight her knuckles are white.
"And if the rezoning passes? What happens to the land?"
"Development," Webb says simply. "Mixed-use residential and light commercial. Clean. Modern. Profitable."
"Not farmland."
"Farmland that's barely profitable," Webb counters. "I respect the heritage, Ivy. I do. But sentiment doesn't pay mortgages. It doesn't fund retirements or college tuition."
He's good. He makes it sound compassionate. Logical.
Several people move toward the table.
Ivy looks at me. Panic flickers in her eyes.
I grab her hand. Squeeze once.
Then I turn to the crowd.
"Can I say something?"
Webb gestures magnanimously. "Of course."
I step up onto the pavilion's low platform. Raise my voice.
"Everyone here knows I'm new. City chef. Big ideas. I showed up two months ago thinking I could save my aunt's bistro with flash and spectacle."
People watch. Listen.
"And I was wrong. Not about the food. But about what makes a place worth saving." I gesture at the festival. "This. This is what matters. Not just the produce or the recipes. The people. The connections. The fact that when Ivy needed a seed rescue at midnight, half this town showed up with trucks and flashlights. The fact that when my oven broke, three strangers loaned me equipment and didn't ask for a dime."
I look at Farmer Hank.
"You've been farming your land for forty years. Your squash is the best I've ever tasted. And I've tasted a lot of squash." A ripple of laughter. "But it's not just the flavor. It's the care. The knowledge. The relationship between you and that soil."
Hank's jaw works.
"If this rezoning passes, that's gone. Not in a generation. Now. Because the land becomes more valuable empty than planted."
I turn to Webb.
"You talk about guarantees and minimums. But what you're really offering is the end of something irreplaceable. You're asking people to trade their legacy for a one-time payout."
"I'm asking them to be realistic," Webb says coolly. "To recognize that change is inevitable and position themselves to benefit."
"Change isn't the same as surrender."
Ivy steps up beside me. Her voice is steady now.
"The seed program has been running for three years. We've preserved eighteen heirloom varieties that would've vanished otherwise. We've trained forty new growers. We've built a network that supports farms when they struggle and celebrates them when they thrive."
She looks at the crowd.
"That doesn't happen if we let developers turn our fields into parking lots. It doesn't happen if we prioritize short-term profit over long-term survival."
