Now we're playing catch-up on a clock we can't control.
CHAPTER 12
IVY
The community center smells like burnt coffee and nervous sweat. Every folding chair is occupied. People line the walls, crowd the doorway. I've never seen this many Pine Hollow residents in one place outside of the Harvest Festival.
Mayor Elsie taps the microphone. The feedback whine breaks through the murmur of conversation.
"Thank you all for coming on such short notice." Her voice carries that steady authority that comes from decades of chairing budget meetings and school board sessions. "We've asked you here to discuss a proposal. An alternative to the development offers many of you have received."
I stand beside Rogan at the front table. My notebook is open to pages dense with calculations, supply chain diagrams, governance structures. Every number checked and rechecked until my eyes burned.
Rogan's knee presses against mine under the table. Grounding. Solid.
"Most of you know me by now," he starts. His voice fills the room without straining. "I came here to run a restaurant. Honor my aunt's legacy. Keep the bistro doors open."
He pauses. Scans the crowd.
"But that's not enough anymore. Not when our entire community is being picked apart one property at a time. So we're proposing something bigger. Something that keeps the land in local hands and builds value for all of us."
I take over. My hands want to shake but I lock them around the end of the table.
"A cooperative ownership model. Farmers become equity partners based on crop contributions. Community members can purchase shares at accessible price points. Mission-driven governance ensures we prioritize sustainability, fair wages, and food security over pure profit."
Farmer Hank shifts in his seat. His weathered face is skeptical.
"That sounds nice in theory, Ivy. But Webb's offering me cash. Guaranteed. Enough to pay off my equipment loans and have something left over."
"I know." I meet his eyes. "And I'm not going to pretend that's not real money solving real problems. But let me show you what cooperative ownership could look like."
I click to the first slide. Numbers I've run so many times I dream about them.
"Under the model we're proposing, farmers contribute land or crops in exchange for equity shares. Those shares pay dividends based on annual profits. You'd also have voting rights on major decisions and guaranteed purchase contracts for your harvests at fair market rates."
"For how long?" Mrs. Rivera calls from the third row. "Webb's money is now. Your dividends are maybes."
"Five-year minimum contracts," Rogan says. "Renewable based on crop quality and mutual agreement. And we're not asking you to contribute land unless you want to. Crop partnerships work just as well."
Mayor Elsie steps forward. "I've reviewed the financial projections. They're conservative but sound. Year one shows modest returns. Year five projects dividends comparable to current land lease rates, plus equity appreciation."
"Projections aren't guarantees." That's Tom Chen, who runs the dairy operation north of town. "What happens if the bistro fails? If tourism drops or supply chains get disrupted?"
I've prepared for this question. Rehearsed the answer until the words feel smooth.
"The cooperative structure includes reserve funds and mutual insurance. If one revenue stream falters, others compensate. Diversification protects everyone. And because governance is shared, we make decisions collectively rather than gambling on one person's vision."
Rogan shoots me a look. We both know that last part is a dig at his chaotic early days.
He doesn't argue.
"I'm not going to stand here and tell you this is easy money," he says instead. "It's not. It's work. It's risk. It's trusting your neighbors and building something together."
His hand finds mine on the table. Brief squeeze.
"But it's also permanent. Your kids inherit equity, not just memories of the farm you sold. Your crops feed people you know instead of shipping to warehouses three states away. You get a say in how this place grows instead of watching developers decide for you."
Silence settles. Heavy. Uncertain.
