Riva nodded approvingly. He’d come a long way from the kid who couldn’t tell a Brussels sprout from a stalk of asparagus. “Anyone have any questions about preparation? All of the greens are from the early plantings at the farm, so they’re nice and tender.”
Her dream was to eventually quadruple her greenhouse space, but her mantra was to take it slow, grow organically, and most importantly, without drawing any attention to herself.
“Where’s the salmon from?” Amber asked.
“Alaska. Flown in yesterday,” Isaiah said without prompting. Amber made a note on her server’s pad. “It’s as fresh as you’re gonna get in landlocked Lancaster.”
“What do you recommend?” Kiara asked.
“It’s all good,” Isaiah said, “but if anyone asks, go with the salmon.”
“What are we gonna eighty-six first?”
“The salmon,” Isaiah said. He extended his hand over the large, cast-iron pan heating on the eight-burner stove, the movement automatic, practiced.
“Thanks, Isaiah,” Riva said. “I’ll come around one last time to check your stations. I’m working the front tonight, so you guys are on your own.”
Subtle signs of tension rippled through the group. “You’ve got this. It’s a Tuesday night, so we won’t be very busy, but even if we were, even if we got slammed by Maud Ward and her entire entourage, you’d still have this,” Riva said. “Work your station, and work together.”
Kimmy-Jean, a newer addition to the program, worried at her lower lip. “What if no one comes?”
In the spring Oasis operated on a pop-up basis, opening on selected evenings and promoted through social media only. “They’ll come,” Isaiah said. “You just worry about getting your mise done, yo.”
She walked through the kitchen, swiping up a bit of spilled parmesan, adding extra bowls to Carlos’s station, making sure the busboy/dishwasher, Blake, had his trays lined up and ready to go. Out front, the tables were all neatly set, silverware wrapped in linen, bud vases with a single bloom and small votive candles centered between the settings. “Let’s not light the candles just yet,” she said to Kiara.
The front was designed to look like a large, screened-in porch, the glass windows folded back to open the room to the breezes drifting in from the eastern fields, carrying a scent of warm earth and tender, growing things. The walls were covered in weathered barn boards, the tables made from smaller pieces reclaimed when she tore down the outbuildings that were ruined beyond repair. The server’s station was just outside the kitchen, making it easy for the staff to grab a pitcher of water or a damp rag as they passed through.
Looking around, Riva couldn’t believe she’d made this herself: supervised the renovation, done most of the interior work and decorating herself, scavenged and bargain shopped, painted walls and built tables. She’d come a long way in the last eight years, and the farm and restaurant were only stage one of her business plan.
Their first customers were a couple who chose the twilit section. Riva lit their candle and offered them the menu. “Do you want the windows shut?” the man asked his date. He was obviously anxious, taking out his phone and silencing the ringer, setting it on the table, then putting it in a pocket.
“I’m good,” she said, giving him a pleased smile. “The air’s still pretty warm. Maybe later.”
“I’ll be back in a minute with your drinks,” Riva said, then looked up as the door opened again.
The evening progressed smoothly, just as Riva predicted. The program was a simple one, developed in conjunction with the East Side Community Center run by Pastor Webber. Get kids who’d grown up in impoverished, blighted neighborhoods so common to food deserts access to fresh air, sunshine, and the earth. Teach them to grow their own food, and cook it, which enabled Riva to teach them about healthy eating. It also meant Riva could give back, pay for the mistakes she’d made, and help other kids avoid the same mistakes.
Working in the front let things develop organically, for better or worse, in the kitchen. She liked waiting tables. Most of the recipes were her own, and getting feedback directly from customers enabled her to fine-tune accordingly. It meant she was close if the kids really needed her, but not watching like one of the hawks circling over a field, ready to pounce on every single mistake like a field mouse.
She automatically looked up when the front door opened and saw a single man standing there, his face hidden by the shadows. Tall and lean, he was nothing but a silhouette of a male figure in a suit, nothing that should have made her heart thunk hard against her chest and adrenaline dump into her nervous system. All her muscles screamed at her to drop the box of matches and bolt.
Don’t be ridiculous, her brain told her body.
Then he took another step forward, far enough into the light for Riva to see his face. She knew she should have trusted her body, but by then it was too late.