“It’s a roof made out of lawn. Of course it’s going to leak every time it rains,” Nina said.
“Green roofs are rarely planted with grass.” Sullivan noted the first drops of rain on her window. You couldn’t hope for too much sunlight in Oregon in the spring. Sullivan’s mind jumped from broken pipes to clogged gutters to errant nieces and nephews climbing the fire escape to water the roof (which did not need watering). “But yes. The thing leaks every time it rains.
“I’m going to go scope it out for her. Otherwise she’ll get up there herself. Can you wait until the bread comes out before you head to the Tennis Skort?” Sullivan nodded toward the oven. “It’s got another ten minutes on four hundred and then drop it down to about—”
“Would I be your sous-chef if I couldn’t smell when the bread is done?” Opal asked.
“How long will you be?” Nina asked. “Do you need us to go to the association meeting for you? I know we could sue someone.”
“I will be back in an hour, and no one is suing anyone. There’s more tea and a decent Rapaura Springs sauvignon blanc in the fridge. Stay as long as you like.”
“We’re going to the Tennis Skort after this,” Opal said. “Go to your meeting, get them to sign whatever they’re signing, and come out with us.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Sullivan would think about it. She’d go to the meeting and then sit on her porch, listening to the night creatures emerge from burrows, sniffing the air with little twinkling noses. Hopefully it’d have stopped raining by then. She’d think about how lucky she was to have friends who loved her even if she didn’t want to drink Pickle Balls and 30 Loves surrounded by screens showing every sport known to womankind. She was lucky to live in a city that valued green space. She was lucky to have her restaurant and her home a mossy stroll from each other so she never had to drive to work. And she was lucky to have once known Kia Jackson, who was now basking in the glory of deep-frying candy inside raw chicken. If someone was going to win an award for that culinary abomination, it might as well be Kia.
chapter 3
Kia Jackson stoodat the back of the Oakwood Heights Grange Hall watching her assistant, Deja, set up an induction hob, a portable burner to hold the crepe pan and spreader where Kia could exhibit her craft. Meanwhile she’d be making a persuasive argument for why the Oakwood Heights Neighborhood Association should sell her the green space called the Bois.
Several men and women of the indeterminable age of fit, rich, white people hovered next to her, each holding a water bottle stickered with their favorite causes.SAVE THE DOLPHINS.SAVE THE RAINFOREST.LOVE WINS. Outside, it had started raining, but it didn’t feel like a bad sign. The grange hall turned event space hummed with welcoming, rustic charm. Its high ceilings were adorned with exposed wooden beams, and the walls were lined with vintage barn wood. Soft string lights hung along the walls. In the center of the room, rows of metal folding chairs had been set up for the neighborhood association meeting, and people were milling around them shaking hands and hugging friends.
“You have absolutely nothing to worry about,” Save the Dolphins said.
The white people with liberal water bottles all belonged to the Oakwood Heights Neighborhood Association board. Save the Dolphins was the board chair.
A woman whose water bottle wanted to stop the I-5 bypass extension said, “We’ve already floated your plan, and the Oakwood Heights community is excited about bringing in food trucks.”
Kia was excited, too, although everything was moving so fast. Her heart rate hadn’t dropped below 110. She’d been living on jalapeño cotton candy.
“In some ways, this is just a formality,” the board chair added. “You’ll present your plan for Taste the Love Land.”
That was Kia’s long-held dream of owning land where food trucks could set up for weeks or years depending on their needs. It could be a place for Kia to put down roots. Growing up on a yacht with her father, she’d had love and security, scenery and adventure, everything she needed and more… except a permanent address. For a long time, she’d thought she didn’t need an address, but more and more the open road had felt like the empty road.
“There will be time for community discussion and time for another buyer to put in a bid but—” The board chair raised a finger like Tony the Tiger preparing to declare,They’re grrreat!“There’s nothing in the charter that says we have to advertise that we’re putting the land up for sale, so it’s just you.”
A trio of women moved around them on their way to their seats. They inclined their heads in polite greeting, and the board introduced Kia as thedeveloper we’re all excited about.
“Of course, if there’s a legacy landowner…” Love Wins said after the trio moved on.
The board had explained the situation before. If someone’s family had owned land in the neighborhood since its incorporationin the 1800s, they got an opportunity to buy any land jointly held by the association if the association decided to sell, and they got to buy it at fair market value.
“But don’t worry. The only legacy landowner left hasn’t been at a meeting for ages.”
“And couldn’t afford the land if they wanted it,” another board member added.
Kia pictured a wealthy, old man with a young blond wife and self-serving politics. She didn’t feel too bad about buying the land out from under him, not that he—whoever he was—had expressed any interest.
“So unless the community wants to keep paying HOA dues on a plot of land no one uses”—the board chair smiled sympathetically—“it’s yours. Like your marketing manager said, this will give restaurateurs who’ve been pushed out by gentrification a second chance.”
Kia surveyed the grange hall filling up with people greeting each other and shaking rain off their coats. The smell of urn-brewed coffee scented the air. This could be her community, a brick-and-mortar home.
Kia’s ex-girlfriend turned marketing manager, Gretchen, had pitched Taste the Love Land to the board while Kia had been mounting the stage at the American Fare Awards. With the help of investors who were excited to put their money into American Fare’s most charismatic winner, Kia would clear the land and build a food truck pod. Food truck owners could rent, or they could be co-owners in the venture. She’d have a covered pavilion, children’s play area, maybe a space for live music. Most importantly, she’d make a place for people who needed it. Young entrepreneurs without enough money for a startup. Old restaurateurs pushed out by rising taxes or natural disasters.
She’d make a place for herself too because living on the road—one city after another, one fair after another—felt lonely. It had all meant something when she was meeting real people and sampling local cuisine, promoting small businesses and hearing stories about life and love and struggle. Now she’d achieved an influencer’s dream and got so many sponsors she barely had time to spend the money she made. But it felt like all she did was hawk products without a chance to make real connections.
The grange hall was filling up. Deja had finished setting up for Kia’s cooking demonstration.
