Chapter 9
Josh
Ifucking hated meetings.
Whether they were in glass office towers or dusty gravel parking lots. Meetings were still meetings.
I thought I’d left them behind when I walked away from my corporate job. Should have known better. Today I was wearing clean jeans and driving into town to deal with the ongoing sap supply mess.
Same nonsense, different uniform.
I should have been fixing equipment, harvesting the kale that was growing into a jungle in the garden, and finalizing payroll. Instead I was wasting precious daylight hunting for a parking spot so I could at least properly caffeinate. If I had to be miserable, at least I could be alert.
The stop at the coffee shop should have been simple. Lately, though, it never was. The tourists had begun trickling back in, and while that was wonderful for the town, it set me on edge.
So did the unfamiliar questions murmured here and there and the much more morbid interest than what visitors had shown in the past.
Despite the town’s attempts to sweep the tragedy and all the drama that came with it under the rug, none of it was settled. Like a board that hadn’t been nailed down properly. Solid until it’s stepped on wrong.
The line at Bean There, Sipped That wasn’t terrible, and despite the strangers wandering outside, my sister’s coffee shop was filled with warmth and familiarity.
Wood floor that creaked in the right places, chalkboard menus smudged from daily revisions, and the low hum of the voices of the locals.
And to top it all off, the air smelled like my mother’s maple scones.
Jenn kept that recipe locked in her mind like a sacred text. Not even I was privy to the details.
As I settled in to wait my turn, she shot me a wink.
The tables were packed with locals and tourists, and the walls were covered with local artwork. Mel, Jenn’s wife, was behind the counter too, adding a fresh batch of donuts to the pastry case.
Damn, they looked delicious.
But today was not a donut day. It was a black coffee and ass-kicking day.
Jenn grinned at me when it was finally my turn to order. “You look like shit.”
“Always a delight to see you, big sis,” I responded.
She turned and filled an extra-large mug, humming. “This is the rainforest blend you like. Breakfast?”
With a shake of my head, I dropped a few dollars into the tip cup. Jenn and Mel never let me pay, but I did a fair amount of repairs here, including maintenance on that monster Italian espresso machine more times than I could count, so I figured it usually evened out.
“Shouldn’t you be climbing a tree right now?”
“Meeting,” I grunted, the smell of the rich dark roast filling my nostrils.
She winced, wiping at the counter. “Good luck.”
Carefully, so my coffee wouldn’t spill, I wandered to the back rail, where I sipped from the large mug and mentally prepared for today.
Here and there, I greeted folks, giving nods and waves to Father Coughlin, and Mrs. Woodson.
People who’d known me since I was a kid with skinned knees and a crooked smile.
This morning’s meeting was at Sugar Moon, the facility I hadn’t been back to since the fire this summer.
It had been arson, and it had taken out most of the corporate offices.
My brother, a firefighter, had gone in and rescued his girlfriend and the mother of their infant son that night.
It might have been the most traumatic day of my life.
My chest tightened and it got hard to breathe when I remembered clasping my nephew to my chest as my brother ran into the burning building.
One wrong turn, one delayed second, and the world never would have been the same again.
I shuddered, pushing away the images.
“Headed to the office?” Tony appeared, clapping me on the shoulder. He owned the pizzeria and was the high school football coach, and here and there, he’d helped me out during sugaring season. The man was the definition of a good guy.
I gave my friend a nod. “Yup.”
“Have they rebuilt that quickly?”
“Not sure. I assume they’ve got trailers set up temporarily or something. Manufacturing is still going strong.”
“Calloway was complaining about insurance dragging their feet.” He shook his head, stepping closer to me. “None of this smells right. Why the offices? And Caleb?”
I paused, my cup halfway to my lips, my stomach rolling.
Caleb Dunne had confessed to setting the fire and then eventually to the murder of Will McManus. The town had breathed a sigh of relief when he turned himself in, feeling a bit safer with a violent criminal behind bars. But relief didn’t erase doubt; it just buried it.
Both Caleb and Will had done work for me over the years.
Both were good kids. Young and a bit wild but good.
And this mess had continued to snowball over the months.
I’d just gotten the police off my farm when the FBI showed up.
And then the CEO of Sugar Moon had been arrested in front of half the town, kicking off another round of speculation.
Every answer we got created three more questions.
And I couldn’t help but think that the timing and location of the fire were convenient. Years of files had been destroyed, erasing God knew how many potential answers. Truth reduced to ash.
It wasn’t my business, of course, but since my farm was involved and folks had whispered bogus theories that I was involved, I couldn’t help but take it all personally.
I didn’t like shadows on my land. I had too much work to do to be worrying about the implications of those crimes on the legacy my family had built.
Before I could respond, Marco, Tony’s brother, sauntered up, wearing a huge smile.
“How you doing, bud?” I asked, opening my arms for a hug.
Marco lived with Tony and worked with him at the pizzeria. He had Down syndrome and was one of the funniest, friendliest people in town. No agenda. No bullshit.
“Good,” he said, lifting his cup. “Jenn made me the best maple latte.”
“She’s awesome,” I added. “When are you coming to visit the farm? Wayne misses you.”
“Soon. This guy”—he shot a look at his brother, his lips flattening—“has been making me work nonstop.”
Tony huffed. “Speaking of,” he said. “We gotta head to the shop and prep dough. Call me if you need to talk.” The look he gave me said he knew I was carrying more than I was willing to admit.
I waved them off and focused on my coffee, desperate to get the upcoming meeting over with.
At a nearby table, Kate Bowen was sitting with her toddler son, who was chugging chocolate milk with gusto while she desperately swiped at crumbs from the blueberry muffin he’d just destroyed.
The sight sent my mind shifting to Celine. The set of her jaw as she busted my balls in the driveway this morning. The way she held her ground. That shock of red hair piled on top of her head. And the way her face had heated when I’d called her “Matchstick.”
Trading jabs via text message had been more fun than was appropriate. I hadn’t smiled like that in months.
When she’d huffed about Wayne’s antics, I couldn’t help but be proud of my pup. And that was a problem.
There was no use feeling any sort of way about her. Emotions were inefficient. Distractions were a liability.
As if sensing my vulnerability with her older sibling spidey senses, my sister sauntered over, smiling. “How’s the new tenant?”
“Fine.” I took a long, slow sip of coffee, praying a customer would walk in and Jenn would have to leave me alone.
“Sounds like she’s a great teacher. And the kids are sweet.” With a brow arched, she studied me. I wouldn’t give her an inch. “Town’s adopted them already.”
I nodded. “Great.”
She took a step closer, head tilting, staring at me in that all knowing way. “Have a good day, little brother.”
With that simple phrase, the one that sounded suspiciously like a warning, she waltzed away.
In the five years that he’d been my point of contact, Alex, the procurement manager at Sugar Moon, had done a lot to build their business while protecting the suppliers.
Selling our sap, while not the way my grandparents had done business, was the most efficient and cost-effective way to keep the farm alive in a market that didn’t care about tradition or nostalgia.
Directing all my focus to the trees, new plantings, stand management, and disease prevention, had allowed me to improve our yields, better manage our acreage, and build a more sustainable farming model.
I didn’t romanticize the work; I optimized it.
The trees were assets, but living ones. When I treated them right, they paid me back.
For years, especially after Dad’s first heart attack, the Lawrence Farm struggled. These days, though, we were routinely in the black, and when my aunt and uncle retired and I purchased their land, it allowed me the space to grow rather than just survive.
For the last five years, seven days per week, I’d used generations of maple knowledge and my background in financial strategy to get the farm to a good place. My siblings got their quarterly shares of the profits, ensuring all my nieces and nephews were cared for. And my parents legacy was safe.
But last spring, everything went to shit, and now the entire industry was scrambling. For the first time in a long time, our future felt shaky.
Sugar Moon’s temporary conference room was housed in a shipping container in the parking lot.
The manufacturing facility produced a steady sugary smell, but the lingering stench of fire persisted, even with the rebuilding efforts taking place, and folding tables and chairs replaced the formerly grand conference room.