Chapter 10 #2
A petite woman stood behind the bar, eyeing us all expectantly, arms crossed. She had the kind of authority earned from decades of not taking any shit.
“The Drip Line is neutral territory,” she said. “No cheese warfare allowed.”
“Sorry, Dotty,” Basil said sheepishly.
I made eye contact with Ruby. “Don’t ask,” she muttered.
The conversation shifted quickly, and as the people around me chatted, I found myself relaxing a bit.
This wasn’t terrible. I could socialize.
Maybe I hadn’t completely lost my ability to function as an adult.
It was far easier here than in any other environment I’d been in during the last decade or more.
I’d never felt like I belonged the way I did tonight.
I’d never felt so instantly welcomed into the fold, and the relief that washed over me now made it easy to listen and laugh.
And I found myself hoping that eventually I’d be in a place where I could enjoy this for more than the allocated sixty minutes.
“There’s no reading required,” Marty, who I’d learned owned the diner, explained.
“We started as a book club, but along the way, our gatherings became focused on drinking and eating instead. And once that happened, the group grew to this,” a tall, elegant woman explained, holding out an arm to gesture at the good-sized crowd.
“If Caroline had her way,” Ruby teased, grinning at her, “we’d be diagramming Shakespearean sonnets.”
The woman—Caroline, I guessed—broke into a wistful smile.
“Excuse my sister. She’s an English literature PhD dropout,” another woman added. “I’m Linda. That’s Caroline.”
“You must come to the spa,” Caroline added.
Ah, the spa. Chloe had mentioned it. According to her, it was located inside a beautiful inn in town, which also housed a fancy restaurant.
“Oh my God,” Evie groaned. “Frankie and Stella took me for my birthday this summer. It was blissful. Better than any I’ve been to in New York.”
Linda snorted. “We’re nationally ranked for a reason.”
“And we host literature themed weekends,” Caroline added, her face alight.
Though a trip to the Thistle Inn spa was not in my budget, it sounded heavenly. I hadn’t looked at prices, but I’d heard how luxurious the place was, and the emerald on Linda’s cocktail ring was probably worth more than my car.
But for now, this was enough. Or maybe too much. I was being folded into Maplewood at an alarming speed, welcoming handshakes and hugs from everyone I crossed, like I’d always been here.
Too much or not, strange or not, it was nice. The people of my hometown in Maine were prickly toward outsiders, so this was all foreign to me.
“Before we were innkeepers, we were academics. French philosophy.” Linda was lithe and tiny with a platinum pixie cut. Caroline was taller, with ballerina posture and deep red lips. Her look was finished off with an Hermes scarf wrapped chicly around her shoulders.
Mrs. Fitzgerald returned with onion rings and dropped into the seat across from me, bullying me into trying one.
I folded quickly, and damn, it was stupidly delicious.
“Have another, dear. You look like you could use a little comfort food,” she said with a smile.
Without much fight, I took another and let the salty greasiness ease some of my anxiety.
For years, I’d dreamed about having a night like this. The chance to go out and meet people. To make adult friends and be part of a community.
Donny never allowed it. We didn’t have friends.
That’s not true. He did; I wasn’t allowed to leave the house. He’d manipulate me, reminding me that Julian needed me and convincing me that a good mom would want to stay home and keep the kids comfortable.
But Stella had texted a photo a few minutes ago, an image of my kids decorating cookies together, and they looked pretty damn comfortable right now.
“We’ve got to step it up on the Harvest Festival,” Callie said.
Ruby laughed. “Is that why you said the onion rings were on you? Is this bribery?”
“The Maple Street Mafia is breathing down my neck,” my boss complained. “You know how relentless they are.” She craned her neck, scanning the bar like a real-life mafia don might be lurking nearby. “I cannot with Bitsy Bramble right now. Tourism numbers are down, so she’s out for blood.”
With a nod, Ruby said, “We’ve got to get the tourists back.”
“Agreed,” a woman farther down the table chimed in. “The arrest helped.”
With that simple remark, a blanket of unease settled over the crowd.
“Okay.” Callie clapped, pasting on a bright smile. “Scott, we need more vendors. You know everyone. Can you start reaching out? And I was thinking a food tent. Something a little fancier than usual.”
“Opal could do it,” Linda said.
Evie rubbed her hands together, eyes glimmering. “What about a spa tent? Mini services to highlight what the inn offers? You could offer some of the products and sell candles.”
The sisters looked at one another, having a telepathic conversation, and Caroline nodded.
“And Ruby,” Callie said, “we need merch. Come up with a catchy slogan and print it on T-shirts, hoodies, hats. All of that.”
Ruby bounced in her seat. “I’ll dust off my graphic design skills.”
“Atta girl.”
The table came alive, one person after another shouting out suggestions while Evie took notes on the back of a paper menu.
“We need better entertainment,” Stacy, the florist, said. “Any way we can convince Naomi to play on the main stage on Saturday night?”
“What if we brought back the art walk?”
“Didn’t Birch Hollow poach all our usual artists?”
“Nothing’s stopping us from poaching them right back.”
“What’s Birch Hollow?” I asked.
Several heads snapped in my direction.
“A town,” Ruby said, her expression suddenly going stony. “Thirty minutes north-west of here.”
“We hate them,” Marty added.
“The place is filled with assholes,” Tony piped in from the far end.
Nora clenched her fists. “They try to sabotage us. Every year.”
“Do you think they put a hit out on Will so they could steal our tourists?” someone else asked.
“Birch Hollow has spent the past hundred years wishing it was Maplewood. And the second that tragedy started, they jumped in and took advantage,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said to me.
“Been ripping us off since the Revolution,” Marty added.
Huh. A small-town-Vermont blood feud? That certainly made the town even more interesting.
All around me, the brainstorming continued, the people here all rallying together. It was sweet and only slightly terrifying.
“And the hayrides.” Callie, who was now standing at the head of the table, in full principal mode, clasped her hands. “They were always so popular, especially when they were themed each year.”
“But now that Mr. Watkins is retired, he’s sold off his tractors.”
Callie tapped her chin, looking straight at me. “Hmm. Who do we know around here with a big tractor?”
I slumped in my seat. Everyone had gone quiet, and every eye was on me.
“Your landlord does.” Evie broke into a devious smile. “Grumpy farmer Josh. If you ask, I bet he’ll agree to help out.”
Panic rose up inside me. They wanted me to ask? I barely knew Josh.
“Excellent.” Callie beamed. “Celine, you are captain of hayrides. Be sure to plan the route first. The rides should last at least twenty minutes but not much more than that. And look for varied terrain. Then coordinate with the residents on the route in regard to themed decorations.”
“Wait,” I said, blinking rapidly, racking my brain for a way to gracefully get myself out of this.
I locked eyes with Callie, the person responsible for bringing me here. And Ruby, whose sister was currently delighting my kids, nudged me gently. The rest of the crowd watched me with such hopeful looks. And they had all been so warm and welcoming to me.
“Talk to Josh,” Callie suggested. “You can work together.”
“But—”
She shook her head. “It’s the Harvest Festival.”
“The way you said that makes it sound like the Superbowl,” I joked.
Rather than laughs, all I garnered were blank stares.
“We’ve got to get the tourists back,” Marty said.
“This is our Superbowl. The small-town-Vermont Superbowl. We’ve got two major festivals each year. The Maple Festival in April, which kicks off tourist season and helps us all get over our seasonal depression,” Linda explained. “And the Harvest Festival in October.”
“There are several others as well,” Caroline interjected, adjusting her scarf.
“But these are the big ones” her sister continued. “We pull out all the stops. And this year the necessity to go above and beyond is even more important.”
“This town needs tourists, press, and lots of excitement.”
As I scanned all the hopeful faces, my stomach twisted. Could I convince Josh to help? I had no experience with hayrides or small-town festivals, but the warmth and affection I’d received from this town made me want to try.