Chapter 5 The Committee Meeting
The Committee Meeting
Maren
The Wilder family donated this building thirty years ago.
There's a plaque by the door with Jackson's grandfather's name on it, bronze letters against dark wood, the kind of permanent recognition that comes with enough money and the right last name.
Half the town's kids learned to square dance on this floor.
I learned to navigate small-town politics in these folding chairs, figured out which families had grudges going back three generations and which ones would smile to your face while sharpening knives behind your back.
The committee meets monthly to plan the county fair, vendors, entertainment, the parade route, all the details that make the difference between a good fair and a disaster.
I've run catering coordination for three years.
My company has grown every season, from a handful of booths my first year to full oversight of the food vendor section and the VIP hospitality tent.
Helen Marsh is at the head table shuffling papers when I walk in. She's been committee coordinator for a decade, knows everyone's business, keeps the trains running on time through sheer force of personality.
Helen pulls out the chair beside her for me. "Maren. Good, you're early. I want to go over the hospitality tent budget before everyone else gets here."
I settle into the chair beside her and we spend fifteen minutes talking numbers, logistics, the catering staff I'll need to pull from my regular team. This is what I'm good at. This is where I prove my worth, not as Jackson Wilder's wife but as a professional who delivers results.
People filter in gradually. Jake from the ranch, who handles the livestock exhibition every year. Two women from the historical society. The guy who runs the carnival company, already complaining about permit fees.
Jackson arrives with coffee in hand and takes the seat across the table from me. He nods at a few people, exchanges small talk with Jake, settles in like this is just another meeting.
Shay is with him.
She slides into the chair beside Jackson like she belongs there, like she's been coming to these meetings for years instead of being here for the first time because my husband pulled strings.
He'd handed her application across our kitchen counter last week.
"Community involvement. Good for her reintegration. " I didn't argue. I should have argued.
Helen calls the meeting to order and we work through the agenda. Parade route, same as last year. Entertainment lineup, a few new acts mixed with the regulars. Vendor applications, up fifteen percent from last year, which means more coordination work for everyone.
When we get to food vendors, Helen turns to me. "Maren, you want to walk us through the layout?"
I pull out the diagram I've been working on for weeks, vendor placement designed to maximize foot traffic while minimizing bottleneck points. I've done this three years in a row. I know what works.
I trace the route on the diagram so everyone can follow.
"Main food court here, along the east fence.
That gives us shade in the afternoon and keeps the crowds away from the livestock area.
The specialty vendors, the ones with more complex setups, they'll be in the covered pavilion where they have access to power.
And the hospitality tent stays where it was last year because the VIP donors like the view of the main stage. "
Helen nods along, making notes. "What about the new applicants? The food truck from Cheyenne?"
I tap the space I've left for their truck. "I've got them slotted near the entrance. Their setup is self-contained, they don't need infrastructure support, and they'll catch people coming in hungry."
"Sounds good." Helen makes a final note. "Any questions?"
Shay raises her hand.
My stomach tightens, but I keep my face neutral. She's allowed to ask questions. She's a member of this committee now, thanks to Jackson. Asking questions is literally the point.
Shay leans toward the table. "Should Maren really be leading catering coordination?"
The room goes quiet.
"What do you mean?" Helen's tone is careful, neutral.
Shay turns toward the other committee members as though she expects them to agree. "Well, she married into the family, didn't she? I'm just saying, maybe someone with deeper roots in the community should be handling something this important."
I feel every eye in the room shift to me. Jake is staring at his hands. The historical society women are exchanging glances. The carnival guy looks like he wishes he'd stayed home.
Before I can respond, Jackson's chair scrapes back.
"That's enough." His voice cuts across the room, sharp and clear, and I watch Shay's expression flicker with surprise.
"Maren built her catering business from the ground up.
She earned her place on this committee through three years of work that made the fair better every single time.
Her qualifications have nothing to do with who she married and everything to do with what she's accomplished. "
Jackson leaves his coffee untouched. He hasn't glanced away from Shay. "You owe her an apology. A real one, not a shrug and an excuse."
Shay's mouth opens, closes. She glances around the table like she's looking for an ally, but no one meets her eyes. "I was just asking a question."
He stays on his feet when she tries to dismiss it. "No, you were questioning her competence in front of people she works with, and you did it by implying she doesn't belong here. That's not a question, that's an attack, and I won't sit here and let it stand."
Helen clears her throat, and when she speaks, her voice carries the weight of a decade running this committee.
"For the record, Maren's work has been exemplary.
Vendor complaints dropped forty percent her first year.
Revenue from the food section has increased every season since she took over coordination.
If anyone has concerns about her qualifications, they can bring them to me privately, but I don't expect to hear any because her work gives us no reason to doubt her. "
The silence stretches. Shay is staring at the table now, her face flushed.
"I'm sorry, Maren." The words come out tight, reluctant. "I shouldn't have implied you got this job because of Jackson."
I look at her for a long moment, this woman who's been testing fences for weeks, and I feel something shift in my chest. Not forgiveness, not yet, but something closer to clarity.
"I grew up here, Shay. And I built my business here." I keep my hands flat on my notes. "If you have a question about the layout, ask me about the layout." I turn back to Helen. "Should we continue?"
The meeting moves on. Jake talks about the new pens they're installing, and the historical society women argue about the heritage craft booth, and slowly the tension in the room eases back to normal. I answer questions when asked. I take notes when needed. I do my job.
But I'm aware of Jackson across the table in a way I wasn't before. He's watching me, and when our eyes meet, he doesn't look away.
When Helen adjourns the meeting, I gather my papers and head for the door. Jackson falls into step beside me, and we walk out together into the parking lot, the afternoon sun warm on my face.
I stop beside my truck and turn to face him. "That was unexpected."
"It shouldn't have been." He's standing close, hands in his pockets, and he looks tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. "I should have said something at the barbecue. I should have said something every time she pulled this, and I didn't, and I'm sorry."
I need to know what changed. I'm almost afraid to ask in case he makes it smaller. "Why now?"
He's quiet for a moment, and I watch him choose his words carefully. "Because I saw your face when she started talking. And I remembered your face at the barbecue, and at dinner, and all the other times I told myself it wasn't a big deal. It was a big deal. I just didn't want to see it."
I lean against the truck, arms crossed. "I thought you were going to stay quiet."
"I know why you thought that." He almost smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Old habit. Avoid conflict, keep the peace, let things blow over. Works great for ranch disputes, doesn't work at all for this."
I look down at the papers tucked under my arm. I had expected to carry this hurt home by myself. "No. It doesn't."
"I know." He takes a step closer. "You shouldn't have had to wonder whether I'd back you up."
I want to stay angry. Part of me thinks I should stay angry, that letting go too easily will just teach him that apologies are enough, that words can substitute for patterns changing. But he stood up in that room full of people and said what I needed him to say, and that has to count for something.
"I'm not asking you to be perfect." I uncross my arms, let my hands fall to my sides. "I'm asking you to see me. To believe me when I tell you something is wrong. To stand beside me instead of somewhere in the middle trying to keep everyone happy."
"I can do that." He reaches toward my arm, then waits. "And you can tell me when I'm being an ass. I doubt you'll run out of material."
For the first time since the meeting started, I feel a smile coming without forcing it. "That I can definitely do."
He laughs, short and surprised, and some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. "Yeah, I figured."
We stand there for a moment, the parking lot emptying around us, the sound of car doors and engines fading into the afternoon quiet. He's looking at me like he's waiting for something, permission maybe, or absolution.
I don't have absolution to give. But I can give him this.
I reach out and take his hand, his fingers warm and familiar against mine. "Come on. Let's go home."
His hand tightens around mine, and we walk to my truck together. He doesn't let go when I unlock the door, and I don't pull away.
The anniversary still hurts. But he didn't look away from me in there. I want to keep hold of that, too.
It's a start.
I slide into the driver's seat and he walks around to the passenger side, and we drive home together through the Wyoming afternoon, the windows down and the wind warm on our faces.
We don't talk much on the drive. His hand rests on my knee, and I let it stay there. I haven't forgotten the anniversary, but I don't spend the ride rehearsing another argument.
At the gate, I put my hand over his. He turns his palm up and threads his fingers through mine.