2. Sabrina
Sabrina
My mother had bought a tiny cape on the outskirts of downtown ten years ago, and even now, it was her pride and joy. The structure was bright yellow with whimsical touches, cottage-style accents, and lots of framed photos and art. It was uniquely her.
After decades of scrimping and saving and putting herself last. She finally had a home she adored. It was not my style, but being here always made me feel warm and loved.
Except this morning.
My mother may have been my best friend in this world, but after her attempted matchmaking, I was going to have serious words her.
Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I cursed the twin bed I was sprawled out on. I really should have gotten my specialty pillows out of storage before driving up here.
Once I’d hauled myself up, I checked my reflection in the mirror—a lovely filagree oval hanging above a dresser painted powder blue. Definitely one of my mom’s DIY projects.
“You’re not the good guy,” I said. “You’re a bad bitch who gets shit done.” It was the mantra I’d repeated every morning for most of my adult life.
As I wandered into the kitchen, I pulled my hair back. I’d just begun my search for a coffee mug when the doorbell rang.
I glowered at it. What it in the Leave it to Beaver nonsense was this shit? It was seven thirty a-fucking-m. Who thought stopping by this early was appropriate?
I shuffled to one side so I could get a look out the window beside the door.
At the discovery, I sighed. Of course.
It was Bitsy Bramble, looking like she’d been up for hours in a purple down parka and matching knit hat. I considered scampering back to my room and locking the door.
But before I could escape, she was being welcomed into the house. “Hello, Bitsy,” my mother said with a big smile. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
The septuagenarian adjusted her purple scarf. “That would be lovely. I’m sorry to stop by so early,” she went on, not sounding the least big remorseful, “but I was nearby. On my morning power walk with the ladies. And we’ve been overwhelmed with worry.”
Mom frowned. “Is everyone okay?”
“Oh yes. Of course. But I heard your daughter is visiting, and I desperately need to speak to her.”
My mother eyed me.
Shrugging, I poured coffee into a mug that read Out of Circulation. Mom had a vast collection of librarian-themed decor.
Bitsy was probably here to shame me for attacking the precious mayor. Maybe I’d be put in the stocks in the town square for defacing the golden boy of Maplewood, Vermont.
“He deserved that taco to the face,” I hollered, lifting my mug.
The elderly woman studied me for a moment, her lip curling, as if in my black silk pajamas, with eye mask pulled up to the top of my head and eye makeup smeared under my eyes, I was not up to her morning standards.
“He probably did.” She shuffled past my mother, holding out her coat. “And I don’t much care for our mayor, so feel free to do what you need to do.”
Huh. I released the mettle I’d just gathered and sighed. I was certain the mob would arrive with their pitchforks at some time today, ready to flay me alive for disrespecting their perfect boy.
“We have a major crisis. If we don’t resolve it, the town will be destroyed,” she nearly shrieked. “And only you can help us, Sabrina.”
I blinked a few times, replaying her words. Yes, I’d barely slept, but I wasn’t hearing things or misunderstanding. Though the situation absolutely resembled that of the plot of a bad action movie.
“Me?” I asked.
“Yes.” She clasped her hands in front of her chest. “It’s just been confirmed. We’ve lost the Maple Festival. The town is doomed.”
She pulled up a chair and sat at the table, sighing.
I still wasn’t following, but my mother sank into the seat next to me and jumped in. “What do you mean?”
“My sources at the statehouse informed me, and it appears that Mayor Do-Nothing has also been told. He’s called an emergency town meeting tonight. We’ve lost the festival. All that planning, all the potential revenue, gone. Poof.” She threw her hands up.
“How does a town lose a festival?” I asked, cupping both hands around my mug. “We host it and we plan it. It happens here, on our streets.”
The Maple Festival had been a cornerstone of life in this town for decades.
It was Maplewood’s pride and joy, and it created significant economic opportunity for the locals.
Citizens emerged from the long Vermont winter, ready to showcase the best of our natural resources.
This festival kicked off the activity calendar that took us through the fall and provided most of the income for the town’s small businesses.
“Because.” Bitsy glowered at me, as if annoyed that I wasn’t following along.
“There can only be one Vermont State Maple Festival. Our town applies for the license to host it every year, and every year, it is granted. But because maple syrup is so essential to the Vermont identity…” She paused, lacing her fingers, purposefully drawing the moment out.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
“There are certain regulations that must be followed. We’ve always hosted. It’s a given. And though we were granted our permit in October, the state has rescinded it and awarded it to another town.”
My mother gasped. “People are already hurting,” she said softly.
My mother, despite her diabolical blind date ideas, was deeply empathetic.
The two of us had weathered some very hard years after my father passed, that time leaving a lasting mark on her.
I didn’t think she’d ever not worry about the future.
“It’s all connected,” Bitsy said, fingering the strand of pearls around her neck. “The murder, the press, that damn influencer. The inn has had cancellations.” She pounded her fist on the table. “Cancellations.”
I frowned. The Thistle Inn was award winning, very fancy, and usually booked a year in advance.
“We will never recover.” Her penciled-in eyebrows shot up. “Did you know real estate prices went down 3 percent last year?”
“People here…” Mom sighed, turning to me. “The last year has been difficult. There is so much economic pressure, not to mention inflation and rising unemployment rates.”
My heart hurt. I was not a stranger to struggling. Neither was my mom. That pang of dread in my stomach, the one that came with knowing that there simply wasn’t enough, had lingered for years even after I was financially stable.
“That’s why we need you,” Bitsy said.
Pulled from my thought spiral, I angled forward. “Excuse me?”
“You’re a fixer.” She lifted her chin. “That’s what I’ve heard, at least. Though your online presence is…” A small judgmental hum escaped her. “Sporadic.”
Ha. She was correct, and she had no idea how much time and money it took to keep it that way. Being an enigma was an essential part of my job.
“And you’re a smart and determined girl. You always have been.”
I picked my mug up again. “I’m just visiting my mom.”
She glared, the wrinkles on her face deepening. “I said it was difficult to find information about you. Not impossible,” she chided. “So I know you’re currently unemployed and that your DC Condo is on the market and priced to sell.”
I shuddered. How the fuck did she know any of this? Was Bitsy Bramble ex-CIA?
“I don’t know what went wrong in your life, dear,” she said, “but this town desperately needs your help.”
“But—”
“No buts. As chair of the Maplewood Economic Development Committee and a citizen of this fine town, I am begging you to help us win back the Maple Festival and the tourists.”
This was ridiculous. It was too early and I was far too tired. Given how the last few months had gone, the last thing I wanted was to disappoint an entire community of people if I couldn’t do what this woman was asking.
Beside me, my mom looked genuinely stricken.
“I’m not staying,” I said with a sigh. “And while I’m happy to brainstorm—”
“Sabrina,” my mother said. “Please. You are so well connected. And you could do a lot of good here.”
Yes, I was furious with her for setting me up on the blind date from hell with my high school nemesis.
And it would be a cold day in hell before I let her live that down.
But.
But. I loved her. More than anything. It had been the two of us against the world since Dad had died. She’d struggled and pinched pennies to raise me, giving up all luxury so she could give me everything she could.
Maplewood was her home.
And while I doubted Bitsy Bramble, my mom wasn’t faking this.
Good. She’d suggested I could do good here.
It was a concept I thought about constantly.
Good was relative. Good was set on a sliding scale.
Good didn’t pay the bills.
But, unbeknownst to my mother, the concept of “doing good” had wormed its way into my brain and made a home there over the past several months.
Though it had caused nothing but disaster.
“Mrs. Bramble,” I said softly.
“Call me Bitsy, dear.” She sipped her coffee, eyeing me over the rim, daring me to turn her down.
I was no stranger to being persuasive, though I could learn a thing or two from this woman.
“Bitsy,” I said. “My brand of fixing is…” I trailed off, searching for a way to explain without offending her little-old-lady sensibilities.
“Manipulative?” she offered, brows arching.
Huh. The supposition was a surprise, but not incorrect.
“Ruthless?” she offered. “Morally compromised?” She sipped her coffee again, as if none of this was shocking to her.
My heart thudded against my rib cage.
She patted my hand, unbothered. “It’s okay, dear. In fact, that’s what we need. Getting this town back to its former glory is going take a lot more than smiles and bake sales.”
Eyes closed, I blew out a breath. “I’m not a small-town politician.”
“Good. We have more than enough already.” She sniffed, nose in the air. “If we needed bright smiles and empty platitudes, I’d ask the mayor. But I’m here because we need a ruthless person on our side. Someone who isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty.”
I opened my mouth to object. I was here because I needed a break. So I could plan my next steps.
Not jump feetfirst into small-town festival shenanigans.
Her cloudy eyes almost sparkled, like she was certain she’d already won. “And trust me. I’d never ask a man to do a woman’s job.”
She and my mom laughed like the comment was hilarious.
I, on the other hand, closed my eyes and attempted to wrap my mind around where my life had taken me.
“I know you’ve had a…” Bitsy tapped her wrinkled chin. “A fall from grace in Washington.”
A fall from grace? I nearly huffed. It had been more of an exile. Not that I’d tell her that.
My phone had been silent for days. Not a single call, text, or email notification.
She was right. I had nothing else to do. Nowhere to go.
And my mom looked so damn hopeful.
My stomach clenched as I surveyed her. Do good, my brain told me. Help them out.
I hated the damn voice in my head.
With a long breath out of my nose, I asked, “What do you need me to do?”
Bitsy clapped, straightening her bony shoulders. “First, assess the situation and figure out how to get the festival back. After that, do whatever you want. You have the full backing of the economic development council.”
“And the mayor?” I asked, grimacing. “Won’t he get in the way?”
The woman smiled like she had many secrets.
“He won’t get in your way.” With that, she popped to her feet.
“Excuse me. I need to head over to a park committee meeting. But think about it.” She cocked one brow.
“The town is in danger. Already, the situation gets worse each day, and without this festival, we may be doomed. You have my backing, whatever it takes.”
She swept out of the house, a blur of purple and perfume, leaving Mom and me staring at one another across the tiny oak table.
“Looks like you’re staying,” she said, standing and pushing in her chair. “How about scrambled eggs?”
I peered at the microwave clock. It wasn’t even eight. How had all that happened so quickly?
“Mom.”
She pulled a carton of eggs from the fridge and turned to me.
“You’re not off the hook.”
Her lips curled into a smile.
“What were you thinking?” I huffed. “Setting me up with Gabe?”
She closed the door and turned completely, full mom face activated. “I was thinking that my hardworking, beautiful daughter is hurting and could use a fun distraction.”
“And you thought a dinner date with my childhood nemesis, a man who is my complete opposite in every way, would be a good distraction?”
She shrugged.
Annoyance rolled over me. How was she so unbothered?
“Covering the handsome mayor in pulled pork was probably a fun distraction.” She smiled. “Makes for a great story.”
I put my head on the table and groaned. I should have known I couldn’t lie low and relax in this town. Maplewood had a way of drawing people into its madness, no matter how hard they fought it.
“Just imagine,” Mom said, happily cracking eggs. “If people were throwing tacos at congressional hearings, CSPAN would get much higher ratings.”
“If all I’d done was throw food, I’d still have a job.” In my line of work, random acts of violence were more easily forgiven than what I’d done.
That voice in my head popped up again, reminding me that I’d made the right decision.
Whatever.
Right or not, it had gotten me fired.
Blacklisted.
Deemed unloyal and a liability.
Doing the right thing was rarely appreciated. It was rarely helpful.
And I’d learned that lesson the hard way.