Chapter 7
Sabrina
The Vermont statehouse was all polished wood and quiet power.
As we strode down the marble hallway, passing a bust of Abraham Lincoln, I adjusted my coat and lifted my chin higher, clinging to the air of belonging. Because I did belong here.
My companion, Mr. Aw Shucks in a Flannel Shirt, had donned a surprisingly nice suit.
Here at the statehouse, I expected him to hesitate, to second-guess himself.
He did not.
Instead, he trooped beside me with a good-natured smile like he, too, had every right to be here.
Irritating.
Unsurprisingly, the director of tourism kept us waiting.
A balding man with wire-rimmed glasses and small dick energy, Keith Hurst was everything I hated about bureaucracy.
But he was everything I loved in an opponent.
Full of himself.
Not great with numbers.
And thoroughly convinced he was right.
Politeness with an air of condescension. Dismissive too. He had already decided Maplewood was a liability and didn’t seem to think this warranted further thought.
When he smiled across the conference room table, I knew I had him.
I took my time setting my portfolio on the table. If I rushed, it would take away from the sweet moment when he realized I had his ass nailed to a wall.
“Our decision,” he said when the silence got to him, “was purely based on—”
“Attendance trends?” I asked, head tilted.
He blinked several times. “Yes. Over the past several years, Maplewood’s festival attendance has—”
“Declined,” I cut in.
Gabe shifted beside me, no doubt grimacing. I should have walked him through my tactics, but that would have involved talking to him, and my patience was limited, so I’d chosen to save it for these meetings.
I picked up my blue folder, and without breaking eye contact with my new friend Keith, I opened it and slid a page across the table. Holding back a feline smile, I tapped it with one red nail. “Here are your official attendance numbers for the past five years.”
He looked down and paused, but eventually, he picked up the paper.
I waited, internally pumping a fist when awareness settled in. I had him standing knee-deep in his own bullshit.
“I’m not sure what you’re—”
“You,” I said sharply, “cited declining attendance as the reason your office relocated the festival.” On the exterior, I was calm and collected, but my blood sang with the sheer joy of being right. “But according to your own reporting, attendance has steadily increased over the last five years.”
I sat straighter, satisfied. I could practically smell the blood in the water.
“Year over year growth,” I continued. “Eleven percent in the most recent season.”
Gabe’s shoulders dropped.
Good.
“There are other factors,” Keith argued like I knew he would. I swore all these men read from the same script.
“Of course.” I settled back in my chair to let him know who was in control of this conversation. “There always are. So let’s talk about them.”
Fingers laced in front of me, I homed in on him, waiting for him to list off his reasons.
Head lowered again, he flipped through the pages I’d offered.
When Gabe shifted beside me, I squeezed his thigh, a subtle message to stand down.
He settled quickly, taking the hint.
Damn, his thigh was thick and muscular. I never would have guessed that about a man who spent his days kissing babies and asses.
Really, it was rather annoying that he didn’t have delicate bird legs.
If he did, I’d add it to the list of characteristics I could mock.
Instead he had the thighs of a rugby player.
Keith shifted, grimacing almost imperceptibly.
I kept my mouth shut and clutched Gabe’s thigh again, silently willing him to remain quiet.
Never fill silence. It was one of the most important lessons my mentor had taught me. During the Cold War, she’d seen shit I couldn’t even imagine, and she had trained me to use my status as the only woman in the room as a weapon rather than a handicap.
Keith exhaled slowly, pushing the pages back toward me. “There were concerns,” he finally admitted. “About stability. Safety. After the…” He frowned. “The incident last year.”
“It was a murder,” I responded plainly. “A horrific act of violence. But the perpetrator was arrested and has been charged. The town remains one of the safest in the state. I brought crime statistics,” I said, picking up my red folder.
He sighed. “I am familiar with the crime statistics.”
“Good. So let’s have the real conversation now,” I countered. “Why did you rescind a permit that was granted more than six months ago and award it to a town with poorer infrastructure, fewer resources, and, let’s face it, less charm than an I-89 truck stop?”
“We’re not here to assign blame,” Gabe said in his charming mayor voice. “We just want to understand what needs to be done to bring the festival back to Maplewood.”
I gave him a once-over. Mostly annoyed that he’d spoken but also a tiny bit grateful.
He’d softened the landing.
Smart move, Harding.
“I think Keith may need a new pair of pants,” Gabe muttered as we waited for our next meeting.
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” I beamed at him.
He rolled his eyes, though his expression fell back into one that almost made him look impressed. “You were good in there,” he said as we headed for the man waving us into our next meeting.
“I know.” Head high, I stepped into the office in front of him.
While my preparation was flawless, as usual, I had not anticipated the board of the Maple Producers Association to be so… nice. I was used to sleezy smiles and whitened teeth. But the guy now hugging Gabe and asking after his dad was a dead ringer for Santa Claus.
“Tom,” my associate said, slapping the man’s back. “It’s been years. How’s Nancy?”
“Ready to retire from nursing,” he said. “Trying to move to Florida. Can you believe it? I’ll never stop working.”
“Don’t listen to him,” the other man piped in as he hugged Gabe. He was thin with patchy hair and a thick mustache, and he wore Carhartts and a flannel shirt. “Bud has been sniffing around, looking to buy his land. He’ll be cashing out and investing in Hawaiian shirts in no time.”
The three of them broke into hearty laughter.
Like I said, these men were nice. Down-to-earth. Huh. I may have miscalculated.
This was not my usual crowd.
No matter; I could adjust. Especially while they were busy fawning over Gabe, asking about his family and chatting about the weather and making predictions for the upcoming sugaring season.
In this office, his status as hometown golden boy, the farm kid who could talk about sap flow, meant something.
Where my sharp questions and spreadsheets were met with curt answers and tense smiles, Gabe easily connected with these people.
“Thank you for meeting with us,” I said, ensuring I kept my tone soft. “We’re trying to understand why the festival was moved to Birch Hollow after Maplewood secured a permit. The last-minute change was a surprise, I have to say. The townsfolk have been preparing for months.”
“Attendance,” Tom said easily.
Without blinking, I held eye contact, drawing out the moment.
Finally, I said, “We just came from Keith’s office, and while we were there, we discovered that wasn’t the full picture. I brought spreadsheets with the data to prove it if you’d like to take a look.”
The room cooled a few degrees, every eye on me.
I looked over at Gabe, unsure about how to play this.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “we’ve all been through hard seasons before.”
They nodded, thoughtful frowns on their faces.
Hands splayed on the table, he went on. “Remember the April freeze five years ago? Many thought we’d never recover.”
“Lost 30 percent of my yield that year,” Tom muttered.
“But we recovered,” Gabe reminded him. “Because the citizens of our town showed up and brainstormed. And you two and this organization were a big part of that.”
There went the nodding again. From the open expressions on their faces, they’d bought into his message.
This wasn’t a tactic or a strategy. Gabe was using connection.
“I’m not here to argue with you or rehash what happened,” he said, his voice steady and calm. “Our community wants to move forward. We want to continue being ambassadors for the maple industry and to Vermont.”
“We’ve got plenty of nice towns up north too,” Tom added.
“Of course,” Gabe agreed easily. “But Maplewood is convenient for folks from both Boston and New York. We’ve got highway access and lodging.
Fine dining as well as casual. And the kind of local infrastructure that can handle tens of thousands of tourists.
That’s why the town was chosen decades ago. ”
Tom’s eyes darted to one side. “Things change.”
“Of course,” he assured him. “But we all know attendance isn’t the issue.”
The air shifted then, and Tom exhaled slowly. “After the incident last year, folks were concerned.”
“Who’s concerned?” I asked.
He hesitated, eyeing the other man, who had been introduced as Mike, then sighed. “State tourism board. Others too. The state is filled with maple producers, many of whom don’t get opportunities like this.”
“Birch Hollow pushed hard for the change,” Tom admitted.
Tom shrugged. “They’ve wanted it for years.”
“They had powerful backers.” Mike admitted.
The moment those words left his mouth, the two of them clammed up, their eyes drifting from us, their expressions turning hesitant.
Gabe leaned forward slowly, placing his forearms on the table. “Mind sharing more?”
“Corporate,” Tom said eventually, his face screwing up like the word left a bad taste in his mouth.
Corporate? I wasn’t following.
Gabe, though, seemed to understand. His nostrils flared and his jaw tightened.
But rather than pressing for more information, he leaned back in his chair.
“I’d love to pick your brains,” he murmured. “As you probably know, I’m in a lot of hot water back home. We’ll do everything we can to get the festival back. But in the meantime, what else can I do to support my local farmers? Not just my family, but all the others?”
Tom and Mike let out matching relieved breaths.
They dove into a conversation about weather, yields, resale, storage, and other maple-related terms. While I barely understood, I took notes and tried to appear supportive.
“The biggest factor is the unpredictable weather,” Tom said. “Not to mention the soaring costs.”
“And the new additive everyone’s talking about? X-9?” Mike turned to Tom.
“BGX-9,” Tom corrected. “Supposed to boost production. More big agro bullshit, if you ask me.”
Mike laced his fingers on the table between us. “People are experimenting.”
That caught my attention, not that I knew anything about additives.
“Heard the McKays in Birch Hollow are using it,” he went on.
All three men chuckled, as if they weren’t surprised.
They continued to chat, but Gabe never once attempted to circle back to the topic of who might be actively working against Maplewood.
Dammit. How was I supposed to formulate a proper opposition strategy if I didn’t know who the opposition was?
After we left their office, we met with economic development, then power walked with the state senator. By the time we were finished, it was dark and I was feeling unsteady.
Mostly because Gabe had been strangely effective.
He didn’t push. Didn’t corner. But he asked lots of questions.
As we walked down the long hallway toward the exit that would take us to the parking lot, he loosened his tie, tilting his chin up and giving the silk a smooth tug one way, then the other.
The gesture was so confident and so masculine.
Gabriel Harding was, despite what I wanted to think, competent.
And that was a problem.
Because I was very attracted to competence.
As we approached the door, he gave me one of those charming grins that probably dropped panties in the roadside dives he frequented up here in the sticks.
“How’d I do, boss?”
We stopped, and I busied myself with my folders, choosing my words carefully. “You weren’t terrible.”
“High praise,” he said with a smirk, holding open the massive door for me.
Icy wind whipped at my hair and my face, stunning me.
“Well, shit,” he said. “Looks like they weren’t kidding about that nor’easter.”