Gabe
Iwasn’t quite sure what I was looking at. The small conference room had been transformed and was now equipped with whiteboards covered in color-coded systems, arrows, and sticky notes.
A farm of laptops had been set up on a table that had once housed unshelved books. The hot pink sign taped to the wall read, TAP Command - Fuck Around and Find Out and was covered with heart and emoji stickers.
“A command center?” I asked, surveying the office equipment that had surely cost a small fortune.
“We prefer the term tactical hub,” Harper corrected without looking up from her phone.
“I’m old-school. We call it a war room.” Laurie Monroe popped her head in. “Hello, Gabriel,” she said, her voice as kind as always. Then she zeroed in on her daughter. “Sue is taking over for me in twenty minutes. I’ll be back for the presentation then.”
“Presentation?” I asked.
“Just need a few minutes,” Harper said, now with a pen between her teeth.
Sabrina shuffled over to a fancy phone hub and dialed a number.
When the call connected, a baby wailed on the other end.
“Tell Madison it’s nap time,” Sabrina said, nearly shouting over the commotion.
The baby screamed harder.
“Tell her I’ll buy her a pony. We need you.”
“Gimme a minute,” a woman replied.
I stood back as Nina Dunne strolled in holding a large coffee and wearing an unimpressed expression. “I’ve got a client in two hours, so we’ve got to keep this short,” she warned as she sat and cracked open one of the laptops.
What was she doing here?
Sabrina stood in front of the largest whiteboard, one with many colored lists and rainbow rows of sticky notes.
“Girls,” she said easily, “we can start the briefing shortly.”
As Harper set up a projection screen, I wondered how the hell the Maplewood library had the budget for this tech.
The door to the room creaked, and Marigold Shaw shuffled in, her leopard-print cane in one hand, a folder stuffed with papers in the other.
She froze when she saw me, her mouth pressing into a grim line. “You don’t see me. Got it?”
I looked around at the other people in the room. I definitely saw her. And no one else seemed concerned.
“I’m not here.” She raised an aggressively penciled-on brow at me. Marigold was part of the Maple Street Mafia and a longtime friend of Bitsy’s. And she was not someone I expected to be part of this team.
“Yes, Ma’am,” I said. “Did not see you here.”
She gave me a proud smile, as if I was a dog who’d just mastered a new trick, and lowered herself into a large ergonomic desk chair.
“Harper,” Sabrina said. “Why don’t you start?”
Harper was sixteen or seventeen if my memory was correct, but she carried herself with the world-weary confidence of someone twice her age.
She was on the tall side, and with her dyed black hair, her thick bangs, and glasses, she bore no physical resemblance to teenage Sabrina I’d once known.
But her posture and attitude were spot on.
She nodded and pulled up a slide on the projector.
“We’ve identified seven possible avenues for future revenue generation,” Sabrina said, gesturing to Harper. “We have short term, medium term and long term. Today we need to talk to you about our short-term plans.”
“Changes and initiatives that need to start today to get more revenue flowing into the town,” Nina explained.
“We’ve got tourism conversion via maple cams, live content, and strategic promotion,” Harper said. “And direct-to-consumer maple subscriptions.”
She clicked to the next slide, and I had to blink several times to interpret all the numbers detailing projections and costs.
“And on-site premium farm experiences,” she added. “Small groups, high margins.”
There went the blinking again. All the information was hard to keep up with.
“Due to the loss of the festival, we’ve got to lower our volume event dependence and increase per-visitor revenue long term,” Sabrina explained.
“Maplewood depends on seasonal spikes and town-sponsored festivals,” Harper told me, sounding far older than she was. “A more consistent online presence and strategic social content can drive both visitors and product sales year-round.”
I looked from one woman to another. A high school student, a nail tech, a librarian, and a ninety-year-old busybody. And whoever the woman on the phone was.
“She sounds like you,” I said to Sabrina, both impressed and a bit terrified of Harper.
“She’s better.” She nodded at the teenager, gesturing for her to keep talking.
“As you can see, I’ve created a four-prong social content strategy. Step one is getting the farmers onboard and purchasing the necessary technology to execute.”
She slid a piece of paper across the table to me.
“That’s a preliminary list of what we need to get the maple cams operational. We want them up in the next week in case of an early sap run.”
Confusion swirled through me. “Maple cams?”
“Cameras. To capture the sap running. To show the process, the weather, the collection,” she explained. “We take the usual farm excitement and anticipation, and we blow it up globally, bringing a massive audience along for the ride.”
I nodded along, even if I couldn’t imagine how a camera live streaming a maple tree would attract a global audience.
“We need several types of cameras. We need lighting, mics, a streaming setup—which should include at least one dedicated maple cam server—live stream software, and mobile hotspot rigs for farms with unreliable Wi-Fi.”
“I can build the backend next week,” the voice on the phone chimed in. “I just need admin access and a few hours of quiet.”
“I’ll send over the British nanny the secretary of state recommended,” Sabrina said. “Give you some time to yourself.”
“Um, what’s a lavalier?” I asked as I scanned the endless list of expensive equipment.
“A tiny microphone,” Nina huffed. “Keep up.” Tipping her head back, she chugged her coffee.
“We’ll have QR codes at every farm, an interactive map of Maplewood that viewers can click on to learn more, and push notifications for sap runs.”
“Sorry,” I said, eyeing the five women who were all staring at me like I was an idiot. “We’re notifying people when trees, um, do things?”
Harper let out a breath, brows furrowed, like she was offended.
“When the trees produce value, yes. And with that natural wonder they possess, we’ll use twenty-first-century equipment and strategies to maximize and compound that value.”
This was ridiculous. But also genius.
“Nina,” Sabrina said, controlling the room like a symphony conductor, “where are we at on public opinion and the individual farms?”
Nina set her coffee cup down. “I’ve broken the major farmers into three categories.” She held up one finger, her long nails and the jeweled snowflakes glued to them snagging my attention. “Category One, farms on board. So far, that category only consists of the Lawrence farm.”
“You spoke to Josh?” I asked.
My cousin ran a large maple farm that encompassed both his family’s and my family’s land and trees.
“No,” she replied, arching a brow. “But I know you’ll make it happen.”
My pulse picked up. Josh was one of my best friends, but he was also averse to change and was practically a hermit. “But—”
“Don’t interrupt me,” she said, her tone devoid of emotion.
I shut my mouth.
“Two,” she went on. “Persuadable. This list consists of farmers who are open to more opportunities and have a growth-forward mindset. The Fitzgeralds are the lynchpin. If we get them on board, the rest of this list will follow.”
The women murmured their agreement.
I nodded, even knowing they weren’t looking for my opinion. The Fitzgeralds ran the largest maple farm in the county and would do just about anything to keep the business going.
“And third, the absolutely not crowd. Mainly small hobby farms and those owned by senior citizens or the ones that have been purchased by corporations and don’t have much of connection to the town or the heritage.”
She slid a list to me.
I scanned it, pretty certain she’d included every farm in the county, along with bullet-pointed notes about which family members had decision-making authority and their opinions on the loss of the festival.
“How do you know all this?” I asked, looking up.
Shrugging, Nina picked up her coffee cup again. “I listen. And people rarely censor themselves around me.”
Sabrina beamed.
“Like your recall prospects,” Nina mentioned casually. “I’m sure you know this, but you’re down seven points right now.”
My heart lurched. “I’m what?”
“Don’t panic.”
“I’m not panicking,” I snapped.
“You look like you’re panicking,” Marigold said from her chair at the end of the table.
Huffing, I straightened and schooled my expression. “I’m not.”
Nina flipped through a glittery pink notebook. “You’ve got strong support with young families. But you don’t quite have the confidence of the older voters. No surprise there, since most of them do what Bitsy Bramble tells them to.”
She flipped a few more pages as I processed this information.
“Is she a pollster?” I asked Sabrina.
“Better.” With a grin, she crossed her arms over her chest.
“Business owners are nervous,” Nina explained.
“Sophie and Walt are already feeling revenue hits in food service, and Mel who does the fly fishing trips is worried she may not be able to open for the season.” Tapping the table, she zeroed in on me.
“This is a big opportunity for you. Shore up support with the farmers first and introduce some new initiatives to draw more attention to the town. Do that, and you’ll stabilize the small business vote. ”
I nodded, in complete agreement but stunned. When had twenty-three-year-old Nina Dunne become a shrewd political analyst?
“We took the liberty of putting together a teeny-tiny to-do list for you.” Laurie stood and handed me a binder.
It was heavy, and it was tabbed and marked with names, locations, maps, and other details.
“Page one is an overview of what we need this week. And a list of materials that will help you.”
I opened it up, perusing the neatly typed information. “This is impressive.”
Laurie grinned. “I’m a librarian.”