Gabe
Coat buttoned tight and ducking against the wind, I trudged toward the barn.
This was where I’d find her.
While her grandson Mark was a friend, this would only work if I went to the big boss.
According to Mary Fitzgerald, her mother had given birth to her in the forest on the first day of the sap run. She’d spent her entire life outside, and she took pride in working seven days a week on her family’s farm.
In her eight decades on this land, she’d fought off bankruptcy, lawsuits, visits from predatory real estate developers, and several strains of root rot. Yet she was still standing. And she was known as one of the shrewdest negotiators in the county.
The farm was quiet under the hard February sky. Not dead. But dormant. Waiting for spring.
The snow crusted the road in uneven sheets, crunching under my boots as I walked.
The Fitzgeralds used to keep a big herd of cattle. Dairy cows they used to produce their award-winning cheddar. But after several hard years a decade or so ago, they’d sold the herd and focused solely on maple syrup production.
Ahead was an immaculate row of trees. Each one stood proud, tap lines already secured for that first thaw. But for now, the farm slept.
This was the part most people never saw. The festivals were flashy and the glossy bottles lined up in the gift shops were nostalgic and cozy. But this cold, quiet work was the important part. Work that never stopped. Work that adapted to every hardship nature threw at it.
I stood in front of the barn, where an Earth, Wind, and Fire song blared from a speaker, taking in the scene.
This way of life couldn’t be saved in a conference room. The identity of our town could not be defined in the cells of a spreadsheet.
It was this. The farm. The people. And the work.
I took a breath and stepped inside.
Mary was bent over a workbench, her silver hair tucked into a thick knit hat.
Mark sat with a laptop and a stainless-steel coffee mug at a table by the door.
“Mayor,” he said with a nod.
“Good to see you.” I rubbed my hands together, relishing the heat and the familiar barn smell I’d grown up with. A combination of woodsmoke, crushed pine needles and diesel.
Mary didn’t look up. She was wearing her glasses and was busy fiddling with equipment that looked like it could either fix a chainsaw or start a war.
“Took you long enough,” she said, still focused on what she was doing.
“Been busy,” I replied.
“Busy losing the festival?” she snapped.
I sighed. “Trying to make it right.”
Finally, she snapped up straight and pushed her glasses up her nose.
“I know you hate excuses,” I hedged. There was no point trying to defend myself.
She crossed her arms, the wrinkles she’d earned over decades spent outdoors and in the sun deepening.
“But I’m here because it’s time to step up and fix things. I should have come sooner.”
Mark raised a brow, though he kept typing silently on his laptop.
“Fixing this requires going to the people. To the farms. To the tap,” I said.
I paced through the barn, noting the tightly coiled tubing and stainless-steel collection buckets, along with a host of equipment I knew better than my own family.
“We’ve got a strong support system,” I explained. “The most powerful force Maplewood possesses is its people. Its farmers. Like you and me.”
Mary pressed her lips together. “You sold your farm.”
“It’s still in the family,” I countered, turning on my heel. “And you know it’s all hands on deck when the sap starts running. Josh is much better at running it all. I’d rather jump in and do what he tells me to when needed.”
Mark snorted.
“He’s capable.” Mary nodded.
“The festival doesn’t belong to the state,” I went on. “It isn’t some prize to be awarded. It is what it is today because of the farmers. Because of the people actually doing work.”
Mary tilted her head to one side, almost interested.
I gestured out toward the trees. “The sugar bush,” I explained. “We’re working on innovative ways to build up our businesses. Using the land, building experiences around it. Tours, tapping, boiling.”
Mark frowned, sitting back from his laptop. “We don’t want tourists on our land.”
“I understand. But think about it, structured, small groups, high value. Programs set up for guests at the inn. They stay there, the spa and the restaurant earn their business, and they engage in curated tourist experiences like tapping trees and boiling sap or picking apples in the fall and pressing cider.”
I went back to pacing, gathering my thoughts. “We’ve formed a committee. They’re working on new ideas.”
“The Monroe girl?” Mary asked, her tone disapproving.
“Yes,” I said, turning and locking eyes with her. “We’re working together. This town needs all the help it can get.”
“She emailed me about social media.” Mark rolled his eyes.
“Yes,” I replied. “Please take it into consideration. Their plans are genius. We’ll set up maple cams. Stream the sap run and the boil. If we show people what’s happening live, we build interest before they even get here. Raising the profile of the town and your farm.”
Mary tapped her chin but didn’t respond.
“I know you’re boiling again,” I said. “The private label stock?”
Her lips twitched. “Like my dad used to. I hate shipping my sap out to those suits at Sugar Moon Syrup every morning. It’s a factory run by computers and robots. Syrup is a sacred process.”
I nodded. Josh mentioned that the Fitzgeralds were holding back some of their late season dark sap to boil into their own private label syrup.
Many producers in this area had stopped boiling syrup, which was a labor intensive, detailed process, in favor of shipping their sap directly to the Sugar Moon factory for processing.
It was faster and came with less overhead.
But the old-school die-hards like Mary hated it.
“We’ve got a film crew,” I explained. “Doing a documentary. They want the authentic maple farm experience. From a family with heritage. And we have tech help available. Your website could be expanded so you can sell your goods. You could be shipping syrup all over the world. Why settle for the farmers’ market? ”
Mark’s eyes lit up. I’d hoped that would garner his interest. More than once, he and I had sat together at the brewery, commiserating over how difficult it was to drag our families’ businesses into the twenty-first century. He wanted his grandma to retire so he could streamline and optimize.
“You’ve got the best view of the mountains,” I said. “And that stretch of the Sterling River that runs through your property. It’d be a beautiful spot for events or tours, especially in the fall, when you’re not sugaring.”
Most farms produced other crops or products to keep income flowing year-round. Our family’s farm had apple orchards and a few other crops.
“We could all use alternative streams of income,” I said, as if they didn’t already know that. “And the work never stops. Your farm has been around for what, five generations?”
“Six,” Mary said, standing a little straighter. “Fitzgeralds have owned this land since the Revolution.”
“Exactly.” I dipped my chin. “Your farm is a treasure. A lesson in history. It makes this town unique. So let’s highlight it. The maple cams, some social media content, a documentary. I’m not asking you to host tourists.”
“Yet,” Mark grumbled.
“I won’t force anyone, just offering a possibility.”
“I’m tired.” Sighing, Mary tossed her tool onto the table. “I’m sick of the sharks trying to buy my land and those corporate shits with their bullshit chemicals. What’s the new one? Almost chased the guy off my land with a shotgun last time.”
“BGX-9,” Mark added, still typing.
“Yeah,” she said. “The last thing big ag cares about is trees.”
“Short-term yields, long-term damage,” Mark added.
Josh had ranted about AgriNova and their corporate bullshit to me on more than one occasion, so I knew a little about the situation. But it was the same song and dance every couple of years. Some corporation would come in and try to “hack” maple sugaring or “optimize” it.
“Let’s highlight tradition, then,” I suggested. “We’ll focus on how the Fitzgeralds have always been stewards of the land.”
“We have,” Mary groused. “I wish I could cast a spell that would make this easier or cheaper. But the real magic is in trusting nature and taking what she gives you.”
Hope bloomed inside me. Mary would be an incredible addition to this plan if I could get her on board. She was a spunky octogenarian with the vocabulary of a Gen Z environmental warrior. She would be the perfect star of our Maplewood documentary.
“Talk it over with the rest of the family,” I said gently. “Think about it. I won’t push you to do anything you’re not comfortable with. But we’ve got to think bigger.”
Mary eyed her grandson. “Mayor’s not wrong. Could be good for business. You’re always on me about branding and online presence.” She spat the terms out like they were poison.
“Okay,” Mark said. “But we’d need help with the social media crap. We’ve got enough work around here without worrying about algorithms and trends.”
“Not a problem.” I kept my tone even, though inside, I was cheering. “We’ve got a person for that.”
Mary silently examined me from head to toe. “I like this version of you. You’ve got ideas. Used to think you were a bit of a wimp.”
I said nothing, and I wasn’t the least bit offended. That was probably the nicest compliment this woman had ever given me.
“This is bigger than losing the festival,” I explained. “This town has to evolve. We have to grow.”
Mark nodded once. “Things aren’t like they used to be. We’ve got to work from a new playbook.”
“Exactly. And it’s going to take effort from everyone.”
All my life I’d been told that our history was our strength, that my job was to preserve and protect. But as I stood here with Mary and Mark, who had held on through sheer force of will and willingness to change, Sabrina’s words rang in my head.
“We’ve got to bet on ourselves,” I said. “Politics and Birch Hollow don’t get to control the fate of this town.”
Mary smiled for the first time since I’d walked in. “Yes. Fuck the government. They can push their paper, but we’re the ones doing the work.”
My chest tightened with pride. “Exactly.”
She assessed me again. “I like you a lot. That’s usually a problem. I’m worried you’ll screw this up.”
Mark laughed, but I admired her bluntness.
“If I was on my own, I probably would. But I’m not working alone,” I told her. “We’re all doing this together. We’ve got a committee, volunteers, a social media team. I’m just the messenger.”
She walked around the table and held out her hand.
“I don’t work with people I don’t trust. But for some reason, probably because I used to enjoy beating your grandpa at poker, I trust you.”
I took her hand, surprised by her shockingly strong grip.
“Mark. Give the mayor what he needs,” she instructed. “Set up the cameras, shake your ass on TikTok, whatever it takes.”
Mark gave me an annoyed glare that pulled a laugh out of me.
The mayor didn’t have a lot of power. But maybe Gabe Harding did. As a citizen, a son of Maplewood, and as a descendant of the people who’d built something lasting on this land.
There was possibility here. The job didn’t define me, just like the past didn’t define Maplewood. The future did.