Sabrina
Nothing could have prepared me for a Maplewood meeting. Not backdoor negotiations for illegal uranium sales. Not talking down a senator after his mistress threatened to go public. Not even mediating a two-country trade dispute over olive oil that almost ended in a sanctions war.
This gathering was truly testing my self-control and diplomatic skills.
I was feeling. And not just one emotion, but many at once. It was terrifying.
Normally I shut that shit down and got to work.
Was Vermont the cause?
Was I getting soft in my old age?
Whatever the origin, I was laughing and crying and randomly weeping. I’d even gone to Bean There, Done That earlier today and ordered a blueberry muffin that made me teary-eyed.
A muffin.
It was delicious. While I had no attachment to muffins or to blueberries, it turned out to be the one food item I could stomach the thought of.
My loss of control was horrifying. Maybe I should see the doctor. Find out whether there was a pill I could take to stop this shit. Or a patch, maybe. I’d even take those powder packets that dissolve in water.
I made a mental note to research my options when I got home.
For now, I had to get through this meeting. So I sat up straight and forced myself to study the assembled crowd. I was here to present to the Maplewood Economic Development Committee and had been seated at a large table in the front of the room, with Gabe on my right and Bitsy Bramble on my left.
The front row was filled with committee members and small business owners.
Behind them, several townsfolk had gathered as well.
Nina stood in the back, glaring at everyone, and Harper fussed over the projector to make sure our PowerPoint was perfect.
There were only a few dozen people here, yet my heart was pounding.
“All set.” Harper gave me a discreet thumbs-up, then scurried to the back and stood with Nina, her ever-present notebook at the ready.
The girl impressed the hell out of me. Not only was she kicking ass in all her classes—except PE—but she’d been working around the clock getting maple cams set up, building social media accounts and a website, and accomplishing the work of a ten-person corporate comms department from the library conference room.
When I asked her about it, she rolled her eyes and said, “School’s a joke. I have better things to do.”
Chairs scraped and coats piled up as the room filled. I recognized a few faces, and Nina watched the door, noting who was present. She’d planted seeds this week, mentioning this meeting to the townsfolk she saw, ensuring she hinted at the “economic innovations” we were proposing.
From her reports, people seemed enthusiastic.
Along with the committees, the front row was filled with elderly ladies, including Marigold, who gave me a wink as she shuffled in with her cane.
She’d warned me about Bitsy’s agenda for the meeting, filling me in on some “gotcha” moments the lavender-wearing old biddy had orchestrated.
Ever since I’d dared to suggest that maybe Gabe Harding wasn’t useless, Bitsy’d had it out for me.
She was the one who’d begged me to help, yet she sure got threatened when I tried to actually accomplish something.
“I call this meeting to order,” she said, thumping a fist on the table.
Given the small venue, there was no microphone. Not that she needed it; she was loud enough to reach the next county on her own.
“Before we begin,” she said with a sickening sweetness, “it’s important to acknowledge that this town is struggling without its flagship tourism event.”
A murmur went through the crowd, and a few people, mainly the ladies in the front row, glared at Gabe.
“And that our mayor”—she turned and zeroed in on the poor guy too—“has struggled to respond appropriately to this crisis.”
Rather than bristling or snapping, he nodded calmly, his fingers laced on the table in front of him.
“You’re right, Bitsy,” he said. “We’ve taken a hit.
But that’s why we’re here.” He gestured to me.
“This town has a secret weapon. Sabrina Monroe and her team have been working hard to plan our next steps.”
His response was surprising. I expected him to argue with her. To try to win the moment. But he just absorbed her criticism and pivoted.
Standing, I nodded at Harper, signaling to her that I was ready for our first slide.
Once I’d greeted the crowd, I cleared my throat.
“My team and I have outlined several initiatives that will help us rebuild the local tourism industry, increase small business revenue, and create year-round economic opportunity.”
Half turning, I pointed at the slide on screen.
“Our short-term plans should initiate regrowth. The medium-term plans are the projects we’ll tackle within the next six months. And then the long-term initiative. Obviously, that will take longer, but it will build toward a more sustainable economic future for everyone.”
A man in his fifties near the back raised his hand. “What’s a maple cam?” he asked, pointing to the top of the slide.
“Glad you asked.” I gave him a wide smile. “It’s the cornerstone of our social media campaign and short-term economic push. We’re currently live streaming from three farms.”
I turned my smile on Gabe. “And thanks to the tireless advocacy of our mayor, we’re expanding to six next week.”
The man blinked a few times, his lips curving down. “People are watching trees?”
I nodded at Harper, and as we planned, she approached.
“We got seventeen thousand views in the first twelve hours. We’re making the sap run an interactive digital experience.”
She beamed at me, the look sending an unfamiliar surge of maternal pride through my body.
“This slide,” she said, nodding at Nina, who’d taken over and was clicking through the presentation, “details our cross-platform engagement. Also, the Lawrence Farm, where we installed our first maple cam, has already received over a thousand email signups from consumers interested in purchasing syrup.”
A woman in the back gasped.
“Yes,” I said, tempering my enjoyment. “Our strategy centers the farmers, the process, and the history. The goal is direct sales for our farmers and merchants in the short term, and more curated on-site experiences for interested tourists long term.”
“We’re building momentum,” Harper explained. “Treating this like a massive event. People will have FOMO if they miss the first drops of sap.”
“It could be any day now,” a craggy old voice cut in.
“Exactly,” our resident techie said. “That’s what drives the engagement. And that’s just the live stream. The new Maplewood TikTok account I set up and filled with content about maple syrup and photos from old harvests has over thirty thousand followers.”
“Creating interest in the town is a net positive,” my mom said from her seat next to the other ladies who worked at the library. “We bring people here digitally first. Get them hooked. Then they will visit. Not just for a festival weekend, but all year long.”
Bitsy’s hands were fisted on the table and a vein in her forehead bulged like she was about to explode.
“That’s so nice, dear,” she said, her tone dripping in condescension. “But how could your little cameras replace the festival?”
Harper had frozen, her eyes wide with apprehension behind the lenses of her glasses.
I reached over and squeezed her arm, then focused on the old bag beside me. “I’m so glad you asked, Bitsy,” I said. “I’ll walk you through it.”
The slides were thorough, spelling out every detail. But I went through them slowly to ensure everyone could follow along.
Bitsy remained unsatisfied, her face sour and twisted.
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“Based on what Harper has shared, it is working,” I told her gently.
Jowls quivering with what looked like rage, she asked, “Who authorized this? You can’t just buy cameras using tax dollars.”
I rolled my shoulders. While the rest of the room seemed intrigued, my competence only seemed to make Bitsy a bit more unhinged.
“We haven’t done any of this without authorization from the mayor, and he’s been a key player, helping us get much of this off the ground,” I said. “The equipment was funded through the public relations budget, which, frankly, is ridiculously tiny. The rest was paid for privately.”
“But you can’t just put up cameras,” she argued.
“We have written permission from the landowners of every farm where we’ve installed them,” Gabe said pleasantly. “It’s private property. The owners can decide for themselves. And they’re already seeing more interest.”
“Sit down, Bitsy,” Marigold called from the front row. “Don’t you see? We’re evolving. This is twenty-first-century shit.”
Giggles floated through the air.
“But,” Bitsy spat, saliva escaping her and all, “this isn’t a startup venture. It’s a town, a town that’s been badly managed by Gabriel Harding.”
There it was. Her underlying agenda. “Mayor Harding has been an excellent resource and partner,” I retorted. “From my perspective, it seems he understands that this town needs to innovate and evolve if it’s going to survive.”
“But this is not how we do things,” she argued, her voice pitching higher. “We don’t shake our asses on TikTok.”
“No one wants to see you shake your ass,” Marigold taunted from her seat. “But Mayor, maybe you could do us a public service.”
That brought on raucous laughter from our audience, defusing the tension.
I shot Marigold a grateful look, and she gave me another wink.
“The state doesn’t get to decide whether we’re worth visiting,” my mom shouted.
Several people around her murmured their agreement.
“We don’t need a festival. We need the maple cams,” another woman called out.
Joy bubbled up inside me. At least people were into this.
“It’s a risk,” Bitsy said. “And we’re in the middle of a recall.”
I was onto her game. Honestly, it was basic and predictable, intimidation, holier than thou bullshit, and finally, manipulation.
“I think I can confidently speak for the people of Maplewood when I say that economic recovery should not wait,” I said, raising my voice. “Regardless of elections, the sooner we scale up these plans, the sooner this town will thrive.”
A large portion of the people in attendance cheered.
“And,” Gabe said when the noise had died down, “I want to make one thing clear.” He sat taller and pulled his shoulders back.
“I don’t care whether you recall me or not.
I won’t balk if you elect Betsy Ross as mayor.
Regardless of how things turn out, I will not stop fighting for this town.
Sabrina is brilliant, as I’m sure you’ve all noticed.
” Brows raised expectantly, he scanned the room.
“Which is why I’ve given her my full support and will work every day to help realize this vision. ”
This round of applause was nearly deafening.
I shifted, studying him. Damn. Gabriel Harding had way better political instincts than I’d expected.
He’d been managing all this bullshit on his own for a long time. Dealing with the resistance, the undermining, and the expectation that everything would stay exactly the same. No wonder he hadn’t had a chance to build anything new.
People stood, chatting and milling around. The meeting had gotten completely away from Bitsy, who looked positively violent.
This wasn’t a recall to her. It was a power grab. An attempt to preserve tradition, and with it, a version of Maplewood that only worked for the older generation.
To her, Gabe was an obstacle.
“I thought you were on our side.” She sniffed at me as I was collecting my purse. “Not throwing your weight behind him.” She sneered. “If you really think this internet nonsense will save us, then you don’t understand how this town works.”
“I’m on Maplewood’s side,” I corrected, standing tall. “And I believe that any and all measures, including social media, can be used to save it.”
“You’ve disappointed me,” she said. “I thought you knew how things worked here. But you’re just as arrogant as him. When my father was mayor—”
I held up my hand. I had no interest in listening to this tirade. She’d spent a lifetime steamrolling people and getting her way, and it was time for her to hang up her hat.
“We will succeed,” I said firmly.
Her cloudy eyes narrowed. “Not if I can help it.”
I sighed. Yeah, I saw her game. The woman would sooner take the town down with her than admit she may not have the answer. While it was common knowledge that she was hell-bent on recalling Gabe, by the way she was looking at me now, it was safe to say I’d made it onto her hit list too.
“Oh Bitsy,” I said sweetly. “Good luck with that. Much meaner, richer, and smarter people than you have been trying to take me down for years.”
I turned and walked away.
“And yet I’m still here.”