Page 176 of Sugar & Shadows

The baby was fine. If the continuous fetal monitoring was to be believed, she was thriving.

I’d never forget that moment, watching the wiggling on the screen. The way that tiny arm stretched out. Making sure we knew she was in there and doing just fine. I was filled with so much gratitude that not even the prospect of losing my job and the respect of Maplewood bothered me.

But because my life was an exercise in irony, I’d ended up with a case of mild hypothermia and frostbite in three toes and four fingers. At least I hadn’t lost any appendages, and I’d been able to share a hospital room with Sabrina, who’d spent hours chirping at me while I was wrapped up in heated blankets.

And now, thirty-six hours later, I was at Maplewood town hall.

The town was still buried in snow, with slushy sidewalks and massive snowbanks on every street corner. Not that it had slowed anyone down. The place looked like it was ready to host a revolution. Media trucks lined Main Street. People had tables set up and were passing out coffee and hot cider. And naturally, the entire town had opinions about what was happening.

The Eastgate scandal had not gone the way Ethan Calloway had expected. In fact, Maplewood’s official stance on whistleblowing was positive. Even Bitsy Bramble had written an op-ed in this week’s paper praising Sabrina’s “revolutionary spirit” and comparing her to the Green Mountain Boys fighting the tyranny of the British.

Morty Fletcher, whom Harper had once called a “professional hater,” told a New York Post reporter that “anyone who holds billionaires accountable for giving folks cancer is a hero in my book.”

If anything, Maplewood loved Sabrina more than they had when she and her team had brought so much attention to our town. She was single-handedly bringing down corporations and saving the local economy, and she was putting herself at risk in pursuit of justice.

It was about time they caught on to how extraordinary she was.

Today, the extraordinary woman refused to stay home and rest and was instead working the room like a seasoned pro. The building buzzed with energy as wet boots squeaked on the hardwood floors. Harper had a projection screen set up and the town moderator was preparing to call for votes.

Every few minutes, a citizen would stop Sabrina—who was looking radiant in her customary black skirt and ponytail—to check on her, offer her baked goods, or insist on knitting a blanket for the baby. Since becoming mayor, I’d gotten so bogged down in the details, in the burden of this town, that I’d lost sight of how amazing it and its people were.

Sabrina had shown me. She’d woken me up, shaken me out of my fog, and helped me realize how special our hometown was. And how lucky I was to lead it.

Ethan Calloway was here, surrounded by a gaggle of corporate-looking folks. He’d shown up to the senior center last week with a petition to put his name on the ballot for mayor. The bastard was so certain I’d be recalled that he was already planning his campaign to replace me.

Most had refused, but some of his golf buddies and a few unhappy locals who supported my recall had jumped on board.

“He looks like a televangelist,” Marigold hissed in my ear.

I smiled at her. She and her leopard-print cane had been hustling nonstop for the last twenty-four hours, working to shore up the senior vote. In addition to being a reliable voting block, they were in favor of the Maplewood Games. Having experienced so many town festivals over the years, they were experts, and they were already organizing committees and fighting over volunteer jobs.

Nolan got up and rang the old brass bell in the front of the room, and conversation died down as folks took their seats. With a kiss to Sabrina’s forehead, I headed toward the podium.

“Good evening, citizens of Maplewood,” I said, looking around the crowded room. “Many of you have asked why we’re still doing this in person.” Smiling, I adjusted the microphone. “Back during the Revolutionary War, revolutionaries and British loyalists had disputes about the direction the town should go in. To prevent proxy votes and keep people honest, Maplewood adopted a charter requiring in-person open voting for any major issue including budget overrides, land-use disputes, mayoral elections, and recalls.”

Bitsy Bramble, who could not let a mention of the Revolutionary War pass her by without adding her two cents, stood from her front-row seat. “Amos Fletcher, third mayor of Maplewood, decreed that any man too cowardly to vote in front of his neighbors didn’t belong in this town.”

Around the room, cheers went up.

“And then he pulled a pistol on James Macintyre, who was a secret agent for the British, and shot him dead right in this room.”

The murmurs increased.

Shit, I had to get control before we totally lost the plot.

“Thank you, Bitsy,” I said, “for the history lesson in gun-based governance. Fortunately, we have far more civilized mechanisms now.” Gripping the podium, I turned to Wendy. “But we will adhere to the charter. Tonight’s votes will be run by our town moderator. She will manage the process. Before the first vote gets underway, we will have an open comment period.”

Wendy, a retired actuary and president of the knitting society, was a softspoken woman in her sixties who loved rules and history.

But she was not prepared for the complete chaos of the public comments. One citizen after another steamrolled her and spoke as they pleased about whatever they pleased.

Nolan attempted to enforce the two-minute rule, but Maplewood citizens did not do well with structure or time limits. Within minutes, a line had formed at the microphone and ran down the center of the isle, several people clutching handwritten notes.

“I don’t understand social media,” Walter Smith, a farmer in his eighties, said. “But my granddaughter says we’re trending, and my sales are up since she forced us to participate in the syrup subscriptions.”

“We are trending,” Harper said, sitting tall next to Sabrina, her laptop open in her lap.

“I vote in favor of maple syrup wrestling,” Olive Foster, Nolan’s grandmother, said. “People would pay good money to watch that.”