Page 63 of Sugar & Shadows

“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?”