Page 67 of Sugar & Shadows

“Go get a towel,” she growled, then said, “Okay, Sabrina. Gotta run.”

“Go,” I replied, my brain already mapping this new information. “I’m going to think about this. Let’s connect tomorrow. I’ve got a town meeting to prep for tonight.”

“Good luck.”

Chapter 18

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.

Me. Sabrina Monroe. The most inscrutable poker face on the Eastern Seaboard. I was struggling. The woman who’d once negotiated a ceasefire on a burner phone while arguing with a street vendor about the authenticity of his pico de gallo.

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.”