“We’re all going out of business,” another added dramatically.
“After thirty-eight years, the state has awarded the maple festival and all the attendant grants and support to another town.”
This was a disaster. Maplewood, Vermont, had been the official home of the Vermont State Maple Festival for generations. Thousands came to town, including press. Every person in this room depended on the income that festival brought in, and with only three months until that festival, everyone would be scrambling.
“Where is it being held?” Several people shouted.
“It doesn’t matter. The decision has been made. We need to focus on the future,” Gabe reasoned.
Bitsy stood next to him, arms crossed, her jeweled glasses on the bridge of her nose.
“Birch Hollow,” she shouted.
Those two words were like an arrow to the heart.
The shouting resumed. Half the crowd was standing and moving and panicking.
“How will we survive?”
“We should all move.”
“Can we sue?”
The panic made the walls feel like they were closing in on us. This wouldn’t hit the farm too hard; I sold most of my sap to Sugar Moon, and they shipped to stores all over North America. As a producer, I’d survive.
But the inn? Jenn’s coffee shop? All the restaurants and stores? The folks who owned rental properties? It would be catastrophic.
“As chair of the economic development committee, I want you to know we are not taking this lying down.” Bitsy pounded her fist on the podium. “We will not stand for this.”
The room quieted for a moment, all eyes on her.
“And I think I speak for all when I say that this is clearly a failure of our leadership. And for that reason, I move to recall Mayor Gabriel Harding.”
My gut plummeted. Recall Gabe? What the hell was going on?
Gabe’s eye twitched.
“On behalf of the citizens of this town, I have drafted a petition to recall the mayor.”
“Bitsy,” Gabe interjected.
“Too late,” she snapped. “Check the bylaws. We the citizens have a right to recall the mayor with a town-wide election thirty days after a petition is certified. We need one hundred signatures.”
She gestured to the back of the room where several Maplewood Mafia ladies stood behind a foldingtable. “You can line up to sign my petition in the back of the room after the meeting.”
There was no waiting until after the meeting. Folks all over the room stood, gathering their things, and shuffled toward the ladies and their clipboards.
“You can’t do this.” Aunt Suzie stood and put her hands on her hips. “This is absurd.”
“Yes we can.” Bitsy glared, though between one blink and the next, her expression morphed into a fake smile. “Also, on behalf of the economic committee, I want you to know we are doing everything we can to fix this. We’ve hired a seasoned crisis manager to help us navigate the disaster caused by this complete failure of leadership.”
She looked to the far corner of the room where a woman stood.
She wore high leather boots with an ice pick stiletto heel and a black trench coat. She looked like Carmen Sandiego if she had a side hustle as a hitwoman.
I squinted, surveying her. She looked vaguely familiar.
“Sabrina Monroe,” Bitsy said with dramatic flair. “Here to save the town.”
