“Didn’t Birch Hollow poach all our usual artists?”
“Nothing’s stopping us from poaching them right back.”
“What’s Birch Hollow?” I asked.
Several heads snapped in my direction.
“A town,” Ruby said, her expression suddenly going stony. “Thirty minutes north-west of here.”
“We hate them,” Marty added.
“The place is filled with assholes,” Tony piped in from the far end.
Nora clenched her fists. “They try to sabotage us. Every year.”
“Do you think they put a hit out on Will so they could steal our tourists?” someone else asked.
“Birch Hollow has spent the past hundred years wishing it was Maplewood. And the second that tragedy started, they jumped in and took advantage,” Mrs. Fitzgerald said to me.
“Been ripping us off since the Revolution,” Marty added.
Huh. A small-town-Vermont blood feud? That certainly made the town even more interesting.
All around me, the brainstorming continued, the people here all rallying together. It was sweet and only slightly terrifying.
“And the hayrides.” Callie, who was now standing at the head of the table, in full principal mode, clasped her hands. “They were always so popular, especially when they were themed each year.”
“But now that Mr. Watkins is retired, he’s sold off his tractors.”
Callie tapped her chin, looking straight at me. “Hmm. Who do we know around here with a big tractor?”
I slumped in my seat. Everyone had gone quiet, and every eye was on me.
“Your landlord does.” Evie broke into a devious smile. “Grumpy farmer Josh. If you ask, I bet he’ll agree to help out.”
Panic rose up inside me. They wantedmeto ask? I barely knew Josh.
“Excellent.” Callie beamed. “Celine, you are captain of hayrides. Be sure to plan the route first. The rides should last at least twenty minutes but not much more than that. And look for varied terrain. Then coordinate with the residents on the route in regard to themed decorations.”
“Wait,” I said, blinking rapidly, racking my brain for a way to gracefully get myself out of this.
I locked eyes with Callie, the person responsible for bringing me here. And Ruby, whose sister was currently delighting my kids, nudged me gently. The rest of the crowd watched me with such hopeful looks. And they had all been so warm and welcoming to me.
“Talk to Josh,” Callie suggested. “You can work together.”
“But—”
She shook her head. “It’s the Harvest Festival.”
“The way you said that makes it sound like the Superbowl,” I joked.
Rather than laughs, all I garnered were blank stares.
“We’ve got to get the tourists back,” Marty said.
“This is our Superbowl. The small-town-Vermont Superbowl. We’ve got two major festivals each year. The Maple Festival in April, which kicks off tourist season and helps us all get over our seasonal depression,” Linda explained. “And the Harvest Festival in October.”
“There are several others as well,” Caroline interjected, adjusting her scarf.
