Page 6 of The Spice Is Nice

Ivy

The Forest Grove Chamber of Commercemet every other Tuesday at seven in the morning in the back room of the feed store, and if that didn’t tell you everything you needed to know about the state of this town, I didn’t know what would. Ten folding chairs, a card table with a wobbly leg, and a coffeemaker that had been brewing the same metallic sludge since before I was born were all part of the deal.

I brought apple donuts from The Copper Cup because I’d learned early that old ranchers were more agreeable when their mouths were full, and today I needed them very agreeable, because I was about to pitch something that would either save this town or get me laughed out of the feed store.

I stood before all in attendance because there was no podium and I refused to run a meeting from a folding chair. I’d worn my best boots, the cognac ones with the stitching that caught the light, and a blouse that saidI am a professional woman with a business plan,and absolutely did notsayI am the same girl who left town on the back of a motorcycle with a loser. Presentation mattered. I’d learned that the hard way.

“Gentlemen, and lady,” I started and motioned to Harper, the owner of The Copper Cup and wife of Sheriff Patrick—and the only other woman in the Chamber of Commerce besides me. “Forest Grove is dying.”

The room was silent. Doug Moby stopped chewing his donut. Ranchers in the area had been coming to his feed store for forty years to buy provisions for their livestock. I doubt he had his finger on the pulse of what the town needed in order to grow.

Same for John Gaither from the grocery store, who reacted as if I’d slapped him. And Gary Ottman, the bank manager, too. Pastor Wells folded his hands and waited with the patience of a man who listened to confessions for a living. Good. I had their attention.

“Our population dropped below nine hundred this year. We’ve lost two businesses on Main Street in the past twelve months. School enrollment is down. The diner might close, and nobody’s leased the open spaces because nobody’s moving in.” I let that settle the way you let a diagnosis settle, giving it just enough room to sting before offering the treatment.

“And the reason the town is dying is because we have a ratio problem.”

“A what problem?” Gary cocked his head.

“Too many single men. Not enough women. Not enough young families. You know how it should be. People meet, they pair up, they put down roots, they have kids, they shop local, and they stay. That’s how a town sustainsitself. But you can’t pair up if there’s nobody to pair up with.” Why was I, the woman branded the “wild one,” who’d left town for a few years and then came back, the only one who understood this?

Gary wiped powdered sugar off his fingers and squinted at me. “You got numbers on that?”

I pulled a printed sheet from my folder and slid it across the rickety table. Numbers were the language these men spoke, and I’d learned to be fluent. “Census data from last year, plus county records. In the eighteen-to-forty-five bracket, Forest Grove’s male-to-female ratio is roughly three to one. For every single woman in this town, there are three single men. Some of those men are your employees, your ranch hands, your customers. They’re not going anywhere because their work is here. But the women are leaving because there’s nothing pulling them to stay and nobody new is coming in to replace them.”

John leaned forward. I could see things working behind his eyes. “I admit, sales are down. So what are you proposing?”

“Cowboy Nights.” I said it with the confidence of someone who’d rehearsed this pitch in her bathroom mirror six times, which I had. “A weekly Friday night event at the Sapphire Saloon. Live music, dancing, a social atmosphere designed to draw women from the surrounding counties into Forest Grove. Not just for one drink, but for an experience. Something worth driving to our town for and worth coming back for.”

I pulled another sheet from my folder. Costs, projected attendance, a rough marketing plan I’d built based on a stubborn refusal to accept that this town was done. Therewas a time I wanted out of here, desperately, but I came back; I stayed. Now I care about this place I call home.

“Cowboy Nights could be the anchor event this fall. If it works, we make it seasonal.”

Doug grunted, like always. It was his version of thinking. “So you want to turn the Sapphire into a dating service? Does Smitty know about this?”

“Not a dating service.” I paused for a beat. “Although if two people happen to fall in love over a cold beer and a two-step, I won’t apologize for it. Right, Smitty?” I glanced at the Sapphire’s owner, who’d slipped into the back of the room while I was talking and was now trying to look like he’d been there the whole time.

“Right. Yep. We talked. If it increases business, I’m for it.”It hadn’t been hard to talk Smitty into this idea — more foot traffic on a Friday night was all the argument he needed.

I kept my voice honey-smooth and continued. “Every woman who drives into town for Cowboy Night is a woman who buys a drink, eats dinner, maybe wanders Main Street and finds a pair of boots she likes. Or a set of hand tools. Or a bag of groceries.” I looked at each of them in turn. “That’s revenue. That’s people choosing Forest Grove over Lewistown or Bozeman on a Friday night. And if they meet the love of their lives here? Even better.”

Pastor Wells cleared his throat. He was a kind older man, who’d spent decades tending souls in a town that didn’t always make his job easy. I respected him, and also predicted exactly what his response would be. “Ivy, I appreciate the thought you’ve put into this. But I wonder if a bar is really the best environment for people to meet each other.Wouldn’t it be better to create opportunities for connection in a more wholesome setting? Like the monthly church community suppers. There are ways to bring people together that don’t involve alcohol, dancing, and loud music.”

I’d actually written out three different responses in my notebook and picked the one that was respectful enough not to get me in trouble but sharp enough to land. “Pastor, I hear you. And I agree that the church does beautiful work bringing this community together.” I sandwiched my response between praise. “But here’s the thing. Before you can serve people your sermon about love, they first have to actually meet each other. So let me get them in the same room together on Friday nights, and then we’ll get them to your pews on Sunday mornings. You can take it from there.”

John laughed. Gary’s mouth twitched, which was practically a standing ovation from the man. Pastor Wells studied me for a moment with an expression that was equal parts amusement and grudging respect, and then he shook his head.

“You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?” he said.

“I’ve got an answer for this town not disappearing.” I softened my smile just enough to remind him I meant it.

He held my gaze for another beat, then nodded once. I didn’t let myself exhale visibly, but I knew with his approval as the moral compass of this room, the rest would follow.

“I have concerns about liability,” Gary complained, always with concerns about everything. “Alcohol, crowds,parking at the Sapphire on a Friday night. Who’s responsible if something goes sideways?”

“My insurance and security and capacity are ready to handle this,” Smitty added.

“And I’ve already spoken with Sheriff Patrick. He’s agreed to have a deputy on the street on Friday nights as part of a regular patrol. Of course, I’ll be there, overseeing everything. If it gets crazy, if it fails, it’s on me.” I ticked each point off as if I were reading from a contract, because in my head I was—I’d spent weeks on this.