Page 28 of Sugar & Shadows

Smart move, Harding.

“I think Keith may need a new pair of pants,” Gabe muttered as we waited for our next meeting.

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” I beamed at him.

He rolled his eyes, though his expression fell back into one that almost made him look impressed. “You were good in there,” he said as we headed for the man waving us into our next meeting.

“I know.” Head high, I stepped into the office in front of him.

While my preparation was flawless, as usual, I had not anticipated the board of the Maple Producers Association to be so… nice. I was used to sleezy smiles and whitened teeth. But the guy now hugging Gabe and asking after his dad was a dead ringer for Santa Claus.

“Tom,” my associate said, slapping the man’s back. “It’s been years. How’s Nancy?”

“Ready to retire from nursing,” he said. “Trying to move to Florida. Can you believe it? I’ll never stop working.”

“Don’t listen to him,” the other man piped in as he hugged Gabe. He was thin with patchy hair and a thick mustache, and he wore Carhartts and a flannel shirt. “Bud has been sniffing around, looking to buy his land. He’ll be cashing out and investing in Hawaiian shirts in no time.”

The three of them broke into hearty laughter.

Like I said, these men were nice. Down-to-earth. Huh. I may have miscalculated.

This was not my usual crowd.

No matter; I could adjust. Especially while they were busy fawning over Gabe, asking about his family and chatting about the weather and making predictions for the upcoming sugaring season.

In this office, his status as hometown golden boy, the farm kid who could talk about sap flow, meant something.

Where my sharp questions and spreadsheets were met with curt answers and tense smiles, Gabe easily connected with these people.

“Thank you for meeting with us,” I said, ensuring I kept my tone soft. “We’re trying to understand why the festival was moved to Birch Hollow after Maplewood secured a permit. The last-minute change was a surprise, I have to say. The townsfolk have been preparing for months.”

“Attendance,” Tom said easily.

Without blinking, I held eye contact, drawing out the moment.

Finally, I said, “We just came from Keith’s office, and while we were there, we discovered that wasn’t the full picture. I brought spreadsheets with the data to prove it if you’d like to take a look.”

The room cooled a few degrees, every eye on me.

I looked over at Gabe, unsure about how to play this.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “we’ve all been through hard seasons before.”

They nodded, thoughtful frowns on their faces.

Hands splayed on the table, he went on. “Remember the April freeze five years ago? Many thought we’d never recover.”

“Lost 30 percent of my yield that year,” Tom muttered.

“But we recovered,” Gabe reminded him. “Because the citizens of our town showed up and brainstormed. And you two and this organization were a big part of that.”

There went the nodding again. From the open expressions on their faces, they’d bought into his message.

This wasn’t a tactic or a strategy. Gabe was using connection.

“I’m not here to argue with you or rehash what happened,” he said, his voice steady and calm. “Our community wants to move forward. We want to continue being ambassadors for the maple industry and to Vermont.”

“We’ve got plenty of nice towns up north too,” Tom added.