Trading jabs via text message had been more fun than was appropriate. I hadn’t smiled like that in months.
When she’d huffed about Wayne’s antics, I couldn’t help but be proud of my pup. And that was a problem.
There was no use feeling any sort of way about her. Emotions were inefficient. Distractions were a liability.
As if sensing my vulnerability with her older sibling spidey senses, my sister sauntered over, smiling. “How’s the new tenant?”
“Fine.” I took a long, slow sip of coffee, praying a customer would walk in and Jenn would have to leave me alone.
“Sounds like she’s a great teacher. And the kids are sweet.” With a brow arched, she studied me. I wouldn’t give her an inch. “Town’s adopted them already.”
I nodded. “Great.”
She took a step closer, head tilting, staring at me in that all knowing way. “Have a good day, little brother.”
With that simple phrase, the one that sounded suspiciously like a warning, she waltzed away.
In the five years that he’d been my point of contact, Alex, the procurement manager at Sugar Moon, had done a lot to build their business while protecting the suppliers. Selling our sap, while not the way my grandparents had done business, was the most efficient and cost-effective way to keep the farm alive in a market that didn’t care about tradition or nostalgia.
Directing all my focus to the trees, new plantings, stand management, and disease prevention, had allowed me to improve our yields, better manage our acreage, and build a more sustainable farming model. I didn’t romanticize the work; I optimized it. The trees were assets, but living ones. When I treated them right, they paid me back.
For years, especially after Dad’s first heart attack, the Lawrence Farm struggled. These days, though, we wereroutinely in the black, and when my aunt and uncle retired and I purchased their land, it allowed me the space to grow rather than just survive.
For the last five years, seven days per week, I’d used generations of maple knowledge and my background in financial strategy to get the farm to a good place. My siblings got their quarterly shares of the profits, ensuring all my nieces and nephews were cared for. And my parents legacy was safe.
But last spring, everything went to shit, and now the entire industry was scrambling. For the first time in a long time, our future felt shaky.
Sugar Moon’s temporary conference room was housed in a shipping container in the parking lot. The manufacturing facility produced a steady sugary smell, but the lingering stench of fire persisted, even with the rebuilding efforts taking place, and folding tables and chairs replaced the formerly grand conference room.
This meeting was unlike others I’d attended at Sugar Moon. In addition to the CEO, Louisa Meyers, Ethan Calloway, the CFO was here. Leaning back in his seat like he didn’t have a care in the world. He looked like he’d been born in a dress shirt and cuff links. While our paths crossed a fair amount in town, I generally stayed away. Too slick and too smart to trust.
We went through the usual overview of timelines and yields, then reviewed recent weather patterns and quality testing. Every word felt more measured than usual, the murder and the fire sitting between us like an elephant at the table.
“I have no plans to sell elsewhere.” Sitting back, I crossed my arms.
Sure, I’d been approached by other manufacturers, but this partnership with Sugar Moon was necessary in order to secure financial stability for myself as well as other farmers in the area.
Ethan leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. “Joshua,” he said slowly.
He was deliberately calling me by my full name as an intimidation tactic. It only had the opposite effect. I sat up a bit straighter and met his eye.
“It would be bad business not to consider other offers. And although you and I have had our differences, you’ve never been bad at business.”
“The Fitzgeralds didn’t sign the contract.” Alex said, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with his shirt.
Interesting. The Fitzgerald Farm was on the south side of town and produced almost as much sap annually as we did. They’d fought off bankruptcy, lawsuits and developers to keep their farm from going corporate. Mary Fitzgerald was in her eighties and was known as a shrewd negotiator.
“And others are grumbling,” Louisa added. She sat at the head of the table, back straight, suit immaculate, and expression cool. She hadn’t joined a meeting with my farm in the last five years. Not until things caught fire. Literally.
The tension thickened as her words rang out. I didn’t have patience for posturing.
“Once I’m paid for last season, I will sign next year’s contract,” I reminded them.
“Thank you for bearing with us through the payment delays,” she said, clasping her manicured hands.
I only dipped my chin. While I understood that the murder, her arrest, and the fire had done a number on them, at the end of the day, I needed to be paid. That sap had already been sugared, bottled, and shipped across the country to be consumed. Sympathy wouldn’t fund my payroll.
“We’re working on it,” Ethan said flatly, clearly bothered that he owed me and not the other way around.