Page 9 of Sugar & Shadows

My heart hurt. I was not a stranger to struggling. Neither was my mom. That pang of dread in my stomach, the one that came with knowing that there simply wasn’t enough, had lingered for years even after I was financially stable.

“That’s why we need you,” Bitsy said.

Pulled from my thought spiral, I angled forward. “Excuse me?”

“You’re a fixer.” She lifted her chin. “That’s what I’ve heard, at least. Though your online presence is…” A small judgmental hum escaped her. “Sporadic.”

Ha. She was correct, and she had no idea how much time and money it took to keep it that way. Being an enigma was an essential part of my job.

“And you’re a smart and determined girl. You always have been.”

I picked my mug up again. “I’m just visiting my mom.”

She glared, the wrinkles on her face deepening. “I said it was difficult to find information about you. Not impossible,” she chided. “So I know you’re currently unemployed and that your DC Condo is on the market and priced to sell.”

I shuddered. How the fuck did she know any of this? Was Bitsy Bramble ex-CIA?

“I don’t know what went wrong in your life, dear,” she said, “but this town desperately needs your help.”

“But—”

“No buts. As chair of the Maplewood Economic Development Committee and a citizen of this fine town, I am begging you to help us win back the Maple Festival and the tourists.”

This was ridiculous. It was too early and I was far too tired. Given how the last few months had gone, the last thing I wanted was to disappoint an entire community of people if I couldn’t do what this woman was asking.

Beside me, my mom looked genuinely stricken.

“I’m not staying,” I said with a sigh. “And while I’m happy to brainstorm⁠—”

“Sabrina,” my mother said. “Please. You are so well connected. And you could do a lot of good here.”

Yes, I was furious with her for setting me up on the blind date from hell with my high school nemesis.

And it would be a cold day in hell before I let her live that down.

But.

But. I loved her. More than anything. It had been the two of us against the world since Dad had died. She’d struggled and pinched pennies to raise me, giving up all luxury so she could give me everything she could.

Maplewood was her home.

And while I doubted Bitsy Bramble, my mom wasn’t faking this.

Good. She’d suggested I could do good here.

It was a concept I thought about constantly.

Good was relative. Good was set on a sliding scale.

Good didn’t pay the bills.

But, unbeknownst to my mother, the concept of “doing good” had wormed its way into my brain and made a home there over the past several months.

Though it had caused nothing but disaster.

“Mrs. Bramble,” I said softly.

“Call me Bitsy, dear.” She sipped her coffee, eyeing me over the rim, daring me to turn her down.