After Marjorie left—with a small box of fudge and the satisfaction of being the bearer of news—I locked the front door and flipped the sign to "Closed." It was barely three, but I wasn't likely to get more customers, and I needed supplies.
Plus, I had a competition to research.
THE WOODBRIDGE FALLSMercantile occupied a cornerstone of the town square, its weathered green awning and brass fittings giving it an air of permanence that I envied. The wooden floors creaked beneath my feet as I entered, releasing the scent of aged wood and spices. Inside, the store was a treasure trove of necessities and oddities: practical groceries sharing space with hand-knitted scarves, fishing tackle, and local honey.
Ida Terwilliger stood behind the ancient wooden counter, her silver-streaked hair cut in a practical bob that framed shrewd eyes. She looked up when I entered, her expression warming.
"Cinnamon! How's business?" Her voice was clipped but not unkind.
I shrugged, grabbing a basket. "Slow. Very slow."
Ida gave a brisk nod. "First year's always the hardest. Folks around here take time to warm up to new things."
"Time I'm not sure I have," I admitted, selecting a carton of eggs and placing it carefully in my basket. "Marjorie Winters mentioned a candy competition?"
Ida's eyes lit up. "The Halloween Candy Competition! Yes, we're hosting this year—quite the coup for Woodbridge Falls." She reached under the counter and produced a glossy brochure. "Mayor Finch is over the moon. It's the main event of our Autumn Harvest Festival."
I took the brochure, scanning the details. The paper was thick, expensive, with embossed lettering that caught the light. The requirements were straightforward: original candy creation featuring maple syrup, Halloween theme or presentation, entries due for preliminary judging next Friday, finals on the festival's closing day.
"Ten thousand dollars," I murmured, fingertips tracing the raised numbers. It wasn't just money—it was survival.
"The judges are serious professionals, too," Ida added. "Josephine Caldwell is quite a celebrity—she's trained in Europe and literally wrote the book on traditional mountain cuisine. If your candy impresses her, it'll put your shop on the map."
My heart raced with possibility. This competition could be exactly what I needed to turn things around. This wasn't just a lifeline; it could be the foundation of the business I'd dreamed of when I'd sunk my last dollar into Sugar & Spice.
I continued gathering items—flour, butter, sugar, gelatin for the marshmallows I wanted to try—while my mind raced ahead. Nonna's maple truffles. They were perfect, unique. I could almost taste them: the complex sweetness, the hint of smoke, the way the filling would shimmer with just the right amount of—
"Damn," I muttered, the word slipping out before I could catch it.
"Problem?" Ida asked as she sorted through a box of canned goods.
"The syrup." I tucked a strand of auburn hair behind my ear. "Nonna's recipe requires a particular kind of maple syrup—dark, with a robust flavor profile. The grocery store varieties just won't work."
"Ah." Ida nodded knowingly. "You'll want a proper sugar maker then, not those mass-produced brands."
"Are there any local producers? Tree farms, sugar houses, that sort of thing?"
Ida considered this, pushing her glasses up her nose. "There's Garrett Pembroke's operation over in Franklin County—Summit Sugarworks. His product is decent, but fairly standardized. He sells to most of the restaurants around here."
"But not the best?" I pressed, recognizing the hesitation in her voice.
"No." Ida sighed. "The best is Blackwood Sugar Grove, up on Hewitt Mountain. Traditional methods, small-batch production. Sawyer Blackwood is third-generation, makes syrup like his grandfather did. The dark amber he produces in fall is unlike anything else—has a minerality from the soil up there, almost smoky quality."
My stomach did a little flip. That sounded exactly like what Nonna's recipe called for. "Perfect. I'll head there tomorrow."
Ida's expression fell. "I wouldn't bother, dear. Sawyer doesn't sell to commercial food producers. Especially not candy makers."
"Why not?"
"Bad blood. His family was swindled by a candy company years back. Took a massive order of their premium syrup, then the company went bankrupt before paying. Cleaned the Blackwoods out. Sawyer's father died of a heart attack not long after. His mother's in assisted living now with dementia, and he's been a recluse ever since."
I frowned. "But I'm not a big company. I'm just one person with a small shop."
"Doesn't matter to him." Ida shook her head. "He only sells to the general store and a few local families. Been that way for years."
A familiar heat kindled in my chest—that stubborn determination that had gotten me through the toughest times in my life. The same fire that had pushed me to start over when everyone said I couldn't.
"We'll see about that," I said, more to myself than to Ida.
