Chapter 4: The Festival Ultimatum

The day the TV crew arrived in town, the place was buzzing with activity.

It was like the circus had come to Maple Hollow: satellite trucks, camera booms, production assistants in neon vests clutching lattes from the only Starbucks for thirty miles.

Leading the team was my old college friend, Mark Evans, now a researcher at the state agricultural extension office.

We hugged, laughing. He smelled faintly of sunscreen and aftershave. "Parker!" Mark greeted me warmly, patting my shoulder. "The director still talks about you—says if you’d joined the extension office, you’d be a project leader by now. Any of your patents could win awards here. Your dad back then…"

I coughed lightly to interrupt him. "It’s all agriculture, no matter where. Let’s look at the fields first."

No need to let Jenkins hear too much. Some things are better left unsaid in a town where news travels faster than a tornado.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Jenkins’s eyes darting, his ears perked up.

He hovered on the edge of the group like a barn cat waiting for scraps.

"Dr. Parker, I didn’t expect you to be such a big shot." Mr. Jenkins came over, smiling slyly. "Even the director thinks of you."

He tried to sound impressed, but I could feel the envy curling in his tone.

I couldn’t be bothered with him and led the crew to the demonstration field.

As soon as the cameras were set up, I noticed something was wrong.

My gut clenched. There, like a bad joke, was a bright green artificial turf covering the beds.

A layer of bright green artificial turf had been laid in the demonstration field.

The fake grass shone in the sunlight, looking more like a golf course than a farm. The camera crew exchanged glances, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

Mrs. Carter was proudly filming with her phone. "When the officials drive by, it looks so festive. Our town’s strawberry field is so pretty."

She zoomed in on the turf, her voice ringing out, "See, y’all? Maple Hollow’s going big time!"

My scalp tingled. I rushed over and yanked up the turf, revealing a dense layer of plastic nails holding it down, piercing the mulch film and almost destroying the insulation layer.

The damage was immediate. My heart dropped. Those insulation layers were the only thing protecting the roots from cold snaps.

"Who told you to lay this?" I asked, barely holding back my anger.

I tried to keep my voice level, but it came out sharp, the kind of tone that means business.

Mrs. Carter looked innocent. "Didn’t you say to cooperate? On TV, all those golf courses are covered like this. Looks great on camera."

She shrugged, as if I’d asked her to paint the barn pink.

I took a deep breath, glanced at the live camera, forced a smile, and whispered to Mr. Jenkins, "Ten minutes, get rid of all this."

I pulled him aside, my jaw clenched so tight it hurt. He raised his eyebrows, but nodded.

Mr. Jenkins put on an act and sighed. "Sigh, the folks meant well…"

He shot me a look that said, What can you do with people like this?

"Remove it!" I glared at him, my face full of anger.

This time, my patience had run out. He turned and started barking orders.

Mr. Jenkins’s face changed, but he reluctantly ordered people to start.

I watched the crew peel up the turf, wincing at every tug. The TV folks did their best to film around the chaos, catching me kneeling in the dirt, patching the plastic.

Luckily, the crew was very accommodating. The cameras avoided the whole mess and instead focused on my emergency repairs.

They even shot a slow-mo reel of me pulling weeds, the sun behind me—making the best of a bad situation.

The broadcast turned out well. My demonstration field became the highlight.

Mark clapped me on the back after the segment. "You made us look good, Doc."

"Dr. Parker, how much did this demonstration field cost?" Mr. Harris rubbed his hands, eyes glued to the field. "Just the greenhouse must’ve cost a fortune. We can’t afford that."

His question was less curiosity, more accusation. I could hear the others murmuring behind him.

I told everyone not to worry about money. The state had just approved interest-free loans to support rural crop upgrades.

The news landed with a thud. Instead of excitement, I saw panic in their eyes.

The folks exploded.

A babble of voices broke out, some hopeful, others suspicious.

"Loans? Don’t we have to pay those back?" Mrs. Carter’s face fell immediately.

Her lip trembled. "We barely get by as is—now you want us to owe the state?"

"Exactly, why doesn’t the state just give out money?" Mr. Bailey grumbled. "Dr. Parker, you know the ag bureau leaders, can’t you talk to them for us?"

He crossed his arms, looking for a scapegoat. Someone in the back snorted, "Big shots always take care of their own."

I shook my head helplessly. "The Strawberry Festival is next week. Let’s do well first. If things go well, I can help you apply for more support."

I tried to keep things moving, but their anxiety was infectious.

Mr. Jenkins stood at the edge of the crowd, squinting at me, suddenly interjecting, "Dr. Parker, why didn’t you mention these connections before?"

His tone was probing, his eyes like a fox sniffing out a fat chicken.

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. The old politics of small-town life—who owed whom, who could pull which strings—never went away.

On the day of the Strawberry Festival, I led the folks to set up the booth early in the morning. The bright red strawberries were neatly arranged, samples displayed like a painting.

The smell of fresh berries filled the air, mixing with the popcorn and diesel from the tractor parade nearby. My hands shook as I straightened the price signs.

Two hours before the market opened, the town manager suddenly brought Mr. Harris, Mrs. Carter, and a group of folks over.

They walked up like a posse, faces hard, contract in hand. I knew from the way Jenkins smiled that nothing good was coming.

"Dr. Parker, there’s something we need to settle." The manager handed me a contract with a smile.

I took it and my blood froze.

Clause one: Parker personally guarantees that after the Strawberry Festival, the price per pound of strawberries will not fall below $15. Any unsold portion will be purchased by Parker at this price.

Clause two: Parker pays the town $150,000 as a technical guidance fee, for teaching us how to farm.

I read it twice, my mind refusing to process what I saw. A lump rose in my throat. This was blackmail, plain and simple.

I looked up, unable to believe my eyes. "Are you all serious?"

I searched their faces for a hint of a joke, but all I found was cold determination.

Mr. Jenkins seemed to have expected my reaction and spoke slowly. "Dr. Parker, I know you worked yourself to death for a year, spent so much of your own money, all for what?"

He leaned in, dropping his voice so only I could hear. "Isn’t it to win an award at the Strawberry Festival, make a name for yourself, sell for big money, and get national prizes? This $150,000 isn’t worth your future."

He smiled obsequiously, his eyes full of calculation.

The words felt like poison. My jaw tightened, but I said nothing. The crowd buzzed, waiting for my answer.