Page 28 of Red Hot Roaster

“Keys. You got your keys to lock up?”

Yep, here we went again. I nodded, and Rafe put his hand out for the keys. I shook my head and reached around him to lock my front door.

He muttered “stubborn” or something similar, just as the dogs lurched forward, dragging us down the porch steps to the sidewalk. We headed left toward the park.

After making slow progress for a couple of blocks, with Princess pausing every two feet to sniff something in the parking strip and Pirate doing the same in each front yard, I decided to break the silence. Plus, I was determinednotto talk about the café or the roastery or business.

So, instead, I came out with, “How long has it been since you carved a pumpkin for Halloween?”

It was Rafe’s turn to say, “What?”

“It’s a valid question,” I claimed. “We’re having our annual competition at the Chocolate Lab this Sunday afternoon, and I need to know if you developed crazy pumpkin-carving skills in the army.”

“Wait, is this for kids or adults?”

“Both, actually. Two categories with prizes—kids age eighteen and under, and kids over age eighteen. Our most senior kids serve as the judges—people like Pete, Miss Ada, Mateo’s mom, Mica’s dad.”

“Sounds like you take your contest seriously. Is there any trash-talking or pumpkin-seed-slinging involved?”

“Oh, yeah—the littlest kids can be the scariest.” I winked. “For the Chocolate Lab’s part, we spread newspapers on our tables, supply the pumpkins, and fuel the contestants—and spectators—with apple cider, coffee and bakery treats. Everyone who enters gets a prize too.”

“Any rules?”

“Yep, just two. Bring your own knife or carving tool and leave your pup at home.” As we crossed to the path leading into Dogwood Park, I added with a grin, “Just so you know, I’m pretty competitive.”

Rafe quirked his lips and shot back, “Well, no worries from this quarter. You’re right—skill training on pumpkin carving wasnotoffered in the army. In fact, I can count the number of times I’ve even touched a pumpkin on one hand, with three or four fingers left over.”

Pirate chose that moment to grab a twig and start chomping on it. Of course, he interpreted my command todrop it!aschew faster!

While I leaned over to yank the thing out of his mouth, I said, “Didn’t you carve pumpkins as a kid, go trick-or-treating, dress up as a superhero?”

When I straightened and glanced over at Rafe, he was staring straight ahead, lips clamped together.

Shih tzu. Open mouth, insert foot. I started to say something, anything, when he commented matter-of-factly, “I was in and out of foster care from when I was little. So my history with Halloween was pretty spotty. And the families I stayed with usually weren’t the warm and fuzzy, pumpkin-carving, costume-wearing types.”

I knew better than to offer sympathy, so I kept looking ahead as we made our way around the park. Sometimes you could talk about more difficult things when you weren’t looking at each other. I learned this from countless times driving Finn to and from various activities. Our best convos were often the best because weweren’tstaring into each other’s eyes.

So I clutched Pirate’s leash a little tighter and murmured a noncommittal “mm-hmm.”

There was silence for a beat. Then—thankfully—Rafe went on to say, “I do have a memory, agoodmemory.” He said this with emphasis, like good memories were hard to come by.

“I remember my mamma getting a pumpkin from somewhere. Not a lot of spare change in our household. I was only five or six, I think. She cut off the top around the stem and scooped out the innards. We giggled and giggled because they were so slimy and gross. She had me draw a smiley face on the pumpkin using a blue pen from her purse. She handled the knife, of course, and sliced out the eyes and nose and toothy mouth. Following my lines, more or less.

“Afterward, Mamma begged for a candle stub and matches from one of our neighbors. We lived in an old apartment building, so no place to put the pumpkin except on the fire escape outside our window. An open flame was definitely a no-no, but she took a chance. We waited until Halloween night, until it was dark. I remember staying up late, or at least late for me.

“Mamma finally put our pumpkin out on the fire escape and lit the candle. We stood by the window, hugging each other, watching until the candle burned itself out. Yeah. Good memory. One of the best.”

I looked straight ahead, my eyes filling. Vowing I wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t take his hand. I cleared my throat and asked, “Your mom, what’s her name?”

“Her name was Angelina. She died when I was seven. She was beautiful.”

At that, I reached out and squeezed his hand. I let go, and we both kept looking ahead as we walked out of the park. Under the streetlight, my tears spilled over, but I turned my head away. Rafe didn’t need to see that.

We took a different street toward home, the dogs stopping us for treats a couple times along the way. Then, when I had it together, I quietly shared, “You’ve got another chance to carve a Halloween pumpkin this Sunday. So, are you in?”

I glanced over to see him nod. Still looking ahead.

“In fact,” I continued, speaking a bit stronger now, “I’m going to pick up the pumpkins at the farm stand behind Reed College on Thursday morning. I called ahead, and they’re putting a bunch aside for me. Wanna come along and help me stuff ’em into my car? It’s like a clown-car exercise but with pumpkins instead.”

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