Page 3 of Love and Pumpkins
“Hmm. Well, do you think the heat will keep people away?” I ask. Mrs. Johnson has been a vendor here since I was a little kid; I consider her a reliable source.
“Maybe a few, those who can’t tolerate the heat. But it will be busy, don’t you worry.”
She looks at me as if she knows the number on that repair proposal. Has Mr. Turner, the HVAC repairman, spread the word?
“I hope so. Going to see if I can get an apple cider shake-up. Want one?” I ask.
“No, dear. I have a thermos of coffee back here. I’m set.”
Coffee? In this heat? Yikes!
I stroll down the lane towards the food vendors, saying hello to everyone I recognize. Okay, that’s almost everyone. It’s a small town, after all.
The food vendors are abuzz, and the scents of pumpkins, coffee, and cinnamon fill the air. My stomach growls pathetically. I should have eaten a protein bar for breakfast.
I grab a four-pack of apple cider donuts and a shakeup from Ms. Ferrell. She owns the Lil’ Pumpkin Café, which sits across the street from my boutique—I’m a frequent patron.
She also pops into my boutique regularly. I’m diligent in rotating the store products so that customers keep comingback to view new inventory. If I let the store get stale, foot traffic drops and sales shrivel up like a pumpkin left on the porch well past Thanksgiving.
I smile to see the crowd forming at the entrance gate, as I hurry back to my booth.
Five feet from my booth, I stop mid-stride and accidentally squeeze the plastic cup in my hand so tightly that the lid pops off, and sticky apple cider goodness sloshes over my hand.
“Gross!” I shriek. I’m not even sure if this is regarding the drink mess or the “young man” standing in the booth next to mine.
It’s not just any man. It’s Hunter Young: my on-again, off-again nemesis since the seventh-grade science fair when his display on “Evapotranspiration” beat out my dissection of a starfish for first place. Who cares about crop sweat?
Then there was the time during our junior year when he won first place in our regional speech team debate competition.
Did I mention he received the local bank’s five-thousand-dollar scholarship? I took second prize and got a five-hundred-dollar scholarship. It helped, but not as much as the grand prize scholarship would have.
Through the years, I’ve heard stories about his return visits home, but I haven’t seen him since our high school graduation. Although it’s been thirteen years, I recognize him instantly. It’s not his features, exactly; yes, his hair is still the same light brown, cut short, and his build is the same (maybe he’s gained a couple pounds since graduation—haven’t we all?). It’s morein his movements, the quick tilt of his head as someone calls out a hello. The hand raised quickly in a slight wave. There’s an ease in his demeanor. He’s comfortable in his own skin. Not arrogant. Not cocky. Comfortable.
I dart into my booth, counting on the tent’s shade to shield me from being recognized. Hurrying to the back of the booth, I put my drink and donuts down. I grab a hand wipe to clean my hand and the side of my calf where the sticky liquid dripped.
Why is Hunter next door? Is he an early shopper? Is he helping someone out? He doesn’t live here. Last I knew, he was a number cruncher in Chicago, lost in the daily life of the city grind. Why would he be a vendor at the pumpkin festival?
I don’t understand. One Hunter plus this festival is not adding up. Typical. Numbers are not my thing. Sure, I graduated with a business degree, but accounting was my least favorite subject. Yes, I can balance my books with a little effort. Addition, I can handle. Complex equations? No, thanks.
I don’t recognize the person he’s talking to. I casually glance around his booth. Oh, no! Bars of soap! I see a table of bottled products; that’s helpful; it’s not all soap. Why in the roasted pumpkin seed is Hunter Young selling soap right next to my booth?
I send my sister a quick text.
Phoebe: Help. Freaking out. Need your sanity! Call me, please.
Hope she can call me soon. She’s always a buffer between me and a meltdown. Yes, I’m the older sister, butshe’s the only one who can calm me down when I freak out.
It’s after nine o’clock, and I hear laughter and voices; the crowd is descending upon the vendor booths en masse.
Hopefully, the day is going to be a madhouse, and there will be no time or need to engage with Hunter.
“Phoebe!” It’s his voice. That deep timbre is unmistakable. It wasn’t deep and smooth back in second grade when we were reading aloud in Mrs. Bell’s class. His voice changed around sophomore year. One day he was the scrawny kid down the block, and the next day, all the girls took notice of this attractive male specimen.
I have no desire to talk to him, but I can hear him clearly, and pretending otherwise would be rude.
Turning, I put on what I hope is a surprised look. “Hunter?” I ask. “Is that really Hunter Young? Returned to Lichtenburg for the great pumpkin fest?”
“It’s me.” He walks into my booth, hand extended, and the anxiety I felt earlier slips away. It’s Hunter. I’ve known this man since kindergarten. We’ve known each other with skinned knees, braces, and driving permits. So what if his dark green eyes make me feel overexposed, like a photo with washed-out images?
