Page 36 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
It’s been a town tradition for decades. Pumpkin carving at the Bennett Tree Farm. Remy’s working today, so Finn’s got Junie, and I invited them out on the boat. We're not sure how many more rides we’ll get, so we’re taking advantage of this one.
She nods enthusiastically. “You have to come. It’s tradition.”
I glance at Finn, who gives me a knowing look. “Come on, man. You know you want to. Wisteria Cove bonfires are practically a requirement.”
I laugh under my breath, but there’s this tightness in my chest that won’t let go. The kind that feels like hope trying to claw its way back in.
“Okay,” I tell Junie finally, nudging her shoulder gently. “I’ll come carve pumpkins tonight.”
Her face lights up as if I just promised her buried treasure. “Good! And you can sit next to me!”
Finn grins. “Better be ready. Junie’s competitive. You're going down, Holloway.”
I glance out over the water, watching the gulls swoop and the sunlight shimmer across the waves. This cove has always felt like both a home and a prison at times. Every creak of the boards, every rope and knot, every salt-slicked memory—it’s all wrapped up in the person I thought I’d be.
But tonight...pumpkin carving. Bonfire. Warm cider. Laughter. Maybe a little bit of Wisteria Cove magic to remind me that home can be more than salt, wood, and ghosts.
Junie’s hand tugs at my sleeve, small and insistent. “And we’ll save a seat for Willa too. She has to come.”
That catches me off guard, but in the best way.
I smile at her. “Yeah. Willa, too.”
When I wind down the road later that evening to the Bennett Tree Farm, it glows like a damn postcard. Strings of fairy lights crisscross between the tall pines, flickering gently in the cool breeze. The smell of wood smoke drifts from the giant fire pit in the center of the clearing, where a makeshift s’mores station is already set up. Picnic tables stretch out under the trees, each one covered in pumpkins of all shapes and sizes, carving kits, and paper towels.
Thermoses of cider sit ready on every table, steam curling into the chilly night air. It’s a fall wonderland, Wisteria Cove at its most charming, and honestly, it’s exactly what I need.
“About time you showed up,” Remy calls from near the fire pit, grinning as he drops another log onto the flames.
I lift a hand in a lazy wave and spot Junie immediately. She’s perched on top of one of the picnic tables, swinging her legs as she surveys the pumpkins like a general about to declare war. She sees me and beams, waving so hard I swear she’s going to fall right off the table.
But it’s not Junie who steals my breath. It’s Willa.
She’s standing off to the side near the cider table, bundled in a deep maroon sweater tucked into the front of her jeans, her worn brown boots making her taller than she is, her hair falling loose around her shoulders. She’s laughing at something Ivy says, head tilted just so, and when she turns and sees me…
Yeah. There it is. That familiar flicker. The one that’s been humming between us since the day I rolled back into this town like a storm front.
I raise a brow in greeting, and she rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t look away.That’s progress, right?
Junie barrels into me a second later, grabbing my hand and tugging me toward the pumpkins. “Come on, Tate! I saved us a spot!”
“Us?” I ask, letting her drag me along.
She nods, completely serious. “Me, you, and Willa. You have to sit next to her.”
Oh, subtle, Junie. Real subtle.
I glance over and catch Willa’s eye again. Her lips quirk like she’s fighting a smile as she walks over, carving tools in hand. “Looks like we’ve been assigned specific seating.”
“I guess we have to go where we’re told,” I say, dropping onto the bench beside her.
The second I sit, it hits me, a memory sharp and unbidden.
I used to sit right here at this very table, years ago. I remember carving pumpkins with Willa when we were kids, laughing and teasing each other because mine always ended up looking like a disaster. Her dad would tease us gently from across the table, carving with an expert’s hand while her mom handed out cider and called us “the pumpkin pirates.”
Those nights felt easy and safe. But that was before it all went wrong. Man, I'd give anything to go back to that time just for a little bit. I miss those times.
Willa’s voice pulls me back. “You’re staring into space,” she teases, a hint of warmth in her tone.
