Page 77 of The Pumpkin Spice Spell
Willa’s up on a stepladder, fixing a crooked banner, and I want to reach out. Say something. Pull her into my arms and just hold her. But I don’t. Because I’m feeling like maybe this is too good to be true. For me everything usually is until it isn’t. I grab a cup of cider and try to disappear into the crowd.
Lilith Maren doesn’t let people disappear, though. She finds me behind the apothecary tea tent, somehow dressed in an all-black Victorian witch outfit with a moon necklace and an armful of popcorn balls. “Ah,” she says. “Broody fisherman lurking but not participating. We must be approaching emotional sabotage o’clock.”
I lift a brow. “What are you talking about, Lilith?”
“I have three daughters who are all afraid to love. I know the signs when I see them.”
I open my mouth to protest, but she cuts me off with a look that could set fire to wet leaves.
“You’re doing what she’s doing,” she says, sipping her tea. “Waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
I blink. “I’m not?—”
“You are. Watching her out of the corner of your eye like she’s gonna bolt. Bracing yourself for impact. Flinching at all the good parts because you’re scared of the bad parts.”
I look down into my cup. The steam’s gone. Damn. Lilith is good. Scary good, how intuitive she is.
Lilith lowers her voice. “She’s doing it, too. You know that, right?”
I nod, barely.
“She loves you,” she says simply. “But neither of you is letting yourselves just have it.”
I exhale, tight and ragged. “It’s just...I like it here. With her. At the tree farm. Waking up with the bookstore smell in my nose and the cat sitting on my chest. I like all of it. But part of me keeps thinking...what if I mess it up?”
She steps closer. “Here’s a secret no one tells you about love: you will mess it up.”
I look up at her. “Then why would I want it in the first place?”
She laughs. “Because believe it or not, it’s worth it. And it works out in the end.”
“But does it? You lost your husband. My mom lost my dad. That didn’t work out,” I say bitterly.
She tilts her head and watches me for a moment. Then she says, “What if you keep showing up and put in the work? If you choose her even when you’re scared?” She shrugs. “Then you’ll both be believing and fixing it, together. And when the two of you are fighting, what could possibly destroy that? You need to be unified.”
I want to believe her.
“Just stop holding your breath, Tate,” she says, soft now. “This is the good part, and you’re in it.”
Then she pats my chest and walks away, calling out to Rowan, “Put down the cider slushie and go flirt with that boy you just kissed earlier!”
I watch her and Rowan argue back and forth playfully and shake my head, but her words are heavy in my chest. Deep down I know she’s right.
The rest of the festival is a blur of magic. Junie wins the apple bobbing contest by somehow not getting her hair wet. Donna gives a dramatic reading of her newest book under the big oak tree while children eat kettle corn around her like she’s a campfire goddess. And her book characters are suspiciously similar to people we really know in this town.
Old Pete’s in his usual spot on the hay bale, waving his arms as he tells some godawful scary story about a ghost ship doomed to sail forever. Every sentence gets more ridiculous, more tangled in maritime metaphors. The kids lean in, wide-eyed. The adults laugh into their cider cups.
Cobweb trots past, tail high, not a stitch of costume on her, yet when the “Best Pet Costume” is announced, somehow, she wins the ribbon. The crowd cheers because even the cat has become a town favorite. People have stopped to take selfies with her.
The festival hums with energy. Strings of lanterns glow overhead, casting warm light across the booths and rides. The sky deepens from gold to purple, stars winking faintly in the indigo. Music drifts from the small stage near the cider press, someone strums a guitar, and couples sway close together.
I wander through it all in a daze, caught between watching the crowd and losing myself in it. Kids squeal from the little Ferris wheel, their laughter ringing through the cool air. A group of teenagers is at the ring toss, jeering at each other with every miss, whooping loud when someone finally lands one on the bottle neck.
“Come on, Tate,” one of them hollers. “Bet you can’t beat us.”
I let them talk me into it. I step up, pay a few bucks, and line up the rings. They heckle, of course, and Willa appears at my side just as I toss the first one. It clangs against glass, bouncing off.
She laughs, eyes bright, cheeks flushed pink from the chill. “All brawn, no aim?”
