Page 1 of The Pumpkin Pact
Chapter 1
Harper
The morning sun does that stained-glass thing through the old transom windows of The Wandering Page, turning dust motes into glitter like the store is trying out for a role as a whimsical cathedral. I, meanwhile, am trying out for the fictional role ofWoman Who Has It Together.
I pick my outfit on purpose—black jeans that forgive sins, a pumpkin -orange cardigan that subconsciously says, 'support local autumn' but not 'I own twelve decorative gourds and a live, laugh, love sign'. and my favorite boots that make me three inches taller and exactly zero inches less clumsy. I even put on lipstick calledVermont Maple, which tastes like ChapStick and delusions.
Mr. Darcy, my cat, and longtime emotional support curmudgeon, watches from atop the checkout counter with the same expression he wears for thunder, vacuum cleaners, and men who think being tall is a personality trait. He’s a tuxedo cat with a perfect black mustache that makes him look like he’s about to tell me my hemline is gauche.
“Big day, Mr. Darcy” I tell him, flipping the sign to OPEN. “We are manifesting prosperity. We are radiating competence. We are not eating a leftover cider donut for breakfast... again.“
Mr. Darcy blinks and flicks an ear toward the pastry bag beside the register.
“Ok, fine. Half a donut.” I tear it neatly in two. He does not eat donuts, but he enjoys the theater of denying himself earthly pleasures.
I slide the register drawer shut, and my fingers brush the battered paperback we called ours—Dex’s copy ofThe Princess Bridethat Dex and I annotated in the margins all senior year. We both had our own copy. His neat block letters argue with my loopy snark, and on page 136 he wrote, as you wish in a red pen like a dare. I keep it under the counter the way some people keep a rabbit’s foot.
The bell over the door chimes, and Hollow Creek swirls into the shop. Mrs. Henderson from the florist takes three dramatic steps inside and pretends to be winded as if crossing Main Street counts as cardio. Behind her, the Williamson twins—who have been seventy for fifteen years—beeline for the romance section with the deep focus of truffle pigs.
“Harper,” Mrs. Henderson trills, clasping her pearls, which I swear are on a tension wire. “You look… festive.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Today’s vibe is Not Today, Vernon Blackstone.”
Her eyes sparkle like a magpie who has found a diamond. “Oooh, have you told him that?”
“I’m saving it for when he offers to buy my shop ‘for my own good’ again.”
Vernon Blackstone—developer, ambitious disruptor of quaint things, and a man who uses the wordsynergytoo much—has been circling our block like a vulture. He wants to bulldoze The Wandering Page and the rest of my neighbors to put in mixed -use buildings with 'thoughtful retail curation'. Last time he said that, I asked if he meant a candle store smells likemortgage payments. He did not laugh. I did internally like a hyena.
The Halloween Festival is my Hail Mary. If we can make ittheevent of the season—higher foot traffic, real sales, donors for the library annex—I have a chance to show the town council that we are not a blight. We are delighted. Don't judge. I'm still workshopping the slogan.
“Are you and Dexter Rowen still co--chairing the festival?” Mrs. Henderson asks, like she’s casually dropping a nuclear reactor.
“It’s Dex,” I say automatically. “And yes, we are.”
“Mm,” she hums. “TheDexwho used to be engaged to?—”
“We’re not doing that,” I say brightly, waving her toward New Releases. “We are a gossip -free zone. Please enjoy this gripping thriller about a man whose life falls apart because of a rumor.”
She pats my hand as if I’m an obedient dog. “I always knew you two had chemistry. Like… vinegar and baking soda.”
Somewhere in the stacks, the Williamson twins whisper, “Boom.”
By nine--thirty the shop is humming. Mr. Darcy supervises from his velvet throne which is really just an old dictionary I rescued from the free bin and stacked just for him, and I sell two poetry collections, a field guide to mushrooms, and three copies ofA Witch’s Guide to Small-Town Scandals, which I’m pretty sure is autobiographical in spirit if not in content.
The bell rings again. A gust of October comes in—all apple -cold and leaf -spicy—and with it, Dex.
I should have prepared, like I do for dentist appointments. He takes up more space than the doorway should allow, all broad shoulders and beard and that worn flannel that makes my nervous system sing the national anthem. He also has a smilehe keeps holstered most of the time like it might be a dangerous weapon. Because it is.
Mr. Darcy arches into a Gothic stretch and emits a low sound like a kettle starting to boil.
“Morning,” Dex says, voice warm and rumbling. “Hi, Darcy.”
His gaze flicks to the counter edge where the paperback peeks out, the corner he folded a lifetime ago, and for half a beat we’re seventeen and invincible again.
“Mr. Darcy,” I correct. “He’s never forgiven you for trying to scratch his chin that one time.”
Dex plants his hands on the counter, a grin edging in. “I apologized. He accepted the apology and then he slapped me.”
