Page 12 of The Pumpkin Pact
“You didn’t raise me,” I remind her, and she pats my cheek anyway. I'm so confused about this night.
The bell over the door jingles, and a gust of October squeezes in along with a lot of leaves from the sidewalk. A trio of high--schoolers in band hoodies file past us, arguing about whether jazz counts as jazz if there’s a tuba. It does... I think.
“Flyers,” Eleanor says, sliding a stack into my hands. “I printed my own schedule from the file you sent. Check the times.”
I scan the list, red--penning like a tyrant. “Magician noon. Jazz at three. Moonlight Bluegrass at six. Poetry open mic at four. Looks good.”
Beatrice squints. “Are we… sure about poetry?”
“Yes,” I say and leave it at that.
“Add a selfie wall,” Dolly suggests. “Chrysanthemum backdrop with ‘Keep Hollow Creek Cozy’ in twinkle lights.”
“On it,” I say, scribbling. “Where?”
“Between Mel’s and the florist.” Dolly points her pen like a conductor’s baton. “Good light. High traffic. I'm sure it will be Ingramable.”
"You mean Instagramable." Dex corrects her.
"That's what I said." She argues.
The door opens again. I don’t have to look to know it’s Vernon Blackstone; the sudden hush gives him away. Vernon's created his own vacuum.
“Good evening,” he says, smooth as shellac. “I do love how the town comes together… in diners. Tell me—has the committee confirmed its temporary power permits?”
Eleanor doesn’t smile. “Can I get you anything?”
“Just information,” he says, eyes landing on our notes. “Wouldn’t want your efforts to be wasted if the council decides to move forward.”
“Funny,” I say, tipping my head. “That’s exactly what I was about to say to you.”
He chuckles as if I’m adorable. “Ah, Harper. Ever the spirit.” His gaze flicks to Dex. “And ever the muscle.”
“Yes, I am,” Dex says, voice even but his eyes glare at him.
“Good,” Vernon says. “We wouldn’t want any… mishaps.” He makes it sound like a threat and a prayer.
“Great,” I say brightly. “Then you can relax knowing the street you want to raze is fully compliant.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Do let me know if you reconsider my offer. Time's ticking.”
“I'll let you know if I decide to open a cry for help,” I say, "because that's the only way I'd take you up on your offer."
Vernon’s smile gets thinner. “Enjoy your… festival.” He turns almost colliding with a waitress carrying four milkshakes, sidesteps, and exits with his dignity barely intact.
The diner collectively exhales. Somewhere, someone mutters, “Fool.”
“Okay,” I say, clapping my hands once. “Focus. We need a layout map parents can understand at a glance. Big icons, simple labels.”
Dex flips his notebook and starts sketching with the competence that should be illegal. “Cider press here.” He draws a little barrel. “Kids’ zone here. Story time tent. Author table. Hydration station.” He glances up, eyes warm. “Want ‘Author Ego Hub’ in smaller print?”
“I will hurl this fork,” I threaten.
He draws a tiny tent by the author table and smirks.
We get into a rhythm. I label, he diagrams, Eleanor assigns volunteers with the ruthless kindness of a benevolent dictator. The book club ladies debate ribbon color like diplomats negotiating a treaty.
“Orange satin says autumn but not Halloween,” Dolly argues.
