Page 21 of The Pumpkin Pact
Dex clears his throat. His voice comes out steady because of course it does. “Ma.”
She spears him with a look. “This is politics with pie crust. Show them the sweetness, not the sharp edge.”
Dolly leans over the booth back next to ours, eyebrows doing a dance that should be illegal in three states. “Did someone say love story?”
Beatrice appears on the other side like a pop-up ad. “We have props.”
“No props,” I blurt out.
“Minimal props,” Eleanor amends.
Dex’s knee bumps mine again and stays there. “She’s not wrong,” he says quietly, just for me. “We fake it, the town softens. We buy time until the festival. Then they'll see Vernon right out of town.”
My heart climbs my throat like a squirrel. “I don’t want to lie to people.”
“We won’t,” he says. His eyes are steady and so close. “We’ll tell the truth that helps tonight. The rest… we sort out later.”
I think about Vernon’s hand on Councilman Riggs’ shoulder, about the way the man’s laugh echoed off the window like a coin dropped in a well. I think about the line out the door at my shop last autumn when the kids came in from story time with sticky fingers; about Mr. Darcy sleeping in a patch of sun on the register; about Eleanor’s steady hands and Dolly’s harebrained schemes and Beatrice’s zip ties and Dex leaning a ladder steady with a touch. I am suddenly very, very tired of being brave alone.
“Okay,” I say, and it’s a decision strapped in with a seatbelt. “We’ll hold hands.”
Dolly squeals.
“No props,” I remind the room.
“Minimal props,” Eleanor says again, but she’s smiling.
I spend the rest of the afternoon in a state best described as functional panic. I do useful tasks—call the magician, reorder cider packets, bribe Mr. Darcy into his carrier for the short trip to my house so he won’t terrorize Mel’s during the dinner rush—and then un-useful tasks like rearranging a display three times because the paperbacks aren’t aligned in ways that make me feel powerful. Dex pops in and out like a competent ghost—hauls a box, fixes the squeak the door found again, texts me a photo of a single orange satin ribbon with the words minimal prop. I threaten him with an entire pumpkin pie to his face.
At six-thirty, I put on a dress that says competent but not crusty, classic but not courthouse, and then, because I am who I am, I change the cardigan twice. Mr. Darcy watches from the couch, whiskers curled in disapproval. If it were up to him, he’d just scratch Vernon’s hand and then march off to pee in his shoes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell him, grabbing my bag. “This is for your empire.”
He blinks once, slow. Translation: Hurry up.
Town Hall is a limestone shoebox. The steps out front have been worn smooth by a century of boots and arguments. The foyer smells like floor wax and nostalgia; the bulletin board still has a flier for last spring’s seed swap hiding behind a poster for the Winter Jubilee. People crowd the hallway in murmurs and plaid.
Vernon is at the center, like a Christmas tree star. He’s laughing—again—with Councilwoman Trammel now, and the sound performs a duet with my nervous system. He catches sight of me and lifts his hand in a little salute that feels like a dare.
I stop two feet inside the door and consider whether I can crawl into the umbrella stand and live there.
“Hey,” Dex says, close to my shoulder. He smells of cedar and soap and the calm you can snuggle into. He’s in a dark shirt I haven’t seen before, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His beard is freshly trimmed. None of that is helpful for my breathing. “You ready?”
“No,” I say, exhaling through my nose. “But also yes.”
His mouth tilts, sympathetic. For a second we’re just two people at a precipice, our town waiting at our backs. He reaches for my hand, and I let him have it.
The first shock I feel is heat. The second is right. His palm is dry and sure; his fingers thread with mine like they practiced it in their sleep. A hush rolls through the hallway as if someone turned down the volume. Heads pivot. I feel color climb my cheeks and find, to my own surprise, that I don’t mind being seen if my life is really like this.
“Ready to sell the love story?” he murmurs, eyes dancing.
“Shut up and walk,” I whisper, smiling like a normal human who isn’t dying inside.
We move through the crowd like a rumor. People appraise us openly—Dolly’s eyebrows attempt liftoff, Beatrice gives me two thumbs up, Mrs. Henderson fans herself with a folded agenda. Over by the copy machine, I catch Eleanor’s approving nod like a benediction. Vernon’s mouth pinches, then recomposes. He keeps talking to Trammel, but his eyes follow us like he’s just seen a chess piece he didn’t anticipate.
Inside the council chamber, we slip into the second row. The wooden benches are merciless on our backs; the fluorescent lights hum with bureaucratic enthusiasm. I smooth my skirt and focus on my breathing and the fact that Dex’s thumb has started drawing, unconsciously, slow circles on the back of my hand. Idon't look at him. I also don't pull away. I am very talented at denial.
Mayor Pickering gavels things to order with the romance of a metronome. We plow through normal town council topics like water mains and potholes. Then he clears his throat and says, “Item six, redevelopment proposal for the South Main block.”
