Page 33 of The Pumpkin Pact
“Successful day,” I say.
“Successful month,” she answers, breathless. “We did it.”
I follow her gaze over the square. Donation jars sit on tabletops like fat little planets, waiting to be carried inside. The fiction tent is finally emptying out, the last customers clutching bags as they wander toward the street. The kids’ zone is reduced to lost mittens, two crayons with no wrappers, and a folded tarp. A teenage couple slow dances to the generator’s fading hum, reluctant to leave. The festival is over, the square is scattered and quiet, and the mess feels perfect.
Movement near the council table pulls my attention. Vernon stands there with a practiced smile polished to a weary shine. He grips Todd’s hand, shakes it, and leans in, talking fast. He doesn’t see us watching, and if he does, he clearly doesn’t care.
Harper’s fingers tighten around the rail. “He never quits, does he?”
“Neither do you,” I say. “And you’ve got better numbers, the kind that prove what this town really cares about.”
She huffs, half laugh, half nerves. Then the tide shifts around us.
Mrs. Henderson arrives with the book club like a well-dressed cavalry. Dolly and Beatrice flank her, armed with clipboards and a coil of ribbon that could restrain a small dragon. Mel steps out of the diner with her apron still on, flour at her wrist like a badge. The high school band director shepherds three kids with brass cases. Gary from the co-op waves a receipt that looks official. Cole saunters up with Mr. Darcy in the cat stroller like a tiny judge ready to preside.
They surround the council members without laying a hand on them. They don’t give speeches; they share stories, voices weaving together until the square hums with memory and meaning. I catch fragments on the wind.
“Harper opened the shop early so my kid could finish his book report in quiet.”
“Dex fixed the outlet behind the bake sale table and refused a free pie.”
“The annex roof fund is completely funded with today's donations.”
“Small towns keep what is worth keeping.”
Vernon tries to rise above the noise with a polished line about growth and opportunity. Mrs. Henderson smiles at him the way a kindergarten teacher smiles at a boy who brought a frog into circle time. She pats his sleeve and turns back to Joan, still talking. Todd looks from the jars to the stage to the kids and loses momentum right there in his good loafers.
Harper’s shoulder brushes mine again. Her voice goes thin. “They are defending the street.”
“They're defending you and claiming the town,” I say. “You gave them a reason.”
Vernon checks his watch like time might change its mind. He retreats half a step. Then one more. His smile falters, which is the best thing I have seen all night. He cuts through the crowd toward his sleek car at the curb. He gets in without looking back. The door shuts. The taillights blink. The developer who called our block blight drives away under a canopy of orange bulbs and paper bats.
Harper lets out a breath that shakes. I want to catch it and hand it back to her smoothly. I settle for lacing our fingers together. She squeezes back.
“We actually did it,” she says.
“You did it,” I tell her. “I carried heavy things and yelled at a few extension cords.”
“You yelled at me to eat,” she says.
I shrug, because she’s right. “Yeah, and I’ll probably do it again. Someone’s gotta keep you from living on donut holes.”
We stay by the rail while the band kids help coil cables. Cole wanders over, tips two fingers off his forehead like a smartass salute, and grins at both of us.
“Report from the front,” he says. “Council looked like they were swallowing nails and calling them vitamins. Henderson ran logistics like a general. Mr. Darcy blessed the raffle table with his presence. Also, a toddler told me this is the best day of her life, and she is three, so it carries weight.”
Mr. Darcy blinks at me from his stroller, then turns his head so I get the view of his whiskers and contempt. Cole snorts under his breath.
“You will never win him over,” he whispers.
“I don't need to win him,” I say. “I just need to be tolerated.”
Cole claps my shoulder, then looks at Harper. “You were a damn sight today,” he says, all joking dropped for once. “Proud of you.”
Color rises in her cheeks. She opens her mouth and shuts it again. Cole gives us both a small bow, rolls the cat stroller to Harper, and fades back to help Dolly wrestle a banner into a box.
By the time the last jar is sealed and the final cord is coiled, the festival is officially over. The square has quieted to a low hush, the laughter, and music now just an echo. Porch lights glow on Main Street while paper bats sag from the lines overhead. A breeze stirs the bunting so that it whispers against the poles. Harper and I gather the cash box and the jars and carry them into The Wandering Page, leaving the night to settle behind us.
