Page 6 of The Pumpkin Pact
I sigh. “Relax, Harper. It’ll be fine.”
She groans and tips her head back and stares at the ceiling. “You’re so predictable.”
“Consistent,” I correct. “Very different.”
The mayor rattles through housekeeping items and retreats before Mrs. Henderson can recruit him to sponsor a chrysanthemum arch. Harper and I spread a laminated map of Town Square across the front table. She’s already color--coded the entire thing—orange for vendors, purple for power, green for ‘places children will definitely trip.’ She taps with a pen that has a tiny plastic pumpkin on top and looks me dead in the eye like the pumpkin is also evaluating my worth.
“Vendors here and here,” she says, scribbling. “Stage here. Food trucks along the south side. And like you said, we need clear lines for power and no cords where toddlers roam.”
“I’ve already got electricians lined up,” I say. “And the fire marshal.”
Her pen stills. “You did that already?”
“Last week.”
Something flickers under all that drive—surprise, maybe relief. She covers it with, “Overachiever.”
“Guilty as charged,” I say. “Anything to stop Vernon from plastering the block with boutiques that look like Pinterest threw up and smell like burnt pumpkin spice.”
The corner of her mouth betrays her for half a second. Then she sobers. “What's our vendor count?”
“So far, I’ve got almost thirty vendors lined up. The crafters’ guild confirmed, the honey farmer’s in, and even the pumpkin guy is bringing his knives so that he can carve them into celebrity faces. Still chasing down the bakeries on their health permits, but they’ll get them in time. As for entertainment—kids’ magician at noon, high school jazz at three, and the bluegrass band will close out the night. We might even get the candy apple guy if I can bribe him with a guaranteed outlet and a free cider.”
“Got it,” she says, jotting notes. “And we need signage—maps, schedules, and a Donate to Save Our Street QR linked to the library annex fund. I have a mockup.” She slides her phone over. The design is clean, cheerful, and more persuasive than a door--to--door Girl Scout.
“Looks good,” I say. “I’ll get them printed at the office supply store. And I’ll rope off emergency access here.” I mark two lines with blue ink and block letters: NO TENTS. “Also, trash corrals here and here. If we don’t plan for garbage, garbage will plan for us.”
She glances up, and for a moment there’s no banter, just the quiet click of something aligning between us. “Thanks,” she says, softer than usual.
“Don’t mention it,” I say, and mean it. If co--chairing a festival is the only way to back her up, then that’s what I’m doing, even if she keeps threatening to staple streamers to my forehead.
Of course, Vernon chooses that moment to reappear in the hall, leaning in the doorway like he owns the place, and finishes a sotto voce aside into his phone: “—yes, ask Legal about enforcing decibel limits and temporary power permits.” He pockets the phone and smiles like he didn’t just threaten us with paperwork. “I do hope all this effort isn’t wasted,” he drawls. “The council will be meeting soon to discuss my revitalization project. Progress waits for no one.”
Harper bristles. I can feel the room temperature rise. I step in before she launches herself across the table. “Funny thing about progress,” I say evenly. “Sometimes it looks a lot like preserving what matters.”
His smirk falters for half a second. Then he smooths his tie, taps the table like he’s blessing our little craft project, and saunters off.
Harper exhales like she’s been holding her breath since 1904. “I still hate him.”
“Join the club,” I mutter. “We’re getting jackets.”
She actually snorts. The sound does something inconvenient to my chest.
We divide and conquer the rest of the tasks. I take permits, power, and vendor wrangling. Harper takes marketing, logistics, and summoning the book club ladies for lawful chaos. Before we split, I scrawl my number on the corner of her map even though she has it memorized. Habit. Or superstition.
“Text when you’re done with the health department,” she says. “If they give you any trouble, tell them Dolly makes cupcakes shaped like ghosts, and she will cry on television if needed.”
“Terrifying,” I say. “I’ll weaponize pastry as a last resort.”
The health department is two streets over in a brick building where posters warn you about everything from raw milk to deer droppings. I get the bakeries signed off, then detour to the power co-op to sweet -talk Gary into loaning us two extra spider boxes. Gary pretends he’s immune to charm. He isn’t.
“Two boxes and a hundred feet of cable,” he says, typing like the keyboard hurt him. “You break it, you buy it.”
“Understood.”
“And tell your mother I liked that apple crisp,” he adds, not looking up.
“I’ll pass that along.” I leave with a receipt and the knowledge that Eleanor Rowen wields more municipal power than the mayor’s gavel... as long as she bakes her apple crisps.
