Page 7 of The Pumpkin Pact
At the office supply store, I bribe the printer with coffee and get the QR signs queued up. While I wait, I map emergency egress on graph paper and text Harper a photo.
ME: Your obsession with color--coding has infected me.
HARPER: I prefer the term 'inspired'. Also, green highlighters are for kid zones, not garbage. Fix it, or Mr. Darcy will give you the side -eye that withers crops.
ME: Correcting now. Please don’t send Mr. Darcy.
HARPER: No promises. Also, Mrs. Henderson wants to know if we can add a chrysanthemum selfie wall.
ME: Is that a real thing?
HARPER: It will be on Friday.
I smile like an idiot at my phone and pretend I’m not smirking when Steve from the co-op walks by and definitely sees me.
By noon I’ve got permits stamped, power sorted, and a stack of signs riding shotgun. On the way to Town Square, I swing into Mel’s Diner for fuel. The bell rings as I walk inside. The place smells of coffee, bacon, and seventeen years of gossip. My mother looks up from behind the pie case, takes in the armful of signage, and lifts one brow—her way of asking three questions and making one judgment simultaneously.
“Working hard or hardly working?” Mom asks, but her mouth curves. There’s an extra plate of cider donuts cooling behind her; she pushes one across without breaking eye contact.
“Festival stuff,” I say around a bite I pretended to refuse and absolutely did not. “Health permits, power, signage. Need anything from me?”
“Just your immortal soul signed over to my volunteer list,” she says, then lowers her voice. “I saw Vernon lurking by the town hall. Should I sharpen my knitting needles?”
“Not yet. We’re saving the good chaos for later.”
She pours coffee, studies me the way only a mother can. “How’s Harper?”
“Focused,” I say. “Worried.”
“Good,” she says lightly, which is Eleanor-speak for 'I am aware of her situation down to the unpaid invoices and I’malready three moves ahead'. “Tell her I’m bringing pies to the bake sale—label them ‘anti--condo apple.’”
“Subtle,” I deadpan.
“Eat your donut,” she says, and taps my knuckles like I’m eight.
Back in Town Square, I chalk out vendor spaces while a gusty October wind tries to slap the chalk out of my hand. Dolly cruises up with a wagon full of lamppost garlands; Beatrice follows with zip ties, which is always a warning. They confer about angles like they’re engineering a bridge, then recruit me to lift pumpkins that look suspiciously like free weights.
“Where’s Harper?” Dolly asks, sliding me a granola bar labeledFuel, Not Feelings.
“Bookstore. Vendor calls.”
“Tell her I secured a caramel fountain,” Dolly says.
I stop lifting the heavy pumpkin. “Is that safe? Should I hire a lifeguard?”
“No, no lifeguards needed,” Beatrice says. “But that’s why we made you order three extra fire extinguishers to babysit Dolly’s caramel fountain.”
“I did,” I say, because of course I did.
By late afternoon, the square starts resembling a plan. I send Harper a photo—chalk lines, measuring tape, the gazebo dressed in orange ribbon like it’s going to prom. She replies with Mr. Darcy glaring at a stack of poetry chapbooks, followed by:He says this layout is acceptable, but he will submit notes.
I head to The Wandering Page with the signs. The bell chimes, and the shop exhales book smell and calm, which is to say... Harper. She’s behind the counter with the phone cradledto her shoulder, scribbling while saying, “Yes, I can promise a dedicated outlet and foot traffic. No, I cannot promise the mayor won’t attempt slam poetry again.”
She hangs up, looks at the signs, and lights up like someone plugged her in. “Those are perfect,” she says, then catches herself. “I mean, they’ll do.”
“High praise,” I say dryly. I set the stack down and, because I can’t help myself, I fix the squeak in the front door again. “Co-op’s lending us two spider boxes. Emergency access is marked. Trash corrals in the corners. And your QR code is going to be everywhere short of the bathrooms.”
“Put one in the bathrooms,” she says. “People are contemplative in there.”
