Page 9 of The Pumpkin Pact
“Harper,” she says warmly. “Dex. I’ve got pies for the bake sale and a petition against ‘revitalization’ ready for signatures. Also, that man from the council who thinks condos are modern knows nothing about parking ratios.”
“Agreed,” I say. “We’ve got a plan.”
“I know you do,” she says, and pats my arm like I’m still her little linebacker son and not a man trying very hard not to blurt out feelings on Main Street. “Drive safe.”
Harper promises she will. My mother glides away, leaving cinnamon and competence in her wake.
We stand there for a second in the lavender light, both of us looking at the square like we can already see the festival—the lights, the music, the busy booths, kids with sticky faces, neighbors arguing about whether the jazz band is ‘real jazz.’ And in the middle of it, The Wandering Page with a line out the door and a donation bucket filling faster than Vernon can smirk.
“We’re going to win,” I say before I can overthink it.
Her mouth softens. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” I say, and I’m surprised by how much I mean it. “Because you’ll make it happen.”
She swallows, looks away and then looks back. “Go paint your numbers, Dex.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I salute with a sign, because if I don’t turn it into a joke, I might say something I can’t take back.
She loads Mr. Darcy into her car; he stares at me through the grate with the patience of a saint planning a smite. I lift two fingers. “Evening, Your Grace.”
He blinks as if to say, 'Do better'.
I will. For her. For this town. For the street where I grew up and the bookstore that taught me, you can start over as many times as you have to.
The sky deepens to gray. I head back to the square with paint tape and numbers, and by the time I’m done, my phone buzzes.
HARPER: Home. Cat fed. Spreadsheet worship complete.
ME: Copy. See you at dawn for spider boxes.
HARPER: Bring coffee.
ME: Demanding.
HARPER: Decaffeinated.
I tuck my phone in my pocket and look down Main Street and see the lampposts winking on, shop windows glowing, pumpkins lined up like a thousand small suns. Somewhere out there, I'm sure Vernon is drafting another email with the subject lineTime-Sensitive Offer, or something stupid like that. He can send twenty. We’re still going to beat him—with bunting, cocoa, spreadsheets, music, and a small army led by a cat.
Dry leaves skitter over the pavement. I picture the square full and loud, Harper laughing under the string of lights, and I make myself a promise I’ve never said out loud... I’m going to help her save this town and especially her shop.
And if I have to smile at her cat to do it, well, I can bite my tongue and do that, too.
The council chamber has that after-storm hush when we finally scrape the last folding chair. Most of the town has spilled into the hallway to debrief and gossip; fluorescent lights humlike they’re eavesdropping. My mother, Eleanor Rowen, appears at our table with a legal pad, a thermos of coffee, and the expression of a woman about to run a successful coup. Dolly and Beatrice flank her like cheerful security guards… without all the muscle, but still scary.
“Sit,” Mom says—gentle voice, battlefield eyes. We sit like good little soldiers.
She taps her pen once. “Vernon fights dirty,” she says. “We fight with stories. Be the town’s love story.”
Harper blinks. “I’m sorry—what?”
“Optics,” Mom says, already bullet-pointing. “Public, uncomplicated affection. Unified messaging. Let people see what this street means. The council can ignore bunting; they won’t ignore a narrative that fills the town square.”
I look at Harper. She’s half skeptical, half calculating. “You’re suggesting we… pretend.”
“I’m suggesting you agree to be seen together—intentionally,” Mom replies. “No lies, no false promises. You set rules. But when the town looks over at the two of you, they should feel like Hollow Creek is choosing itself.”
Dolly slides a Post-it across to us. “Beats,” she says, proud. “Mel’s Diner coffee tomorrow—booth by the window. Coordinated flannel shirts at the vendor check-in. You two at the ribbon on Opening Hour. And—” she waggles her brows “—a photograph at the gazebo with fairy-lights, for the newspaper.”
