“We’ve gotta know someone,” Chase muses, scratching his chin thoughtfully.
“Actually,” Lanie perks up. “I think we do. Dylan, isn’t your bestie, Taegen, back in town.”
A flash of her laugh echoing in this very barn flashes through my head. I swallow. Hard. “She isn’t my bestie.”
“You two were inseparable back in the day.” Lanie rolls her eyes. “She just moved back over the summer.”
“Why’s she back?” Chase asks.
“To help out her grandma. You know, she has a popular vlog and a big social following. And the newspaper gave her a column.”
“That sounds like she’d be checking off a few boxes for us if we could get her out here,” Quinn muses, then turns to me. “Could you ask her?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” My heart hitches. “It’s been a long time.”
“What’s a little time among friends?” He asks. “Call her.”
It doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice. I wish I did.
It’s not that there’s bad blood. But there’s a reason I never called. A reason I’ve avoided her name popping up in my feed.
And if anyone finds out, I’ll never live it down.
TWO
TAEGEN
The GPS on my phone seems a little confused.
“Turn left onto Carver Farm Road,” the robotic voice says over the speaker, pronouncing it likeCar-verr.
I snort and take a swig of coffee out of my travel mug. “You’d better not let the Carvers hear you say their name wrong. No one will ever take is seriously.”
A problem I unfortunately know all too well. I spent the better part of a decade, trying to get people to take me seriously first as a newspaper reporter and then as a digital journalist. Thank goodness, I finally went out on my own.
Well, mostly on my own.
My phone rings, and I answer the call on my car’s dashboard.
“Tell me you’re almost there,” Patti says without a hello. My new editor at the town’s paper never wastes syllables on small talk.
“I’m two miles out,” I answer. “It’s picturesque out here. Mountains on one side, trees turning orange and red on the other. It’s basically a Hallmark movie.”
“Perfect. Save that description for your article.”
“Copy that, boss”
“Don’t be afraid to get deep descriptive,” she says. “The piece is going to be called ‘Go Big or Gourd Home.’”
“Cute.”
“Yes, but cute isn’t enough. I want depth. Stakes. A story people will click.”
“Patti,” I say carefully, “it’s a column about things to do at a pumpkin patch. It’s not exactly a crime report.”
“Every small town has skeletons. Figurative, literal—whatever sells. That’s what readers want.” She rustles paper, probably flipping through the current draft of the crime novel she’s drafting. “Give me something juicier than pumpkin varieties and pie contests.”
“Maybe a ghost haunting the hay maze?”
