It’s been a long day of scraping and sanding, and I only just managed to convince myself to sit down for a break.
Then Norah walks in—sunlight in the form of a woman, as always—with a bouquet cradled in her arms.
“I brought flowers. And judgment, if you tell me you haven’t eaten lunch again.”
I laugh, already feeling some of the tension in my spine ease. “That’s an aggressive combination.”
“You’ve met me,” she says simply, then hands me the bouquet. “These are from my shop. Early dahlias, a few stubborn ranunculus that don’t know it’s almost fall. And the hyacinths from my front window box.”
I bring the blooms to my nose. Fresh. Lush. A little chaotic—like everything in this town that still manages to grow despite the hard winters.
“They’re beautiful.”
“You look like hell,” she adds, grinning.
“I feel like hell.”
Norah’s been my best friend since we were both twelve and she threw a rock at the back of a boy’s head for calling me a redheaded freak. She’s never really lost that righteous spark.
That’s what makes her so good at running the Welcome Center. She organizes Fox Hollow’s chaos with checklists and cookies.
“I figured you might be knee-deep in projects,” she says, glancing around the half-finished bakery. “Ryker said you’ve been pushing yourself.”
“Snitch,” I mutter, but there’s no heat behind it.
“He also said you’re making good progress. The windows look incredible, and the cabinets look fantastic.”
“Jude helped me get them in last night, and the cabinets are all Beau,” I say, too quickly. His name slips out before I can think better of it.
Norah clocks it immediately. “Oh? Beau?”
I busy myself fluffing the flowers in a mason jar I set on the counter. “It was nothing. Just—he passed by the day you and I hung out to bring me back my sweater, and then we had coffee. That’s all.”
Her silence is loud.
I clear my throat. “Anyway, what brings you by besides flowers and insults?”
“Two things. One—you’re officially being conscripted onto the Harvest Festival planning committee. Don’t argue. I already put your name down.”
I groan. “Norah?—”
“It’s just one meeting a week. We need help with the vendors this year. And you’re a legacy—everyone remembers how your grandma used to make hot cider with cinnamon sticks the size of baseball bats. People still ask about it.”
“That cider was mostly whiskey,” I mutter.
“Exactly. You’ll be great.”
I press my lips together but nod once. “Fine. But I’m not doing the pie contest. Again.”
“Deal.”
She doesn’t mention the second thing right away. Instead, I let her drag me out of the café, and we take a slow walk through the square.
It’s late afternoon, the sun slanting low and golden across the rooflines. The shops all have little chalk signs outside, advertising pumpkins and apples. Even the tattoo shop has a carved gourd on the stoop.
Fox Hollow excels at navigating seasonal transitions. Always has.
We pass the used bookstore, then the knitting shop, and just as we’re rounding the corner near the old post office, the fire truck drives by, and I catch part of a conversation between two women perched on a bench with matching iced lattes and buzzed expressions.
