Page 60 of Something About September

“I’m so happy, Rebecca,” Sabrina breathed.

“But that’s not all,” Rebecca said. “I also contacted the university and took an indefinite leave.”

At this, Sabrina gasped. “You did?”

“I did. And not only that, but I opened a spreadsheet.”

At this, Sabrina laughed. “A spreadsheet! You really are going wild on me, Rebecca McIntosh.”

“Hear me out. For the Blackbird and Bramley. I want to do it, Sabrina. I think we should. I know it’s complicated for you; I know your life is tied up in working at the orchard. But I really, really think we should make a go of things. Start a business together. Make our dreams come true.”

Sabrina was silent for a moment, and Rebecca worried that she was being too impulsive. What was she offering here, other than a dream, an idea they had formed when they were just kids? But then Sabrina smiled. “Funny, I was going to tell you the same thing. That I did something wild. I took Byron into the hay maze, forced him to find his way out of it, and when he proved that he could, I told him that once the Autumn Festival is over, I’m stepping back from the day-to-day operations at the orchard. I’m promoting him. He gets my job. And I told my parents last night at dinner, too. They said it was about time I admitted I wasn’t happy. That they were going to celebrate the end of the harvest season by going on a cruise and that they thought putting Byron in charge was a great idea. They asked me what my plan was—and I said I wasn’t sure, I wanted to talk to you first. But they reminded me that with all the different projects I’ve been working on, the orchard is turning an excellent profit, and has been for years. They said I could take a dividend and do what I wanted with it. So, we have seed money. I think we really can do this.”

The two friends sat at the table and stared at each other, both wide-eyed. Then Sabrina lifted her tea mug and clicked it against Rebecca’s. “To the Blackbird and Bramley,” she said.

“To meeting our lives head-on,” Rebecca replied.

Chapter 38

By the next evening, the town square had transformed again under strings of lights and a rising hum of music. Calliope tunes drifted from the midway, tinny and nostalgic, punctuated by the metallic clatter of rides starting and stopping and the burst of cheers from somewhere near the ring toss. The air was thick with competing smells—fried dough and kettle corn, diesel from the generators, apples bruised and sweet beneath it all.

Backstage, under a scalloped tent that smelled faintly of hay and hot lights, Rebecca stood with Ms. Abrams, who had asked her to help present the vegetable contest ribbons with a sweet wink that had made Rebecca realize she must not have heard about the breakup.

“This is the most exciting part,” Ms. Abrams said. “The giant pumpkin weigh-in.”

Rebecca felt a flutter of nerves, thinking of Cort and Pip, hoping hard for them. She held a glossy stack of ribbons, blue, red, and yellow.

Outside the tent, the crowd hummed, filled with locals jockeying for a view, tourists with cider cups. Beyond the tent flap she could see the contenders: enormous pumpkins squatting on pallets, names chalked on their slings. Goliath, Sun King, Bramley Bruiser. Pip and Cort had named their pumpkin Gentle Giant, which Rebecca thought was sweet.

She could see them, standing off to the side, near the front, looking nervous but happy. Rebecca knew it didn’t really matter if they won. Pip’s face was incandescent, and Cort smiled down at his son. She could see them doing this for years to come, a tradition that was better than any first-place ribbon.

Cort caught Rebecca’s eye through the bustle and lifted a hand. She lifted hers back, her heart doing a strange, happy flip.

“Welcome, friends and neighbors!” Crispin boomed into the microphone, as if announcing a coronation. “It is time for Bramley Hollow’s Giant Pumpkin Weigh-In and Assessment. Rules are simple: There is the official sling, official scale, official weight, no funny business with sandbags or secret fillings…I’m looking at you, Pete.” Laughter rolled through the crowd. “And then my wife, Nazreen, will examine each pumpkin for color, style, and general vibe.” Nazreen waved, and everyone cheered. She was dressed as the fairy godmother from Cinderella, complete with wand.

A small forklift was used to hoist the pumpkins onto the scale. Sun King came in at a breathtaking 1,138 pounds; the crowd oohed. Goliath thudded onto the scale at 1,169; oohs became oh mans. Rebecca checked the board and saw there was only one left before Cort and Pip’s: Bramley Bruiser, which posted 1,174. A murmur of this might be it rustled the tent.

Then it was Cort and Pip’s turn.

They maneuvered their pumpkin with the help of two volunteers. Pip kept patting its side like a horse. “It’s okay,” he whispered to it. “You’re brave.”

Rebecca’s throat tightened. He was so sweet.

Cort glanced at her again, quick and shy. He had on a navy suit jacket over a black Henley, and it hit her all at once, how much she liked all versions of him.

“Hush, everyone,” Crispin intoned as the sling creaked and the pumpkin eased into place. The needle trembled, wavered, climbed.

Silence fell like autumn leaves.

And then Crispin said it: 1,182. And a perfect score from Nazreen, for style, color, and immaculate giant pumpkin vibes. Cheers and whistles broke out, and a grinning Cort lifted his son and spun him around in victory before setting him down again.

Ms. Abrams slipped the blue ribbon into Rebecca’s hands. “Go on,” she said softly. “Give it to them.”

“We did it!” Pip squeaked happily when he saw her approaching.

“You sure did,” she said, and pinned the ribbon to the sling’s webbing.

“And you helped, Becca. You kept the pumpkin safe from frost.” He gazed up at her with genuine affection in his eyes, and Rebecca pulled him in for a fast hug and hair tousle. Cort was watching them, smiling.