Page 20 of Falling for Mr. October

Luanne cackles as Emily lowers onto the cushion beside her.

My friend still looks shaken, not that I’m surprised. Em doesn’t have many people she’s close to, and unfortunately for her, two of them are senior citizens with more years behind them than ahead.

She’s supposed to be working today, but she stopped in to bring Luanne a book and breakfast, and found her still in bed at eight thirty—definitely out of character since Luanne is always up with the birds. She summoned the on-call doctor, and also me, and took the day off work.

“What’ll make you feel better, Luanne?” Emily asks, reaching over and rearranging a stack of books on the coffee table.

Luanne glances longingly out of the little window across from the couch, which looks out on a patch of ugly pavement. It’s a depressing view that would suck the joy out of anyone.

If you ask me, the residents of The Rotten Apple don’t get out near enough. I try to liven things up with my clubs, but no amount of art can mimic the feeling of a fall breeze on your face. People need fresh air on their faces at least once a day to feel fully human.

While we could bring Luanne out back, there’s nothing out there beyond a boring stretch of green, without even a working bench to sit on.

My mind summons an image of our sweet little pumpkin patch. The tent’s stuffed with stacks of pumpkins, jars of honey and homemade jam, and the nonnas’ sweet treats. Outside, the apple trees stretch out in the distance, the bold green grove of firs just beyond them.

And I think about Giovanni—slick, charming, and so very easy on the eyes. I know Luanne would perk up at the mere sight of him.

“What about some fresh air?” I suggest.

“Really?” Luanne asks, longing thrumming through her voice.

“I could take you two to the opening of the pumpkin patch so you can meet my new roommate and choose a few pumpkins for the front room. You, Em, and I can carve them next week.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea after what happened this morning?” Emily asks, her brows knitting together.

“I’m feeling right as rain,” Luanne says, already reaching for her cane. “It would do me a world of good to get out of here.”

“We’re not heading for the hills just yet,” I tell her with a smile. “I’ve got to clear it with the staff. We’ll borrow one of the vans so we can bring your wheelchair.”

She can make her way around with a cane on her good days, but the field is bumpy and uneven.

Luanne rolls her eyes. “You can carry me on your back for all I care.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Emily asks her, adjusting her nose ring, one of her nervous tells. “We could stay here and choose what to read next for book club.”

“I don’t want to just read about life, Emily, dear. I want to live it while I still can. I’m not done yet.”

Emily bites her lip, then heaves a sigh. “I do want to meet Giovanni, and I’m in the market for some gourds. Mr. Campbell’s letting me do the window display myself this year at the bookstore.”

Luanne laughs. “Finally, that disagreeable man is doing something right.”

She thinks Mr. Campbell makes Emily work too many hours, at an unfair wage, which is partially true. Although, I suspect that the only reason he hasn’t sold the bookstore is for her.

Emily puts on a brave face. “Let’s go see about some pumpkins.”

It takes us a couple of hours to leave, because The Rotten Apple has its own gravitational pull. It keeps sucking you back in every time you try to step out the door. One of the residents, Helen, wanted us to sample her homemade spaghetti (delicious), and another woman told us a seemingly endless story about a dog. I made a mental note to arrange another therapy dog visit and then sent her over to Helen’s for some spaghetti.

“A remarkable crowd as always,” I say as I pull into the dirt lot next to the apple barn and the pumpkin patch, marked by a bright white tent. There are only six cars in the lot, and one of them is Giovanni’s Range Rover. Another belongs to Fiona. “I warned Nonna Rose those flyers were bad.”

Emily cringes. “I had to bribe Mr. Campbell with Altoids to get him to put one up in the bookstore. I thought you said Isabella was going to run some social media ads.”

“She did,” I say dismally, rubbing my forehead.

“It’s only Friday, and the autumn leaves still aren’t nearly peak. There’ll be more people over the weekend.”

“Sure.”

Probably not enough, though. Never enough. Everything’s been bad for a few years now, and this past year, it got much worse.