Page 119 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

Parking.

Vendor placement.

Power access.

Temporary restrooms.

Trash.

Emergency lanes.

I had expected whimsical ideas and arguments over pumpkins. Instead, Rosie had apparently transformed overnight into an event planner with frightening competence.

The north pasture could accommodate most parking if we marked lanes properly.

Vendor tents would sit along the open field between the barn and the old oak grove.

Food needed to remain closer to the main barn because of electrical access.

Children’s activities would stay away from the livestock areas.

The bonfire would require county approval.

Every answer created two more questions.

I wrote everything down, because a check list I could work with. Somewhere halfway through the discussion, I stopped thinking of the Harvest Festival as a memory. It became a project I had to succeed with.

I made three pages of notes before Darlene began arguing about scarecrows. Apparently last year’s competition remained an open wound.

“Adults should not compete against children,” she announced. A man from the hardware store objected. Darlene ignored him. “Last year a nine-year-old won.”

“Because hers was better,” Iris said.

“That is not the point.”

“It seems exactly the point.”

June, who had been cutting coffee cake into smaller pieces for late arrivals, looked up. “Children humiliating grown adults builds character.”

Rosie rested both hands against her hips. “We are not redesigning the entire competition because Greg lost to a fourth grader.”

Greg, apparently the hardware store owner, looked offended. “It had LED eyes.”

“She’s nine,” June said. “She knows electricity.”

Walter suggested a mechanical category. Jax immediately told him absolutely not. Which led to Clover proposing a couples’ category. Hunter, standing behind her with one hand loosely at her waist, quietly shook his head before anyone could volunteer him.

For several minutes, the ranch sounded exactly like Willow Creek. Too many opinions. Too much laughter. Nobody agreeing on anything important enough to matter. And underneath it all, something I hadn’t expected.

Warmth.

I looked toward the house. Meme stood on the porch beside Margaret. They were watching, too. Margaret said something I couldn’t hear. Meme laughed. Not the restrained little laugh she’d learned after Pops died. A genuine laugh that bubbled from her chest like a stampede of horses.

I had heard more of those in the last week than I had in years. That alone probably should have been enough to make me stop fighting this.

Rosie eventually moved everyone into smaller groups. June claimed food and vendor placement. Clover attached herself to decorations. Darlene somehow became responsible for signage, even though I was almost certain no one had officially given her that job. Iris volunteered to coordinate a children’s ghost story-hour and a nighttime reading near the bonfire. Walter took equipment. Jax objected to taking anything. And, as predicted, nobody even acknowledged him.

Beau ended up with Walter, then somehow separated from the group entirely when Rosie asked him to inspect the electrical outlets around the barn.