Page 125 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

The bakery had always looked like it belonged in Willow Creek more than almost anywhere else in town. Old brick walls, with cream-painted shelves, a long, glass case lined with pastries that changed with the season. In the summer, June filled everything with peaches, berries, lemon, and enough whipped cream to make Meme complain that nobody appreciated a proper pie anymore.

September transformed the place.

Tiny pumpkins sat along the windowsills. Dried orange slices hung from twine over the coffee bar. Bundles of cinnamon sticks filled mason jars between the tables, and somebody had painted small ghosts onto the front window beside a hand-lettered announcement for the Harvest Festival.

THE FESTIVAL IS COMING.

I stopped walking as I read. The words were written in white paint beneath a cluster of orange leaves.

“Don’t stand there staring at it like I announced your engagement.” Clover appeared behind the counter carrying a tray of iced cookies. Her auburn hair was piled on top of her head in a loose knot that looked like it had survived several arguments with gravity. Flour dusted one cheek, and she wore an apron covered in tiny Christmas trees, despite it being September.

I pointed toward it. “That’s offensive.”

She looked down. “My apron?”

“Yes.”

“It’s festive,” she pouted.

“It’s September.”

“September is pre-Christmas.”

“No.” I laughed, shaking my head at her.

“It absolutely is, ask anyone outside of this town.”

I moved toward the counter, and Clover set the tray down and slid the Harvest Festival paperwork I had come for toward me. June wanted Marigold to supply milk for several festival vendors, and Rosie had asked me to review quantities before she finalized vendor contracts. The meeting could have happened through email, but Clover had insisted I come in. Apparently she believed anything involving spreadsheets became less offensive when accompanied by baked goods.

I opened the folder. “Where’s June?”

“Back room. Fighting with a cinnamon roll.”

“Who’s winning?” I peeked over her shoulder toward the oak doors leading into the kitchen.

“Currently the cinnamon roll.”

I chuckled before looking down and flipping through the first page. Three vendors wanted bottled whole milk. One wanted cream. Sugar and Pine wanted both. A local coffee company wanted enough milk to run a seasonal drink tent for two days. The quantities were higher than our usual weekly commercial sales, but manageable if I planned production correctly.

Clover leaned across the counter. “Do you know how many years I’ve been waiting for you to come back into town enough that I could actually get to know you?”

“W-What?” I blinked rapidly, leaning back slightly at her proximity.

“I remember you.” She shrugged like she hadn’t just said something that lodged somewhere uncomfortable.

“From when?”

“The Festival and school.”

I looked back at the paper, embarrassed because I didn’t remember her.

“I always thought you were pretty cool.”

I looked up again. She looked completely serious. “Why?”

“You had a horse.”

“So did half the county.”