Page 29 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

Inside, nearly every aisle had already been decorated for Halloween. Fake cobwebs stretched across the produce section. Plastic bats hung from the ceiling. A mechanical skeleton near the registers turned its head and cackled whenever someone walked past.

Carson flinched the first time it moved. I pretended not to notice.

Mrs. Poppy, the store manager, met us near the refrigerated section and immediately wrapped Carson in a hug. “I was wondering where you were. I called the ranch twice.”

“I’m sorry. Pops’s truck broke down.”

“Oh, honey.” Mrs. Parker looked toward me. “And Beau Jones came to your rescue.”

Carson’s shoulders tightened inside my jacket. “He provided transportation,” she corrected. Mrs. Parker’s eyes brightened with the exact kind of interest Carson had warned me about.

“Well, isn’t that nice?”

“It’s raining,” Carson said flatly. “I wasn’t going to walk home.”

“Of course not.” Mrs. Parker’s tone suggested she had already created an entirely different version of events in her head.

Carson completed the paperwork while I unloaded what remained of the grocery order. She moved through the transaction efficiently, apologizing without sounding weak and promising the remaining balance the following morning.

Mrs. Parker waved away the concern. “We’ve been buying from Marigold Ranch since your grandfather still had dark hair. One delayed order won’t change that.”

“Thank you.” Carson’s expression softened.

“And tell Evelyn I’m still waiting for her soup recipe.”

“She’ll die before giving it away.”

“That woman has always been selfish.”

Carson laughed, and again I caught that brief glimpse of warmth beneath the armor.

By the time we returned to the truck, the storm had weakened into steady rain. Main Street glowed despite the afternoon gloom, orange lights reflecting across the wet pavement. Storefront windows displayed witches, pumpkins, black cats, and hand-painted signs announcing festival events that would begin over the next several weeks.

Carson stared at it all from behind the passenger window.

“Willow Creek hasn’t changed much,” she murmured.

“You sound disappointed.”

“No.” She pulled my jacket closer. “Sometimes I think I’m the only thing that did.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. Most people filled uncomfortable moments with easy reassurances. But I had never been that guy. The words would have sounded hollow when I didn’t know what had changed or why.

So, I let the silence remain.

She seemed grateful for it.

The town disappeared behind us as I followed her directions toward Marigold Ranch. She insisted on giving me directions even though I knew these roads with my eyes closed. Houses gave way to fields, then woods broken by stretches of fenced pasture. The road narrowed, forcing me to slow as rainwater gathered in deep ruts along the shoulder.

Carson watched the familiar landscape without speaking.

“How long have you been making the deliveries?” I asked eventually.

“Since Pops died.”

“Every week?”

“Unless the truck refuses to cooperate.”