Page 66 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

Clover immediately waved both arms. “Over here!”

Carson closed her eyes briefly, embarrassment flickering through her green eyes. I almost felt bad for her.

Almost.

Evelyn started toward us, and Carson had no choice but to follow.

And, as the two of them crossed the room toward the Jones table, I understood something I hadn’t fully appreciated until that moment.

Carson Rome hadn’t simply stopped attending the Harvest Festival.

She had stopped letting Willow Creek have access to her at all.

Tonight, whether she wanted it or not, the town had finally gotten her back in the room.

Chapter

Nine

CARSON

I almost turned around before we made it through the town hall doors. Not because I was afraid of the meeting. No. That would have been ridiculous. I had survived physical therapy, phantom pain, funerals, overdue mortgage notices, and a dairy cow kicking a gate clean off its hinges at five in the morning. A room full of people with clipboards and seasonal opinions should not have been enough to make my stomach tighten.

But Willow Creek had a way of making a person feel seen even when they desperately wanted to disappear.

And tonight, every light in town seemed determined to shine directly on me.

A chalkboard near the door announced:

PUMPKIN BEER FLIGHTS

APPLE CIDER MULES

FRIDAY NIGHT GHOST STORIES

And beneath all of it, in larger handwriting:

YES, THE COSTUMED BARTENDER COMPETITION IS HAPPENING AGAIN. STOP ASKING.

I slowed as I read the sign, fighting a little giggle at Rosie’s antics.

Meme followed my gaze and gave a quiet laugh. “Rosie always did have a flair for the dramatic.”

“That’s one word for it.”

I looked at Meme. She was smiling. Not the small, careful smile she wore when someone asked about Pops. A real one. The kind that softened the deep lines around her mouth and made her look, for just a moment, much younger. I hadn’t seen that expression directed at Willow Creek in a long time. And that was the only reason I kept walking.

Meme had asked to come tonight because she knew we couldn’t hide out at Marigold Ranch forever. I never replied to her text message… Yet she had stood in the kitchen after dinner with her purse tucked beneath one arm and told me she wanted to attend the meeting like it was the most ordinary request in the world. One I hadn’t actively ignored.

We had not attended a Harvest Festival meeting since Pops died.

Not one.

At first, people understood. Then they stopped asking. Eventually, Marigold Ranch became something Willow Creek remembered rather than expected.

I had been comfortable with that.

Meme, apparently, was no longer interested in comfort, but just because she was ready, didn’t mean I was.