Page 67 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

“You know,” I said as we crossed the street, “we could still go home.”

“No.” She didn’t even look at me.

I tried again. “We haven’t actually committed to anything.”

“No.”

“I could tell everyone you weren’t feeling well.”

“That would be a lie.”

“You’re seventy-three. You can claim exhaustion whenever you want.”

She finally glanced up at me. “I put on makeup for this.”

I stared at her. “That’s your argument?”

“Yes.”

“Not very strong. You put makeup on every day.”

“Don’t question me, young lady.” Her hand slipped through my arm as we climbed the town hall steps. The contact was light, but I knew Meme well enough to understand what it meant. She was nervous too.

That realization settled strangely inside me.

For five years, I had assumed I was protecting her by keeping us out of town traditions that reminded us of Pops.

Maybe I had been protecting myself.

Maybe she had been waiting for me.

The thought followed me through the doors. The room was already full, because we were late.

Willow Creek could barely get twenty people to attend a zoning hearing, but mention a scarecrow contest and suddenly half the town discovered civic responsibility.

Someone had decorated the town hall with fake maple garlands, lanterns, miniature pumpkins, and enough plaid tablecloths to supply a country restaurant chain. At the front of the room, Rosie Malone stood beside a whiteboard divided into festival categories. June Whitaker had claimed the table closest to the food. Naturally. And Iris Bennett sat near the end of the same table with a notebook open in front of her, a pair of wire-rim glasses perched low on her nose. At seventy-six, she somehow managed to look elegant even while wearing a cardigan covered in tiny embroidered books.

Darlene Pike had positioned herself near the middle aisle where she could monitor nearly every conversation at once. As the town gossip, I hadn’t expected anything less.

What had surprised me, though, was that the Jones family occupied an entire table near the back. Clover spotted us first, and her arm shot into the air.

“Meme! Carson!”

Every head in the room turned and I closed my eyes.

“Wonderful,” I muttered.

Meme patted my hand. “You’ve survived worse,” she reminded me, but somehow, public humiliation seemed far worse.

“Just barely.”

By the time I opened my eyes again, Clover was still waving.

Walter sat beside Margaret with his battered thermos resting on the table in front of him. Jax looked like he had been sentenced to community service. Hunter sat beside Clover, quiet and observant, while Beau occupied the chair nearest the aisle.

His navy eyes met mine across the room. And something about the simple familiarity of it eased the knot in my stomach.

“Come!” Clover slapped the empty chair beside her. “Sit here.”