The Pumpkin Pact

Chapter 1

Harper

T he morning sun does that stained-glass thing through the old transom windows of The Wandering Page, turning dust motes into glitter like the store is trying out for a role as a whimsical cathedral. I, meanwhile, am trying out for the fictional role of Woman Who Has It Together .

I pick my outfit on purpose—black jeans that forgive sins, a pumpkin -orange cardigan that subconsciously says, 'support local autumn' but not 'I own twelve decorative gourds and a live, laugh, love sign'.

and my favorite boots that make me three inches taller and exactly zero inches less clumsy.

I even put on lipstick called Vermont Maple , which tastes like ChapStick and delusions.

Mr. Darcy, my cat, and longtime emotional support curmudgeon, watches from atop the checkout counter with the same expression he wears for thunder, vacuum cleaners, and men who think being tall is a personality trait.

He’s a tuxedo cat with a perfect black mustache that makes him look like he’s about to tell me my hemline is gauche.

“Big day, Mr. Darcy” I tell him, flipping the sign to OPEN. “We are manifesting prosperity. We are radiating competence. We are not eating a leftover cider donut for breakfast... again.“

Mr. Darcy blinks and flicks an ear toward the pastry bag beside the register.

“Ok, fine. Half a donut.” I tear it neatly in two. He does not eat donuts, but he enjoys the theater of denying himself earthly pleasures.

I slide the register drawer shut, and my fingers brush the battered paperback we called ours—Dex’s copy of The Princess Bride that Dex and I annotated in the margins all senior year.

We both had our own copy. His neat block letters argue with my loopy snark, and on page 136 he wrote, as you wish in a red pen like a dare.

I keep it under the counter the way some people keep a rabbit’s foot.

The bell over the door chimes, and Hollow Creek swirls into the shop.

Mrs. Henderson from the florist takes three dramatic steps inside and pretends to be winded as if crossing Main Street counts as cardio.

Behind her, the Williamson twins—who have been seventy for fifteen years—beeline for the romance section with the deep focus of truffle pigs.

“Harper,” Mrs. Henderson trills, clasping her pearls, which I swear are on a tension wire. “You look… festive.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Today’s vibe is Not Today, Vernon Blackstone.”

Her eyes sparkle like a magpie who has found a diamond. “Oooh, have you told him that?”

“I’m saving it for when he offers to buy my shop ‘for my own good’ again.”

Vernon Blackstone—developer, ambitious disruptor of quaint things, and a man who uses the word synergy too much—has been circling our block like a vulture.

He wants to bulldoze The Wandering Page and the rest of my neighbors to put in mixed -use buildings with 'thoughtful retail curation'.

Last time he said that, I asked if he meant a candle store smells like mortgage payments.

He did not laugh. I did internally like a hyena.

The Halloween Festival is my Hail Mary. If we can make it the event of the season—higher foot traffic, real sales, donors for the library annex—I have a chance to show the town council that we are not a blight. We are delighted. Don't judge. I'm still workshopping the slogan.

“Are you and Dexter Rowen still co--chairing the festival?” Mrs. Henderson asks, like she’s casually dropping a nuclear reactor.

“It’s Dex,” I say automatically. “And yes, we are.”

“Mm,” she hums. “The Dex who used to be engaged to?—”

“We’re not doing that,” I say brightly, waving her toward New Releases. “We are a gossip -free zone. Please enjoy this gripping thriller about a man whose life falls apart because of a rumor.”

She pats my hand as if I’m an obedient dog. “I always knew you two had chemistry. Like… vinegar and baking soda.”

Somewhere in the stacks, the Williamson twins whisper, “Boom.”

By nine--thirty the shop is humming. Mr. Darcy supervises from his velvet throne which is really just an old dictionary I rescued from the free bin and stacked just for him, and I sell two poetry collections, a field guide to mushrooms, and three copies of A Witch’s Guide to Small - Town Scandals , which I’m pretty sure is autobiographical in spirit if not in content.

The bell rings again. A gust of October comes in—all apple -cold and leaf -spicy—and with it, Dex.

I should have prepared, like I do for dentist appointments.

He takes up more space than the doorway should allow, all broad shoulders and beard and that worn flannel that makes my nervous system sing the national anthem.

He also has a smile he keeps holstered most of the time like it might be a dangerous weapon. Because it is.

Mr. Darcy arches into a Gothic stretch and emits a low sound like a kettle starting to boil.

“Morning,” Dex says, voice warm and rumbling. “Hi, Darcy.”

His gaze flicks to the counter edge where the paperback peeks out, the corner he folded a lifetime ago, and for half a beat we’re seventeen and invincible again.

“Mr. Darcy,” I correct. “He’s never forgiven you for trying to scratch his chin that one time.”

Dex plants his hands on the counter, a grin edging in. “I apologized. He accepted the apology and then he slapped me.”

“That’s acceptance,” I say. “He’s a boundaries guy.”

Mr. Darcy turns his back with the slow, disdainful precision of a French waiter.

“Festival check-in?” Dex asks. He glances at the clipboard I’ve decorated with pumpkin stickers and an aggressively cheerful WE’VE GOT THIS! in bubble letters.

“We do not check in; we strategize,” I say, even though we absolutely check in. “How’s the vendor list coming along?”

“Twenty--seven confirmed,” he says. “Food trucks are squared away. I did finally track down the guy with the maple cotton candy machine—he’s in. We just need to finalize placement and power.”

“Excellent,” I say, scribbling. “And the music?”

“Moonlight Bluegrass can do a two--hour set. We’ve got the high school jazz band at three. And your poetry open mic…” He looks at me, amused. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes,” I say firmly. “Last year’s slam about seasonal affective disorder changed lives.”

“It made my uncle buy a sunlamp,” he admits. “Okay. What about security?”

“That’s all on you,” I say. “Just please keep the book club from zip -tying Vernon to the gazebo.”

Dex’s eyes flick to the front window. Across the street, Vernon Blackstone himself is conferring with a man in a hardhat and a woman in a blazer the color of expensive olives.

He spots me through the front windows, smiles like a politician, and raises two fingers in a salute.

I meet his smile with the chill of a thousand maple creemees.

“Do you need me to run interference?” Dex asks, low.

“I can handle him,” I say, also low. “But if I lift my left eyebrow, release the kraken.”

“Noted,” he says, mouth doing that almost -smile again.

Mrs. Henderson materializes like an unskippable ad. “Dexter,” she says, delightfully ignoring my earlier correction. “Have you told Harper how handsome you look in plaid?”

Dex tips his chin, like he's absolutely guilty of that very thing. “Mrs. Henderson.”

“Don’t mind me,” she says, already minding both of us with Olympic intensity. “Just picking up my monthly dose of small--town gossip.” She leans conspiratorially across the counter. “I do hope you two have a plan to save this block from the bulldozers.”

“We do,” I say. “It’s called 'Throw the best Halloween Festival Hollow Creek has ever seen, raise enough money to make the council swoon, and then drown Vernon in a sea of positive press'.” I shrug, "It's a working title."

“Metaphorically,” Dex adds.

“Allegedly,” Mrs. Henderson purrs, and wafts away like a scented candle with secrets.

Dex shifts his weight, scans my face. “Are you sleeping enough?”

“Like a baby bird in a wind tunnel,” I say.

He pulls a folded paper from his back pocket. “Good. Because I brought a map.”

A map. Of Town Square. With little sticky notes for vendor placement and emergency access routes, and a legend where he wrote in all caps NO CORDS WHERE CHILDREN RUN . There’s something indecent about how attractive competent men are. I fan myself with a bookmark that says Reading Is My Cardio .

We lean over the counter—close enough that I can smell cedar and laundry detergent—and argue pleasantly about traffic flow.

“If we put the cider press here,” I say, tapping the northeast corner, “then it draws people past the bookstore first. They’ll arrive thirsty and emotionally open to fiction.”

“Or,” he counters, “we put the cider press here on the south side, and your kids’ story time tent here, so families make a loop instead of bottlenecking in front of Mel’s Diner.”

“Okay, civil engineer,” I say. “When did you get so good at crowd psychology?”

He shrugs, a shy little motion that should not be allowed on a body that size. “Years of helping with the Winter Jubilee. Also, I once saw two toddlers fight over a balloon sword and learned the true meaning of fear.”

“Valid,” I say. “Fine. South side cider. But I want the local author table right in the center.”

“Done.” He writes it in block letters. 'Author ego hub'.

“I will throw this pen at your beard,” I say. “And it will never come out.”

He grins, full wattage, and I forget every vowel in the alphabet.

The bell rings, and Vernon enters with a gust of expensive cologne and ambition. He does an appreciative spin, as if he’s taking in the charming patina of a building he would love to turn into artisanal co-working spaces or luxury condos.

“Harper,” he says, smile refined to a surgical instrument. “Dexter.”

“It’s Dex,” we say in stereo.

Vernon’s gaze lands on the map between us. “Planning quite the event, I see.”

“We are,” I say. “Hollow Creek will be humming.”