Chapter 5
Harper
B y noon, Hollow Creek has the collective attention span of a squirrel in a pumpkin patch.
Word travels faster than wind, quicker than Mrs. Henderson on a rumor with proper nouns.
“Town council tonight,” the chorus goes, hands cupped around mouths like we’re transmitting secrets across a canyon.
And then there’s Vernon—shimmering down Main like a peacock that discovered hair product.
He does the lap: florist, diner, hardware store, my shop.
At each stop, he shakes hands too long, laughs too loud, and does that shoulder squeeze men in expensive suits think counts as empathy.
He’s wearing cologne that smells like teakwood and paperwork.
Mr. Darcy watches him from the register with murder in his eyes and a tail flick that translates—roughly—to touch the shelving and die.
“Over my cold croissants,” I mutter, straightening a stack of staff picks.
As if on cue, Vernon glides in like he owns the building already. “Harper,” he purrs, making my name sound like a down payment on a big house. “Big night.”
“Night like any other,” I say, voice sunny and sharp. “Except for the democracy.”
“Democracy loves progress,” he says, smiling as though he invented sidewalks. Through the window, he clocks Councilman Riggs crossing toward Mel’s and lifts his chin in a tiny, proprietary nod. “And progress loves a decisive vote.”
“I’m pro-decisions,” I say. “Just not the kind that involve bulldozers.”
He places a slick business card on the counter with two fingers. “Time’s running out, Ms. Venn. If you’d like to discuss a graceful exit, my door is always open.”
Mr. Darcy plants his paw squarely on the card, unsheathes one claw, and drags it with theatrical slowness straight through Vernon's embossed name. The sound is a tiny, perfect violin of menace, and I love it.
“Your employee has opinions of me,” Vernon says, the corner of his mouth going brittle.
“He’s management,” I say. “We value transparency.”
Vernon’s smile thins. “I’ll see you tonight.” He pivots out, and the bell gives a sharp jangle behind him, like even it’s annoyed by his exit.
I lean my forehead against the cool glass of the door after he’s gone and count to five like therapists teach for ‘moments when villains practice active smugness.’ Behind me, Mr. Darcy chirps like a smoke alarm.
“You and me both, buddy,” I say. “We’re going to make it, though. I promise. I have fourteen color-coded spreadsheets and a grudge.”
By late afternoon, Mel’s Diner has switched from breakfast to war room.
The booths along the windows are occupied by the book club ladies, all armed with clipboards, pens, and a terrifying awareness of precedent.
The mayor eats soup at the counter with a napkin tucked into his collar like a bib, pretending he can’t hear strategy being breathed like incense.
Eleanor Rowen—Dex’s mother, my guardian angel with pies—is stationed at the end booth like a general at a map. She waves me over, eyes bright, as Dex slides in beside me with the world’s most necessary coffee. My knee bumps his under the table, and my nerve endings take that personally.
“Sit,” Eleanor says, which sounds shockingly like attention.
“Hi to you, too,” I say.
She laces her fingers, regards us like she’s balancing a budget and a bake sale.
“Listen carefully, children,” she says, in the voice that raised a son and organized a dozen town events with nothing but Post-its and fearlessness.
“The council is skittish. Half of them are picturing tax revenue in their sleep; the other half are picturing a PR nightmare if they bulldoze Mrs. Henderson’s chrysanthemums. Tonight is all about optics and narratives.
So, you both need to give them a story.”
I blink. “A story like… charts and projections? I've got that already.”
“A story like love,” she says, deadpan.
My mouth opens. Somewhere between indignation and panic, a laugh sneaks out and trips over itself. “I’m sorry, what?”
Eleanor taps the table, a cinnamon-polished fingernail making tiny, definitive ticks.
“Everyone loves a love story, Harper. This town especially. If the council sees the two of you as the heart of this block—devoted, steady, part of the fabric—they’ll be gentler on the fabric.
Walk in together. Hold hands. Smile like you have nothing to hide and everything to fight for. ”
Dex clears his throat. His voice comes out steady because of course it does. “Ma.”
She spears him with a look. “This is politics with pie crust. Show them the sweetness, not the sharp edge.”
Dolly leans over the booth back next to ours, eyebrows doing a dance that should be illegal in three states. “Did someone say love story?”
Beatrice appears on the other side like a pop-up ad. “We have props.”
“No props,” I blurt out.
“Minimal props,” Eleanor amends.
Dex’s knee bumps mine again and stays there. “She’s not wrong,” he says quietly, just for me. “We fake it, the town softens. We buy time until the festival. Then they'll see Vernon right out of town.”
My heart climbs my throat like a squirrel. “I don’t want to lie to people.”
“We won’t,” he says. His eyes are steady and so close. “We’ll tell the truth that helps tonight. The rest… we sort out later.”
I think about Vernon’s hand on Councilman Riggs’ shoulder, about the way the man’s laugh echoed off the window like a coin dropped in a well.
I think about the line out the door at my shop last autumn when the kids came in from story time with sticky fingers; about Mr. Darcy sleeping in a patch of sun on the register; about Eleanor’s steady hands and Dolly’s harebrained schemes and Beatrice’s zip ties and Dex leaning a ladder steady with a touch.
I am suddenly very, very tired of being brave alone.
“Okay,” I say, and it’s a decision strapped in with a seatbelt. “We’ll hold hands.”
Dolly squeals.
“No props,” I remind the room.
“Minimal props,” Eleanor says again, but she’s smiling.
I spend the rest of the afternoon in a state best described as functional panic.
I do useful tasks—call the magician, reorder cider packets, bribe Mr. Darcy into his carrier for the short trip to my house so he won’t terrorize Mel’s during the dinner rush—and then un-useful tasks like rearranging a display three times because the paperbacks aren’t aligned in ways that make me feel powerful.
Dex pops in and out like a competent ghost—hauls a box, fixes the squeak the door found again, texts me a photo of a single orange satin ribbon with the words minimal prop.
I threaten him with an entire pumpkin pie to his face.
At six-thirty, I put on a dress that says competent but not crusty, classic but not courthouse, and then, because I am who I am, I change the cardigan twice.
Mr. Darcy watches from the couch, whiskers curled in disapproval.
If it were up to him, he’d just scratch Vernon’s hand and then march off to pee in his shoes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I tell him, grabbing my bag. “This is for your empire.”
He blinks once, slow. Translation: Hurry up.
Town Hall is a limestone shoebox. The steps out front have been worn smooth by a century of boots and arguments.
The foyer smells like floor wax and nostalgia; the bulletin board still has a flier for last spring’s seed swap hiding behind a poster for the Winter Jubilee.
People crowd the hallway in murmurs and plaid.
Vernon is at the center, like a Christmas tree star. He’s laughing—again—with Councilwoman Trammel now, and the sound performs a duet with my nervous system. He catches sight of me and lifts his hand in a little salute that feels like a dare.
I stop two feet inside the door and consider whether I can crawl into the umbrella stand and live there.
“Hey,” Dex says, close to my shoulder. He smells of cedar and soap and the calm you can snuggle into. He’s in a dark shirt I haven’t seen before, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His beard is freshly trimmed. None of that is helpful for my breathing. “You ready?”
“No,” I say, exhaling through my nose. “But also yes.”
His mouth tilts, sympathetic. For a second we’re just two people at a precipice, our town waiting at our backs. He reaches for my hand, and I let him have it.
The first shock I feel is heat. The second is right.
His palm is dry and sure; his fingers thread with mine like they practiced it in their sleep.
A hush rolls through the hallway as if someone turned down the volume.
Heads pivot. I feel color climb my cheeks and find, to my own surprise, that I don’t mind being seen if my life is really like this.
“Ready to sell the love story?” he murmurs, eyes dancing.
“Shut up and walk,” I whisper, smiling like a normal human who isn’t dying inside.
We move through the crowd like a rumor. People appraise us openly—Dolly’s eyebrows attempt liftoff, Beatrice gives me two thumbs up, Mrs. Henderson fans herself with a folded agenda.
Over by the copy machine, I catch Eleanor’s approving nod like a benediction.
Vernon’s mouth pinches, then recomposes.
He keeps talking to Trammel, but his eyes follow us like he’s just seen a chess piece he didn’t anticipate.
Inside the council chamber, we slip into the second row.
The wooden benches are merciless on our backs; the fluorescent lights hum with bureaucratic enthusiasm.
I smooth my skirt and focus on my breathing and the fact that Dex’s thumb has started drawing, unconsciously, slow circles on the back of my hand.
I don't look at him. I also don't pull away. I am very talented at denial.
Mayor Pickering gavels things to order with the romance of a metronome. We plow through normal town council topics like water mains and potholes. Then he clears his throat and says, “Item six, redevelopment proposal for the South Main block.”