27. Alice
ALICE
My heart does a little gallop as I click submit.
A dozen titles from a small press out of Colorado will soon be en route to my address.
I pivot to the giants next—the Big Five—stocking up on bestsellers I know shoppers will ask for and cherish.
But the real thrill comes from the industry disruptors, also known as indie authors.
I spend twenty minutes agonizing over a debut fantasy novel, eventually ordering five signed copies.
Each time I check out, I’m reminded—this is real. My bookshop is no longer ideas in a sketchbook, it’s a ledger of debts and assets. It’s inventory management and logistical solutions and future customers leaving my shop with their next favorite read.
I allow my eyes to drift to Colt, who’s working on the front porch. His shoulders and biceps flex beneath a sweat-dampened shirt as he builds my ladder. It’s a thing of childhood dreams, stemming from countless rewatches of Beauty and the Beast.
The ladder will stand eight feet tall and glide along the brass rail he installed yesterday.
Once completed, I will slide back and forth on it, one arm flung open, book held firmly in my grasp.
I will most likely do this in my underwear.
I will most likely do this in my underwear to the soundtrack of Beauty and the Beast.
In the kitchen, the floorboards creak as Grant raids the fridge.
It’s been three nights since Colt and I had the house to ourselves, and I can’t stop thinking about it.
How powerful I felt giving Colt a taste of the ecstasy he’s given me.
Before I’d knelt before him, he’d look at me with self-loathing reverence, as if he weren’t worthy of receiving pleasure.
Afterward, he’d looked at me like a man on fire.
I wonder what happens if things go south?
Maggie’s words rush back to me.
So do Colt’s: I want to sell my mom's place and get the hell out of here.
I know I should tread lightly where Colt is concerned, but I can’t seem to care about anything beyond stealing every second I can with him.
At some point, we’ll need to discuss what will happen to us after he does sell his mom’s house, but the thought of that conversation terrifies me.
I’m so blindingly happy with Colt that I can’t entertain the concept of him not being here.
Colt pushes the front door open, carrying the ladder inside, and I jump up from my chair to help. But when I go to close my laptop, I catch the time. 9:45 AM. “Oh, no.”
Colt’s eyes dart to mine at once. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing.” I grab my purse off the makeshift counter. “I’m just late for the festival meeting. But I can help you—”
He jerks his head toward the front door. “I’ve got it. You go.”
I almost ask if he’s sure, but it seems Colt is always sure. Casting a glance toward the kitchen, I quickly press a silent kiss to Colt’s cheek. A heartbeat later, Grant rounds the corner, a powdered doughnut hanging from his mouth.
Risky, risky.
And totally worth it.
“See ya!” I yell, practically diving out the front door.
Blessings Barn is packed by the time I arrive.
I whisper repeated excuse mes as I navigate the crowded aisle and slide into a seat next to Maggie and June.
Roxanne is already at the podium, gripping the sides of the lectern, speaking quickly though I don’t catch a word of it.
Whatever it is must be bad, because people in the audience are grumbling, visibly agitated.
“What’s going on?” I whisper.
“Oaktree poached our vendors,” Maggie states flatly. “They offered them double the cut. Corn maze guy and carriage ride company are both out.”
My stomach drops. The corn maze and carriage rides are the festival’s two biggest draws.
The kids love them, and we rely on those kids to beg their parents to bring them to the festival.
Without those events, we’re down to craft stalls, food stands, and live music.
It’s not enough. It wasn’t enough to begin with or the inn would’ve been booked solid already.
“Someone suggested a scavenger hunt,” June adds, dispirited. “And Sawyer suggested hayrides using his tractor, but Roxanne says he’d need insurance.”
At the front of the room, Roxanne holds up a hand, quieting the room. Her hair, which is usually impeccably pulled back, is falling down around her face. There are circles beneath her eyes and she’s wearing—
Oh, my god. Roxanne is wearing athleisure.
This is worse than I suspected.
“Look.” Roxanne sighs, the sound amplified by the microphone.
“I’ve called everyone within a fifty-mile radius.
Everyone is booked. If we don’t have a main attraction, we don’t have a draw.
And if we don’t have a draw, we don’t have a festival.
Maybe this just isn't our year. I move that we consider canceling the—”
A collective gasp ripples through the barn as panic grips me.
I’m relying on the festival. My grand opening coincides with it.
I’ve almost tapped out my loan and already spent every penny I managed to save in college and every paycheck I earned at The Buttermilk Cafe.
I need festival foot traffic to show that the bookshop can be a profitable venture.
And what about my friends? I glance over to find Maggie tapping manically on her phone and June staring blankly ahead.
I have a safety net. If this fails, I can work for my parents’ company.
I could even crawl back to Frank if he hasn’t already filled my shifts.
But my friends? They’ve poured their lives into the community and their businesses, and they’ve supported me on my own journey. They don’t deserve this.
A voice in the back of my mind—a voice that strongly resembles my mother—says to walk out the door. To return to the task at hand. It says that success requires prioritization. That I’m already exhausted and not sleeping enough. It says to let someone else fix this and solution for my own business.
“Well,” Roxanne says, exasperated. “If no one has any better ideas, then I don’t see that we have much—”
My chair screeches across the floor as I shoot to my feet. “I have one.”
The room goes silent, a hundred pairs of eyes swinging toward me.
“Get it, girl,” Maggie whispers.
Roxanne waves a weary hand toward the podium, already stepping aside. “By all means.”
I walk toward the front of the room, feeling as if I’m wading through water. Why did I speak up? There’s no way this idea will be substantial enough to make a difference. And even if it does, who will execute it? Roxanne looks like she’s at the end of her rope.
I reach the podium and the microphone releases a piercing squeal of feedback. I flinch, my cheeks heating. “I…uh…” I begin, my voice too quiet, even when amplified. “I had an idea. A while back.”
“What is it?” someone calls out.
“Tell ‘em, honey,” June adds.
The fact that June has no clue what I’m referring to but still believes in me—it straightens my spine.
I clear my throat and start again, projecting this time.
“We’ve been running our events with outside vendors.
Paying people from other towns to bring in attractions.
But we have an alternative, a better one, right here, and it runs through every part of this town. It’s even in our name. Holly River.”
I lean into the mic, gaining confidence, and explain the plan in detail, answering questions as they arise.
Maggie snaps at certain moments and June nods along enthusiastically, and around the room, I notice others are listening intently.
“We need something that’ll play well on social media,” I add. “And this will do that.”
“Preach,” Maggie calls from the back.
“Quiet,” Roxanne clips.
“We’ll need to do a test run and share photos and videos online.
We’ll also need volunteers to decorate and others to manage the lines since we won’t have temporary staff from outside vendors.
It’ll be a lot of work because we’ll have to manage this attraction along with increased foot traffic at our businesses.
But since we won’t be splitting event revenue with outside parties, we’ll have a bigger budget to work with. ”
“And who is going to head all of this?” Roxanne asks. “Who’s going to coordinate the volunteers and where in the world are we going to get—?”
“I will,” I announce. And I mean it, because now that I’ve laid it all out, I believe in this plan.
It could work. It will work. We’re the only town within three counties that’s built directly beside the river.
We could turn this into an experience that people from miles around add to their family traditions.
“Okay.” My voice trembles slightly as I gaze out at the crowd, because this is the moment of truth. “Raise your hand if you’d be willing to help with decorations.”
Maggie and June fire their hands into the air. For a moment, no one else moves. Then, slowly, Ms. Devonshire—my neighbor—raises her hand. Harold raises his own immediately thereafter. Next comes the hardware store owner. Three more follow in quick succession.
“I’m writing down names,” June says, pulling a notepad out of her purse.
“And who can help with filming?” I ask. “We’ll need to post promos as soon as possible. That means we need to start on decorations, like, yesterday. But we can do this. I know we can. If we work together, we can make this year’s Fall Festival better than any before it.”
I glance at Roxanne, worried I may have offended her. But instead, I’m met with a grateful smile. She nods and says, “I’ll help with filming.”
By the time I’m walking home, I’m bursting with ideas, overjoyed.
But the closer I get to my not-quite-a bookshop, the adrenaline fades, replaced by a gnawing sense of dread.
What have I done? As a kid, I’d sign up for five clubs and three sports and be burned out after a single semester because I couldn’t prioritize.
Eventually, my parents prioritized for me in the form of a fuzzy little tennis ball.
I feel like I just made the same mistake again, ten years later. I’m supposed to be focusing on opening my business, and now I’m leading the Fall Festival? Did I just sabotage my own dream to save everyone else’s?
I turn onto my street, head down, drowning in a to-do list that just got even longer. I’m so entrenched in my own worry that I almost trip over the front steps.
I stop.
I look around.
My porch…it’s been transformed.
Pumpkins trail down each step. They line the railings.
They cluster in flower beds and spill down the walkway.
They are absolutely everywhere—in various shades of orange and white—in all different shapes and sizes.
Against the stark white house, the effect is breathtaking. Lifted from the pages of a fairytale.
And I know exactly who’s responsible.
I glance toward Colt’s truck and note that the tailgate is down, dirt and broken pumpkin stems littering the bed. A smile sweeps across my face and I shake my head in disbelief. He must have overheard me talking to Maggie and June about this.
I stand there on the porch, the weight on my shoulders notably lighter.
I’m sleep-deprived and over-extended, and I’m probably going to have a breakdown by the soft opening.
But as I take in the kaleidoscope of pumpkins, I remember that I’m not alone.
I have a partner. And for as long as he’s in Holly River, I’m going to embrace the woman he believes me to be.