Chapter Twenty
Evie was clearly succeeding at the job she had assigned herself. There was no other way to explain why Whit was currently
walking with her toward the farmers’ market with Annie skipping giddily between them. Whit had no problem with farmers’ markets,
but they were exactly the sort of thing he never seemed to have energy for these days.
Today, though, he was glad he had listened to his sister. The morning was pleasantly cool, and Annie was over the moon to
be out and about. Whit caught Evie’s eye over his daughter’s head and gave her an appreciative nod. She beamed back.
“You’re going to love the farmers’ market, Evie,” Annie bubbled, talking at the frantic pace eight-year-olds are accustomed to. “It’s so cute in the fall.”
“I believe it,” Evie said. “Is it all pumpkins and scarecrows, or has Christmas already started taking over?”
“No,” Annie said gravely, before immediately jumping back to full speed. “November is for Thanksgiving, and Christmas has to wait until afterwards.”
“You take this very seriously.”
Annie shrugged. “My mom did. She always hated that people skipped over being thankful and jumped right into wanting presents.”
Whit looked at Evie again, who smiled once more, this time sympathetically.
“I remember that,” she said lightly, in a voice Whit had used frequently himself: a cheerful acknowledgment that responded to the spirit of Annie’s statement.
So often people allowed any mention of Helen to drastically alter their tone or mood, but Annie wasn’t speaking from grief, just memory, and Evie recognized that. She was a good aunt.
“So,” she added after a moment, “pumpkins it is, then?”
“So many pumpkins,” Annie gushed.
“I can’t wait to see it.”
They had not parked far from the green, so Evie did not have to wait long. As with Cork Street, “cute” really was the only
word for the Whelk Harbor village green. Brick-lined paths spread like spokes from the fountain at the center of the big grassy
space, watched over by old-fashioned lampposts; at the far end was a bandstand crowded with piles of gourds and draped in
burlap bunting. Tiny collections of trees—red maples, sycamores, white pines, balsam firs—popped in bursts of flint corn colors.
And then, of course, there were the booths selling slender French green beans, squashes in every geometric shape, hairy sweet
potatoes, intimidating kohlrabi, and exceptionally phallic daikon radishes. Representatives from the nearest orchards were
there, surrounded by open barrels of apples, quinces, pomegranates, persimmons, pears. There were two coffee roasters offering
pour-overs and Americanos and one vendor doling out paper cups of cider, hot chocolate, and wassail. Under tents were representatives
from the bakery selling warm loaves of bread and giant cinnamon rolls as well as the florist and various local artists selling
pottery, jewelry, and landscape paintings. Next to displays of elk jerky were quilts and woodworks, and several places were
offering cartons of brown and light blue eggs. And everywhere they turned were so, so many pumpkins.
“See?” Annie said.
“I do,” Evie said enthusiastically. “It’s lovely.”
She gave Whit a knowing look and was rewarded by him mouthing the words I kind of hate this!
Live a little, she mouthed back, squeezing Annie’s shoulders.
“DAD, CAN WE GET HOT CHOCOLATE?”
“WE CAN GET HOT CHOCOLATE!” Whit said, matching Annie’s hyperactive tone. She laughed.
After stopping for drinks (spiked with Kahlua for the adults), Whit let Annie lead. She filled their Goodenough Books tote
with purple lavender soap and vanilla-scented candles they absolutely did not need, as well as sour belts and muffins and,
while Whit distracted Evie, a handcrafted ceramic mug she wanted her aunt to have for Christmas.
“Okay,” Whit said eventually, after they took a break to sit on the lip of the fountain and eat from paper cones of roasted
nuts. “While we’re here, I do actually want to get some fruits and vegetables for the week.”
“Boring,” Annie sighed, but she quickly cheered up: nearly every produce vendor also had a smattering of pumpkins available.
While Evie did the shopping, Whit slowly morphed into a man whose entire torso seemed to be made up of decorative gourds.
“Please, it’s too much, they are squashing me,” he was saying in an exaggerated whine when a familiar voice broke through the noise of the crowd.
“Sir, could you save some for the rest of us?”
“Mrs. Pryor!” Annie rushed to her, throwing her arms around Kathleen’s shawled and beaded body.
“Merritt!” Another hug, this time for Merritt, who grinned a little sheepishly in her mustard yellow sweater and jeans.
“Hi,” Whit said from behind his tower. It was a general “hi,” but Annie was introducing Evie to her librarian, whom Evie was
engaging with conspicuous focus, and so he and Merritt found themselves in a private pocket of conversation. Something crackled
in Whit’s chest as they smiled back and forth.
“Hi,” she said. “Here, let me help.”
She moved toward him and delicately relocated the pumpkins and gourds from his arms to the nearest park bench.
“Thank you. I wonder if I could convince people to let me drive the car in here to pick them up.”
“It is a shocking number.”
Whit laughed. She had a brown paper gift bag in one hand.
“Candle?”
“Lemon verbena soap.”
“Ah, they got you, too.”
“I can never resist artisanal soaps.”
They were small-talking, bantering—why? What was different here, in this public space, away from the comforts of his living
room?
“Oh,” Whit said, trying to discuss something real, “I’m enjoying your manuscript.”
Merritt’s eyes widened in immediate dread.
“Oh God.”
“No, seriously. It is, as the book blurbs say, compulsively readable.”
He had been sitting up late, reading from his laptop and making notes. He had seen many first drafts in his time, and he was
serious when he said hers was a good one.
“I’m sweating.”
“And,” he added, ignoring her, “you’re great at world-building, which I find to be so difficult. I feel like all my stories take place in empty towns and blank rooms.”
“That’s absurd, you have the nunnery and the church and there’s that scene in Venice.”
“Yes, but those are all things people can imagine for themselves. You’re creating an entire magical kingdom—”
“Seriously, Whit,” Merritt urged, stepping toward him, “could you lower your voice? I know you’re a real-life professional
novelist and this all comes easily to you, but talking about this in public makes me want to throw up.”
Whit laughed.
“I mean, to be fair,” he said, “talking about your work is easy, but never, ever my own.”
“Well, let’s go easy on ourselves then,” Merritt said, smiling and looking around as if someone might have overheard the word
“manuscript.” But beneath that embarrassment, he could also make out a layer of pride. He was learning to read her.
“For instance,” she said, “I could talk about how I finished your second Sister Marguerite book and am hurtling through the
third, but I wouldn’t do that to you here, in front of your family.”
“Oh, you’re so merciful.”
“I am. I really am.”
They were standing close now, their faux-clandestine conversation having unconsciously drawn them nearer and nearer to each
other. After Merritt spoke, they seemed to take this fact in together, but neither one moved away. Whit could smell the scents
he now associated with her: the unparsable blend of things that made up her shampoo; gardenia, which he could only name from
having seen the label on the lotion she used; Ivory soap; and amber oil. He found himself looking from her light brown eyes
to her lips and back, feeling her nearness with his mind and some previously dormant sixth sense.
He felt compelled to speak—to say something funny or cute or disarming, but instead he heard the words, “Oh, that is so sweet.”
The thing between him and Merritt broke, and the two of them turned swiftly toward Kathleen’s voice. Whit was mortified that
she might be talking about whatever she thought she was watching happen to her daughter, but Kathleen’s eyes were trained
on Evie with her hand clutching the younger woman’s.
“Merritt, what do you think?”
Merritt took a step back, and Whit felt like a quilt had slipped from his bed in the night.
“About what? Sorry, I didn’t hear . . .”
“Evie has invited us to do Thanksgiving—”
“Has she?” Whit asked.
“—with the Longacres and, I’m sorry, who else did you say, dear?”
“The Barrett-Linds.”
“That’s Albie and Willa and Adrienne,” Annie filled in.
Merritt’s and Whit’s eyes found each other, both knowing that the other was asking permission or forgiveness or something
similar, all of which was granted instantly.
“Oh,” was all Merritt seemed able to say.
“We’d never want to impose,” Kathleen was saying, but Whit was looking only at Merritt.
“You wouldn’t be,” he explained eagerly. “Of course you wouldn’t, we’d love to have you. And anyone else—the more the merrier.”
Kathleen laughed at that. “I don’t have anyone I’d like to invite, although Merritt might. Someone from the bookstore, perhaps?”
Merritt’s eyes widened. “No. Definitely not.”
Now Whit laughed, imagining what it would be like if Diana showed up in her nosiest state.
“Well?” Evie said, looking from Kathleen to Merritt to Whit. “What do you say?”
“Please come,” Annie begged, yanking at Kathleen’s sleeve.
Again, Merritt looked to him. He gave what he hoped was a small, serious, meaningful nod, holding her eyes with his.
“Please come,” he said.
Merritt shrugged, a small smile clearly constraining a much bigger grin beneath it.
“Sure,” she said. “We’d love to.”
On the walk home, Merritt and her mother talked about what a cute kid Annie Longacre was, and Evie Longacre’s gorgeous hair, and the crispness of the weather, and the crisp they planned to make with their apples and quinces.
They did not discuss Thanksgiving or the now-forgotten B&B.
They did not discuss how handsome and alive Whit Longacre was looking these days, with his well-trimmed beard and his strong
posture and those shining white teeth. With his eyes that held your gaze like hands gently cupping a fresh egg. With his broad
shoulders and warm cheeky grin.
They did not—thank God—discuss the way Merritt herself was grinning, nor the fact that she didn’t stop grinning for one second
all the way back to her mother’s house.