12. Devon
DEVON
Sleepy Hollow Manor—and Ember O’Malley—have consumed my time, and my mind, if I’m being honest. Since day one of helping her here, I can feel her presence like a knot in my spine. An awareness that she’s there, busying herself around the house. Working from day until night.
I’ve begun to know the faces she makes. Pensive. Dreamy. And yes, even the one where I can tell she’s been thinking about me the way I’ve been thinking about her. However, she’s avoided me since the Bonfire. Proof that I probably took things too far, or she’s just had enough of my bullshit.
Standing back from my handiwork, I do a once-over of the porch.
Roof shingles replaced. Ceiling caulked around the chandelier.
Floorboards ripped out and swapped with new ones that won’t give way under our weight.
I even went through and touched up some of the areas with paint since she’s been at the town offices all morning, applying for more small business funding.
Yesterday, when I went inside to fix my own lunch, I saw a notebook open with business ideas.
A Children’s Haunted House in the ballroom was at the top.
Honestly, it’s genius, and I’m glad she talked with Rose about it.
The kids are all afraid of this place anyway.
Put them in the ballroom with a bunch of cutesy haunted Halloween decorations, and they’ll fall in love with this place and get scared all at the same time.
Plus, it would be good to see these old walls filled with children’s laughter.
I think Old Man Lewis would approve.
A soft gasp sounds behind me. “Devon!”
I turn, paint brush still in hand like I’ve been caught with my fingers in the cookie jar. Ember has her palm resting on her chest, her gaze roaming over the front porch with her mouth parted.
“It looks beautiful.”
“Good bones,” I grind out. Her soft voice and the way she seems pleased with something I did makes me uneasy…in a good way. It makes me imagine things I have no business thinking about with a woman at least ten years younger than me and who probably hates me.
“Where did you find the paint?”
“The basement.”
She cuts her eyes to me, and they’re bright. Teasing. “What if I wasn’t going to keep this color?”
I narrow my gaze, and she immediately starts laughing.
That familiar pull to her rears its head again. Before too long, it’ll pull me right under.
She holds up a familiar paper bag. “I bought you a sandwich. I feel guilty that I haven’t been making you one.”
I don’t call her out on that because honestly, I deserve it. “Ruffo’s.”
She grins. “They said they knew your order.”
“You must’ve had a great visit with my mom if you feel like being nice to me.”
She heads toward the porch, then stops. “Is there anywhere I can’t touch?”
“Just the outside, Sweetheart.”
Her shoulders stiffen a little, then relax. I’d love to be able to peek inside her brain. To know in which way my words affected her. Is she insulted? Pleased? I think I might even take the first. In fact, the first would be so much more entertaining.
She climbs the stairs and sits on the steel glider. “I thought we could eat out here.”
I place the paint brush on the top of the paint can. My tools will be okay just while I eat with her. The porch steps still creak, but instead of it being under protest like before, it sounds more like a welcoming. “I’m gonna go wash my hands.”
“You got it, Sweetheart.”
I stop, one hand on the screen door. Peeking over, I see the corner of her lips upturned as she opens her sub from Ruffo’s. Pretty sure she’s mocking me, but I’ll take it after how rude I’ve been to her.
Quickly, I wash my hands in the kitchen sink and then return to the porch. As I walk by the new spot on the floor that’s freshly painted, I gesture toward it. “I figured if you wanted to cover up the fresh paint versus old paint, you could throw down a rug.”
“Good idea,” she says. “Eventually, I want to re-paint the whole thing, but that will have to come in time.”
I can’t blame her. Painting this whole house will be a big bill. Plus all the intricate trim work? It’s no small undertaking, and any painter worth paying is going to make sure he gets what he deserves.
I take my sandwich and sit on one of the steel chairs, the metal cold even through my jeans.
It’s a beautiful autumn day, the air on the cool side, but the sun still shines through the trees, as if spotlighting nature’s orange, yellow, and red tapestry of leaves.
Growing up here, I’m used to seeing Harvest Falls like this, but looking out at the view from the manor, it’s as if I’m seeing it for the first time. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
I feel her eyes on me as I take a bite of my cheeseburger sub.
“It is.” Her voice sounds cautious.
I turn toward her. “What?”
“Just didn’t peg you as the sentimental guy.”
“I’m only noting how beautiful Harvest Falls is.”
She smiles like she’s figured out a big secret of mine. Let her think that. Let her believe she has me all figured out.
“It is pretty,” she muses. “Sometimes I just want to pinch myself. I can’t believe I actually did it. That I’m here. Let me tell you the bravery it took for me to tell my whole family I was moving north with nothing but whatever could fit in my car.”
“To a house you hadn’t seen before.”
“Exactly,” she confirms instead of getting prickly about reminding her that she bought the manor sight unseen.
“They think I’m nuts. But this would convince them.
” She sets her food down and takes out her cell phone.
I rarely see it in her hands. Something new from someone her age because they’re usually attached to the hip with all of their devices.
She snaps a picture and smiles down at her screen.
“Do you want me to take one of you? Maybe sitting on the railing with the trees in the background?”
She peers at me skeptically.
“Why do you keep looking at me like that?”
“You’re being unnaturally nice.”
“I’m nice,” I scoff, even though I have no reason to be offended by that statement when it comes from her.
“I have grass coated in pumpkin spice that would disagree with that statement.”
I forgot I did that. Damn, I really am a dick.
She lifts her brows but goes to hand me her phone anyway. At the last second, she pulls it away. “You’re not going to flush it down the toilet or anything, are you?”
“No, because then I’d just have to fix the toilet after that.”
We smirk at each other, and then she sits on the railing, hands in her lap.
I snap a couple of pictures then tell her to lean against the column and look out at the trees.
She does so, the sun glinting off her hair.
I crouch down and take the photo. It’s absolutely perfect.
Beyond her, the sun’s rays are like streams through the canopy of trees, like individual beams of light sent to spotlight the fallen leaves on the grass, which is still green with life.
“Now that is a picture,” I tell her, handing her phone back.
She scans over it, her eyes widening a little. “Great job.” She quickly looks at the rest then goes back to the last one. “I’ll definitely send this one. It captures everything about Harvest Falls.”
“It captures everything about you in Harvest Falls,” I correct.
She puts her phone away, and we start eating again in easy silence. After a few moments, she says, “What were they setting up for in the middle of town?”
Let’s see. It’s Thursday. “The farmer’s market,” I tell her. Her eyes light up, and I can’t help myself. “Don’t say you don’t have farmer’s markets where you’re from.”
“We do… But I’ve never been to one in Harvest Falls. What will they have there?”
“Pumpkins, baked goods, doughnuts. Bea will be there with her coffee, cider, the last remnants of produce for the year.”
“Did you say cider?”
I nod.
“Real cider? Not the crap from the chain grocery stores?”
“And local, too. Harvest Falls Orchard. They’ve been open for almost a hundred years.”
She stamps her feet and squeals. “Oh my God. I’m going. What time does it start?”
I smile at her, then check my watch. “In about an hour. I’ll take you.”
“No,” she says quickly. “You don’t have to.”
“It sounds like you’ve never had cider before, and I’ve got to see this.”
“I’ve had cider before,” she says, doing that thing she does where she tilts her chin in the air. “I just don’t want you to make fun of me and ruin the experience.”
She takes a bite out of her sandwich, waiting a moment before nodding. It’s a common thing people do after getting a taste of Ruffo’s, the finest sandwich shop in town. They’ve been around for as long as I can remember, passed down through generations.
I often wished my family had something like that. Something to pass to me that had meaning. I have no interest in politics. In fact, holding any type of office sounds like a nightmare to me. I’m much better with my hands.
“I promise to play nice.” I voice what I’ve said to myself for most of the week. I’m stubborn, but I’m not stubborn enough to know when multiple people tell me to get a grip that I’ve probably been out of line.
We eat mostly in silence, staring out at the crisp fall day.
Picturesque. Cozy. At the edge of town like this, you could almost convince yourself that the manor was smack in the middle of the country.
But this location is better. In the country enough to have some land and maybe a bit of privacy, but also close enough where you can still walk into town.
You can’t get that feel in most places, but Harvest Falls is one of them.
After lunch, I clean up the worksite, taking care of my paint brushes and drop cloths, then I put the paint back down in the basement along with the extra wood.
I’m in the middle of doing a once-over of my work to make sure everything is perfect for the Haunted History Tour when Ember steps out of the house.