Chapter 8
EIGHT
VAN
The gate clanks shut with a final thunk that echoes through the quiet fields.
For the first time in weeks, the patch is still. No kids laughing, no tractors rumbling, no smell of cider thick in the air. Just a crackling fire, a sky full of stars, and the soft weight of Lanie leaning against me.
She sighs, melting into my side. “You hear that?”
“Silence?” I ask.
“Success,” she murmurs, smiling into my shoulder.
The flames throw gold over her face, catching the tired joy in her eyes. Around us, the pumpkin-lined paths glow faintly from a few leftover string lights. The place feels… content. Like it knows it’s earned its rest.
Boots crunch on gravel behind us, followed by Quinn’s voice.
“Well, well, if it isn’t our fearless festival director and her resident fire chief.”
Lanie groans, laughing. “Can’t I have one moment of Zen without you three spoiling it all?”
“Not when there’s a campfire and leftover pie.” Chase drops a box on the picnic table and starts divvying up slices.
Katelyn’s right behind him with thermoses of coffee.
Dylan and Taegen appear next, hands linked, cheeks pink from the cold.
Tricia and Quinn bring up the rear, still looking at each other like the honeymoon of their relationship hasn’t worn off.
I doubt it ever will.
Within minutes, we’re all crowded around the fire, passing plates and mugs, sharing that comfortable exhaustion only people who’ve survived the same storm understand.
Quinn raises his cup. “To our best season yet.”
“Damn right,” Chase says through a mouthful of apple pie. “And to my cronut-crushing nachos.”
Katelyn elbows him. “You lost that bake-off fair and square.”
“Lost with style,” he argues. “You can’t deny that.”
Taegen laughs. “Speaking of style—Dylan’s Enchanted Forest has been trending online all week. Did you see the new hashtag? #CarverMagic.”
Dylan looks embarrassed but proud. “That’s all Tricia’s marketing and your ideas. I just build the stuff.”
“Stuff that made kids believe in fairies again,” she says softly.
Quinn squeezes Tricia’s hand. “And adults.”
The conversation turns easy—stories about the crowds, the chaos, the little miracles that kept them going.
It ends with Lanie talking about my crew showing up the morning of the festival prepared to work. And with crockpots of food and folding chairs so they could stay the whole day.
“Heroes,” Lanie leans into me. “Every last one of you.”
“Guess we’ve got a soft spot for pumpkins,” I say. “And beautiful women with stubborn streaks.”
Quinn clears his throat and sets down his cup. “Before we all get too sentimental—”
“Too late,” Lanie teases.
He grins. “—I did some math this afternoon.”
The group quiets. Even the fire seems to pause.
“Well?” Chase asks. “How bad is it?”
Quinn lets the suspense build a second longer, then breaks into a wide, boyish grin. “We’re in the black.”
For a heartbeat, no one moves. Then Tricia squeals. Dylan whoops loud enough to startle an owl out of a nearby tree. Lanie covers her mouth with both hands, eyes wet.
“We did it?” she breathes.
“We did it,” Quinn says, his voice thick. “Paid off the note and then some. The patch stays ours.”
Cheers and laughter ripple around the fire. Someone pops a thermos lid like it’s champagne.
“And,” Quinn adds, lifting his cup again, “word around town is Chad and Karen have finally pushed their luck too far. Between the food-poisoning fiasco a couple weeks ago, bribing the local paper, and a few shady business deals, the bank’s telling them to lay low.
Looks like they’ll be leaving us alone for a while. ”
“That’s karma,” Katelyn says. “Served piping hot.”
“Like our corndogs,” Chase mutters, earning another elbow.
“So.” Quinn raises his cup once more. “Who wants to keep this thing going another season?”
Every hand lifts without hesitation. Even mine.
“Guess that’s unanimous,” he says.
We clink cups, coffee sloshing, laughter overlapping the night sounds.
Lanie leans into me again, her voice a whisper meant only for us. “Think we can handle another season?”
I look around—at her brothers, their partners, the glow of the farm we all fought to save—and smile. “Yeah,” I tell her. “I think we’re just getting started.”
Thanks for reading Pumpkin Spicy.