10. Chapter 10
Evie
Iadjust the tote higher on my shoulder as the houses give way to storefronts. The plastic container of cinnamon rolls shifts and digs into my ribs.
I’ve been walking this route since my legs were short enough that every block felt like an expedition.
My mother used to hold my hand along this stretch, and I remember how her grip tightened at the corner where a root buckles the sidewalk.
It’s still there, but bigger now. The crack widened so much that the town filled it with asphalt last spring, leaving a dark seam through the pale concrete.
The Burton house has the same crooked shutter it’s had for as long as I can remember, and their kitten has stationed herself on the porch railing, passing judgment on everyone who dares use her sidewalk. A garden hose lies coiled on their lawn, collecting dew in its loops.
The houses in this area sit close together, porches nearly touching, yards small enough that you can hear your neighbor’s coffee grinder through the wall if the windows are open. Which they are, because everyone in this town treats the weeks between summer heat and fall cold as sacred.
People always ask me why I never left.
I don’t know what they’re expecting. Some tragic anchor. Some failed escape attempt. A boyfriend who kept me here, or a dream that fell through, or a mother who needed me too much for me to go.
The truth is less interesting. I like knowing where I am.
I like that the Abernathys’ dog still barks twice when I pass.
That the mailbox on Elm Street leans slightly to the left.
That the church bells run two minutes slow and nobody has ever bothered to fix them. I like that nothing here surprises me.
The Moores have propped a ladder against their porch at precisely the wrong angle, creating an unavoidable bad-luck tunnel directly in my path. I’m halfway across the street before I even register why.
I snort at the irony. Here I am, dodging ladders, while something potentially supernatural stalks my life. Priorities, Evie.
September in Brindlewood means fat orange pumpkins appear on every porch, and Mrs. Mercer spends an entire morning arranging hers by size.
Sandra’s five-foot-two and has never let that stop her from looking down on anyone.
Her auburn bob hasn’t changed in color or length since I was in kindergarten.
The lipstick, always one shade too pink, bleeds into the creases around her mouth.
She’s wearing her good jeans, quilted vest, and gardening gloves that have clearly never touched soil, because Sandra doesn’t do dirt.
I can see her from here, crouched on the wooden steps of her home, absorbed in getting the pumpkins perfectly spaced. Her head snaps up.
Great.
“Evie, sweetheart.” She rises to her full height, dusting her palms against each other. “I heard the police were at your place last night.”
So much for keeping this quiet. “Nothing serious.”
“Everything alright out there?”
“Just someone with the wrong address. It’s sorted now.”
“Hmm.” Her lips purse. “You’re out there alone. Have you thought about getting better locks? Maybe a security system?”
“My locks work fine.”
“Jim installed ours and did a great job.” She’s already pulling out her phone. “I’ll text his number to you.”
“Sandra, really—”
“Done.” She looks up, satisfied. “Now. Festival flyers. I printed extras for your guests.” She thrusts a stack of glossy papers at me.
I accept the bundle with its bold headline: brINDLEWOOD HARVEST FESTIVAL - THREE WEEKS AWAY!
“Thanks.” I tuck them under my arm.
“We’re at capacity everywhere.” Her expression brightens, the police gossip briefly forgotten. “Even that awful chain place on Route 7. In September!”
“That’s great for everyone.”
“It is.” She leans closer. “So . . . Rebecca mentioned your visitor was male?”
Of course she did. She could turn a library fine into a federal investigation.
“I should get going.”
“Of course.” Her shoulders slump. “Have a good day, sweetheart.”
Fall has colonized Main Street. Corn stalks stand sentry around each lamppost, threaded with copper-wire lights that somehow manage to glow even in the morning sun.
Burlap-wrapped hay bales have appeared at every corner, already serving double duty as seating for tourists with paper cups of cider.
Someone replanted the flower boxes along the storefronts, swapping summer colors for deep burgundy mums, ornamental kale, and dark trailing ivy that looks almost black in the shade.
The bakery has propped its door open, and the warm bread smell collides with the tangy-sweet scent of fermenting apples drifting from the farm stand at the far end of the block.
Mrs. Abernathy is sitting on the bench outside the post office, eating a scone the size of her fist, and reading a paperback with a shirtless man on the cover.
She does this every morning. Same bench.
Same scone. The shirtless man changes weekly, though.
A kid in yellow rain boots stomps through a pile of leaves on the curb, scattering them across the sidewalk that someone definitely just swept. His mother’s gaze remains fixed on her phone.
The scarecrow outside Once Upon a Shelf has undergone its daily literary transformation.
Yesterday, it clutched How to Win Friends and Influence People in its straw-stuffed hands.
Today, it’s holding Pride and Prejudice.
Rachel and her girlfriend must think they’re hilarious.
Two women I don’t recognize are photographing the display, angling their phones to catch the arrangement.
My steps slow outside the florist. The river path appears between the buildings, willows bent low over the gravel, and for no reason I can explain, I nearly turn toward it. A bicycle bell rings behind me, snapping me out of it. I shake my head and force myself to keep walking.
Peter’s out front of Brindlewood Hardware, broom in hand, making a show of sweeping the same three leaves back and forth.
He’s owned the place since his father retired four years ago, and in that time, the only visible change has been the addition of a chalkboard sign that says NAILED IT!
with a cartoon hammer. He still thinks it’s funny.
Nobody has had the heart to tell him otherwise.
Broad and doughy, he has a reddish beard that’s gotten longer every year I’ve known him. His hands are rough and perpetually nicked, with a bandage always wrapped around at least one finger. Today’s flannel has faded from red plaid to a tired pink, the collar fraying along the edge.
His face brightens when he spots me.
“Evie! Hold on!”
I consider ignoring him, but decide that would be rude.
“Hey, Peter.”
“I heard about last night.” The broom clatters against brick as he abandons it. “Everything okay?”
“Fine.”
“Well, I just got in those compact pepper sprays with the UV dye.” He gestures toward the store. “Good stuff. Totally legal. I could set one aside for you.”
“I don’t need pepper spray, Peter.”
“What about a baseball bat? I’ve got aluminum and wood. The aluminum types are lighter, but the wood ones have better—”
“Peter.”
“Sorry, right.” He scratches the back of his neck, his whole face scrunching into an expression that would look pained on anyone else but, on Peter, means he’s thinking as hard as he can. “I’m just saying, if this guy returns—”
“He won’t.”
“But if he does, you should have backup. I’m like, five minutes away. Less, if I run.” He thumps his chest twice. “I’ve been doing cardio.”
I picture Peter, who once got winded assembling a display shelf, huffing up my gravel driveway at midnight.
Flannel pajama bottoms, unlaced work boots, face beet-red, one of his own aluminum baseball bats clenched in both hands.
The image is somehow both the most endearing and useless rescue scenario I’ve ever constructed.
“That’s really nice of you.”
“I’m serious. Anytime. Day or night.” His eyebrows knit together.
There’s genuine worry beneath the bluster, and damn it, that’s kind of endearing.
Peter has lived in Brindlewood his whole life, same as me.
He once delivered a box of supplies to the inn for me without being asked, and refused to let me pay him for the gas.
“How big was this guy? Because I can hold my own, unless he’s some kind of giant—”
“Peter, really. Everything’s fine.”
“If you say so.” Doubt shadows his features. “Promise you’ll call if anything happens?”
“Promise.”
“Good.” He grins. “You coming to the festival?”
“Maybe.”
“Perfect place to, you know . . .” He wiggles his eyebrows. “Meet someone? If that’s something you’re interested in?”
Rebecca’s gossip network strikes again. “Thanks, Peter. Gotta run.”
I hurry away before he can mention his single second cousin from Portland.
The crooked sign of Brindlewood Market creaks in the breeze.
The double doors stand propped open, which means Caroline arrived before dawn to haul crates from the delivery truck while most of the town slept.
Wooden boxes of new arrivals are stacked outside the entrance.
Each one bears the name of the farm it came from in chalk, because she considers anonymity a personal offense when it comes to food.
She’s out front sorting pears, tossing bruised ones into a separate crate with such practiced flicks of her wrist that she doesn’t need to look.
Taller than most of the men who deliver to her, Caroline has broad shoulders, dark hair cropped just below her ears, and an angular, sun-worn face.
Deep lines bracket her eyes, either from squinting at invoices in bad light or laughing. Knowing Caroline, it’s an even split.
She glances up mid-sort.
“Evie!”
“Morning.”
“You look tired.” No sugarcoating with Caroline. Never has been.
“Thanks. That’s exactly what I needed to hear.”
She sets down a crate and faces me fully, wiping her palms on the apron that has long since given up on being any particular color. “I heard what happened last night.”
“Does everyone know?”
“Most likely.” She shrugs. “Rebecca’s been very thorough.”
My teeth clench. “Of course she has.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
She studies me for a couple of seconds, nods, and that’s it. Caroline is the only person in this town who knows how to accept a no without treating it as a challenge.
“Here.” She plucks three perfect pears from her stash.
“Caroline, you don’t have to—”
“Just take the damn fruit, Evie.” She squeezes my shoulder once. “Now get out of here before Mrs. Patterson sees you. She’s been waiting for you to walk by.”
“Appreciate the heads-up.”
“Any time.”
I walk away with three pears, a heap of festival flyers, and the certainty that by noon, every person in Brindlewood will have invented a different version of my life.