Chapter 8
By the time Lauren spotted the patch of sun-bleached plastic wagons at the far end of Hatcher’s Farm, her breath was already showing up in little puffs, like she was some kind of underdressed dragon.
The air that morning had started with a knife-edge chill, but now, with the sky burned clear and the sun a weak white plate above the fields, it was just cold enough to make you forget, every so often, that your nose was running.
Lauren pulled her scarf up over her chin, checked the clipboard in her hand, and scanned the first row of pumpkins.
They stretched away from her in neat lines—deep orange and pale, every size from bowling ball to beach ball—each one a lumpy possibility for the front porch of the Lake Inn.
It had been almost a month since Lauren accepted the bid on her mother’s house.
While she still felt a twinge in her chest when she thought about it, she had made the decision to pour all her energy into getting the Lake Inn ready on time.
While the upper floor and the turret still needed some work, the main floor was ready as far as Lauren was concerned.
She decided to take a risk and add the Lake Inn to the Harvest Festival.
They were expecting a delivery of mums and cornstalks, but Lauren wanted to hand-select each pumpkin herself.
No one else in the family cared as much about gourd shape and stem curvature, but it would be a cold day in October before Lauren Henshaw let someone else’s standards dictate the inn’s first impression during its debut festival.
In the weeks since the offer, she’d started dreaming in color palettes and porch vignettes, each day waking to a fresh anxiety about whether she could get everything done before the crowds arrived.
Luckily, she had a team willing to help.
Behind her, the rest of the crew advanced in a loose, meandering formation: Rachel, coat zipped to the throat, hands jammed in her pockets; Evan, who wore the same gray hoodie he wore for everything but had added a battered Carhartt jacket, already dusted with straw from the maze; the twins, each at the far end of the spectrum—Olivia floating ahead, camera in hand, and Sam dragging his feet so that his sneakers left a wake in the damp, rutted grass.
Lauren adjusted the clipboard, pen jammed behind her ear, and called over her shoulder, “We’re going for symmetry, not volume, right? I have the measurements for the porch steps. Sixteen inches across, tops.”
Rachel closed the gap in three brisk steps. “Otherwise, we end up with the Leaning Tower of Pumpkins again,” she said. “Remember that first year at your mom’s house?”
Lauren’s heart tightened at the mention of her mother’s home, but she grinned. “We didn’t so much stack them as create a slow-motion landslide.”
Evan snorted, picking up a specimen the size of a toddler and giving it an appraising bounce. “If you want symmetry, you might need to shop somewhere less…organic,” he said, gesturing at the irregular, slightly bulbous shapes on offer.
Lauren shook her head. “It’s the wabi-sabi. Adds character.”
Behind them, Sam lurked with a practiced look of disinterest, occasionally nudging a pumpkin with his foot. “This one’s got a dent,” he said, pointing. “It’ll rot in like a week.”
“They all rot in a week if you don’t coat the cut,” Olivia called, kneeling beside a cluster of gourds for a close-up shot.
She wore her denim jacket over a hoodie, sleeves pushed to her elbows, a pencil parked behind her ear.
Lauren watched her daughter frame the shot, then snap, then adjust and do it again, all with the focus of someone who’d rather not be caught looking up.
Evan transferred his pumpkin to the wagon and turned back to the twins. “You two know there’s a contest for the ugliest pumpkin this year? Winner gets a pie. You in?”
Sam shrugged, but Lauren saw the almost-smile. “What do we do? Just pick a mutant and show up?”
“Yeah, pretty much.” Evan pointed at a green-and-white specimen, lopsided and furred with little warts. “That one’s a contender for sure.”
Lauren marked something on her clipboard—she liked pretending this was a military operation, or at least a heist—and moved further down the row. “Two for the porch, three for the landing, one each for the top steps. Try for at least one white.”
Rachel followed, scanning the rows with her editor’s eye. “No chance these will match the paint samples. That’s more red than orange.”
“It’ll pop,” Lauren said. “Trust me.”
They advanced this way for the next ten minutes, Lauren narrating the list, Rachel making gentle corrections, Evan piloting the wagon and tossing in pumpkins with the easy strength of someone who’d spent years throwing heavier things, and Sam trailing with sarcastic commentary.
Every so often, Olivia peeled off, orbiting the group at different radii, finding whatever angle her camera required.
Lauren noticed, with a pang she chose to ignore, that Olivia didn’t really photograph people if she could help it.
She preferred textures: a split pumpkin stem, a knot of dry cornstalk, the way sunlight made the frost on a squash’s skin look almost fake.
They reached the edge of the patch where the pumpkins gave way to bundled mums and dried grass.
The mums were extravagant: sprays of rust and burgundy, yellow shot through with almost metallic copper.
Lauren paused, already picturing how they’d look against the gray siding of the inn. “We need four of these. Big ones.”
Rachel circled a likely pot and poked her finger into the soil. “Try to get one that isn’t root-bound,” she advised, like a Food Network judge for fall décor.
Evan found the biggest mum in the group and hoisted it chest-high, then passed it to Lauren, who staggered a bit before regaining her balance. “You’re just showing off now,” she said.
He shrugged, but Lauren caught the little flick of pride in his face.
Sam, determined not to be impressed, leaned against the wagon and said, “Is it weird to do this much for a place that isn’t even open yet?”
Lauren set the mum in the cart, then looked at him. “We’re starting traditions. That’s the whole point.”
Sam didn’t respond, but when Evan offered him the wagon handle for the next stretch, he took it without argument.
The sound of a tractor drifted over from the far side of the field, a steady mechanical hum underscoring the softer noises of the patch: the crunch of gravel, the rattle of dried leaves, the low static of other families shouting to each other between the rows.
The smell of damp earth and straw and pumpkin skin mixed with the sharper tang of cold air, making Lauren’s eyes water slightly, though she told herself it was the wind.
They rounded a corner to where a pop-up tent had been set up for “decorative accessories.” Lauren’s hand twitched with anticipation. She scanned the offerings: bundles of dried corn tied with twine, a half-dozen antique lanterns, two enormous wreaths made of leaves and what looked like seed pods.
She pointed. “That’s it. The wreaths for the doors, and those lanterns. Evan, can you hang them from the porch brackets?”
Evan considered. “I’ll have to reinforce the hooks. But yeah, they’ll hold.”
Lauren nodded and marked it down, already on to the next item.
Rachel picked up one of the wreaths and examined the back. “You’re aware the birds are going to pick this apart in a day, right?”
Lauren grinned. “It’ll be good for the ecosystem.”
Olivia, who had drifted close, snapped a picture of the wreath in Rachel’s hands, then another of Lauren laughing.
Lauren caught the lens, smiled—real, unposed—and moved to the pay table.
The woman manning it looked exactly like a pumpkin farm worker should: wide smile, gloves with the tips cut off, hair in a messy ponytail.
She rang up their haul with the smooth efficiency of someone who’d done it a thousand times.
“You’re the ones redoing the old inn, right?” the woman said as she tallied the mums. “Saw you in the paper last week.”
Lauren blushed. “That’s us.”
“Whole place looks better already, even from the road. You doing a pumpkin thing for the grand opening?”
Lauren hesitated. “We hadn’t planned—”
“She’ll do it,” Sam interrupted. “She’s already part of the Harvest Festival.”
Lauren started to clarify, but the farm woman clapped her hands. “Let me throw in a few extra. For the kids.”
Olivia rolled her eyes but accepted the smallest pumpkin without protest. Lauren felt a little spark in her chest that, for once, had nothing to do with anxiety.
They paid, loaded everything into the two trucks—Evan’s in the lead, Lauren’s just behind—and tied the whole lot down with more bungee cords than strictly necessary.
Lauren double-checked the stacks, satisfied with the balance.
She looked up and found Rachel surveying the finished arrangement, arms crossed, a faint smile on her lips.
“The inn is already going to be the prettiest building in town, you know.”
Lauren laughed, unguarded, and the sound seemed to hang in the air even after everyone else fell quiet. For a second, nothing hurt—not the cold, not the ache in her shoulders, not the worry waiting back at the house.
Even Sam didn’t argue. He just nudged a pumpkin with his sneaker and nodded, like maybe it really was okay to care about how things looked.