Chapter 2 #2
By noon I’ve got permits stamped, power sorted, and a stack of signs riding shotgun.
On the way to Town Square, I swing into Mel’s Diner for fuel.
The bell rings as I walk inside. The place smells of coffee, bacon, and seventeen years of gossip.
My mother looks up from behind the pie case, takes in the armful of signage, and lifts one brow—her way of asking three questions and making one judgment simultaneously.
“Working hard or hardly working?” Mom asks, but her mouth curves. There’s an extra plate of cider donuts cooling behind her; she pushes one across without breaking eye contact.
“Festival stuff,” I say around a bite I pretended to refuse and absolutely did not. “Health permits, power, signage. Need anything from me?”
“Just your immortal soul signed over to my volunteer list,” she says, then lowers her voice. “I saw Vernon lurking by the town hall. Should I sharpen my knitting needles?”
“Not yet. We’re saving the good chaos for later.”
She pours coffee, studies me the way only a mother can. “How’s Harper?”
“Focused,” I say. “Worried.”
“Good,” she says lightly, which is Eleanor-speak for 'I am aware of her situation down to the unpaid invoices and I’m already three moves ahead'. “Tell her I’m bringing pies to the bake sale—label them ‘anti--condo apple.’”
“Subtle,” I deadpan.
“Eat your donut,” she says, and taps my knuckles like I’m eight.
Back in Town Square, I chalk out vendor spaces while a gusty October wind tries to slap the chalk out of my hand.
Dolly cruises up with a wagon full of lamppost garlands; Beatrice follows with zip ties, which is always a warning.
They confer about angles like they’re engineering a bridge, then recruit me to lift pumpkins that look suspiciously like free weights.
“Where’s Harper?” Dolly asks, sliding me a granola bar labeled Fuel, Not Feelings .
“Bookstore. Vendor calls.”
“Tell her I secured a caramel fountain,” Dolly says.
I stop lifting the heavy pumpkin. “Is that safe? Should I hire a lifeguard?”
“No, no lifeguards needed,” Beatrice says. “But that’s why we made you order three extra fire extinguishers to babysit Dolly’s caramel fountain.”
“I did,” I say, because of course I did.
By late afternoon, the square starts resembling a plan.
I send Harper a photo—chalk lines, measuring tape, the gazebo dressed in orange ribbon like it’s going to prom.
She replies with Mr. Darcy glaring at a stack of poetry chapbooks, followed by: He says this layout is acceptable, but he will submit notes.
I head to The Wandering Page with the signs.
The bell chimes, and the shop exhales book smell and calm, which is to say.
.. Harper. She’s behind the counter with the phone cradled to her shoulder, scribbling while saying, “Yes, I can promise a dedicated outlet and foot traffic. No, I cannot promise the mayor won’t attempt slam poetry again. ”
She hangs up, looks at the signs, and lights up like someone plugged her in. “Those are perfect,” she says, then catches herself. “I mean, they’ll do.”
“High praise,” I say dryly. I set the stack down and, because I can’t help myself, I fix the squeak in the front door again. “Co-op’s lending us two spider boxes. Emergency access is marked. Trash corrals in the corners. And your QR code is going to be everywhere short of the bathrooms.”
“Put one in the bathrooms,” she says. “People are contemplative in there.”
“Noted.” I prop a sign on the counter so Mr. Darcy can judge it. He gives it a long, disdainful sniff, then turns his head and licks his paw as if he’s cleansing himself of my involvement.
“He’s warming up to you,” Harper lies.
Mr. Darcy hops down and rubs against my shin like a normal cat for exactly three seconds. I hold still, not breathing. Then he sinks a single elegant claw into my boot lace and tugs, eyes narrowed, like he’s letting me know he could end me at any time.
“Message received,” I tell him.
Harper hides a smile behind her hand. “He’s very selective.”
“Yeah?” I say, softer than I mean to. “Me too.”
Something moves in her eyes—curiosity, maybe something warmer—but before either of us can ruin it by acknowledging it, the door opens and the October air brings in Vernon Blackstone and his cologne, which smells like teakwood and litigation.
“Afternoon,” he says, fake-pleasant. “I was in the neighborhood.”
“Buying it?” Harper asks, sweet as antifreeze.
He chuckles. “Not yet. Just checking in on progress. Would hate for your… efforts to be in vain if the council decides to move forward.” He glances at my signs. “Fundraising? How quaint.”
I plant my hands on the counter and lean in just enough to make him choose between eye contact and retreat.
He chooses eye contact; of course he does.
“We’ll have numbers for the council,” I say.
“Traffic, sales, donation totals. It’ll be hard to bulldoze a block that just paid for the library’s annex roof. ”
“Mm,” he says, which is Vernon for 'I don’t like it when peasants find spreadsheets'. “Do let me know if you change your mind about my offer, Harper. I can make your exit quite comfortable.”
Harper’s smile sharpens. “How about I make your exit comfortable right now? There’s the door.”
Vernon’s gaze ticks to Mr. Darcy, who has assumed a sphinx pose on the sign stack with murder in his eyes. “Charming,” he says, which somehow sounds like an insult. “Enjoy your festival.”
He leaves. The bell chimes its little triumph behind him. Mr. Darcy yawns like a lion who just decided not to eat a gazelle.
We lay out the signs, place one in the window, stick a small one near the register.
A mom and her kid come in; the kid goes feral in the children’s section in the way that only books and sugar can inspire.
We help them pick a stack, and I spend ten minutes on the floor pretending to be an expert on dragons while Harper rings them up and manages to upsell a pumpkin--shaped bookmark and a glitter pen with a witch hat.
Watching her in her element is like watching a storm front clear—charged, bright, inevitable.
When the shop quiets, we end up shoulder to shoulder at the counter, reviewing the layout again. Our elbows bump once, twice. Static or something less harmless jumps between us. I keep my voice even.
“Tomorrow I’ll mark vendor numbers in paint so the chalk doesn’t blow away. Gary’s dropping the spider boxes at eight. Fire marshal inspection at nine. Can you confirm the last bakery?”
“On it,” she says. “Also, I need to finalize the schedule flyer, rally the book club ladies, and design the ‘Keep Hollow Creek Cozy’ buttons.” She pauses. “You think the slogan is too much?”
“It’s exactly enough,” I say. “If it came with a cat glaring, we’d be unstoppable.”
She side--eyes Mr. Darcy. He blinks once, slowly, benevolent as a tiny tyrant. “He’ll consider licensing.”
We clean up. She slots cash into a cloth bag, locks the drawer, and I pretend I’m here for security and not because I like walking her to her car.
When she wrestles Mr. Darcy into his carrier, the cat flattens himself like a stubborn pancake and emits a sound that could curdle cream. Somehow she wins. She always does.
At the door, I hold it open. The sky is turning rose--gold over the hills, and the first wisps of wood-smoke thread the air. Harper steps past me, and the scent of her—books and citrus and something I refuse to name—follows.
“Text me when you’re home,” I say, trying to make it sound casual and failing.
She quirks a brow. “You do realize I live four blocks away.”
“Still,” I say. “Humor me.”
She studies my face as if she’s trying to decide whether to tease me or trust me. “Okay,” she says finally, “but only because you got the spider boxes.”
“Romance is alive,” I deadpan.
She laughs, surprised out of herself, and it lands in my chest like a hammer wrapped in velvet. I step back, forcing distance before my body acts on the reckless urge to close the space, catch her chin, and find out if her mouth tastes like citrus.
On the sidewalk, we almost run into my mother coming out of Mel’s with a pie carrier and battle plans. Mom takes in the tableau—Harper with a cat carrier, me with a stack of signs—and smiles like a woman who just found a subplot.
“Harper,” she says warmly. “Dex. I’ve got pies for the bake sale and a petition against ‘revitalization’ ready for signatures. Also, that man from the council who thinks condos are modern knows nothing about parking ratios.”
“Agreed,” I say. “We’ve got a plan.”
“I know you do,” she says, and pats my arm like I’m still her little linebacker son and not a man trying very hard not to blurt out feelings on Main Street. “Drive safe.”
Harper promises she will. My mother glides away, leaving cinnamon and competence in her wake.
We stand there for a second in the lavender light, both of us looking at the square like we can already see the festival—the lights, the music, the busy booths, kids with sticky faces, neighbors arguing about whether the jazz band is ‘real jazz.’ And in the middle of it, The Wandering Page with a line out the door and a donation bucket filling faster than Vernon can smirk.
“We’re going to win,” I say before I can overthink it.
Her mouth softens. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” I say, and I’m surprised by how much I mean it. “Because you’ll make it happen.”
She swallows, looks away and then looks back. “Go paint your numbers, Dex.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I salute with a sign, because if I don’t turn it into a joke, I might say something I can’t take back.
She loads Mr. Darcy into her car; he stares at me through the grate with the patience of a saint planning a smite. I lift two fingers. “Evening, Your Grace.”
He blinks as if to say, 'Do better'.
I will. For her. For this town. For the street where I grew up and the bookstore that taught me, you can start over as many times as you have to.
The sky deepens to gray. I head back to the square with paint tape and numbers, and by the time I’m done, my phone buzzes.
HARPER: Home. Cat fed. Spreadsheet worship complete.
ME: Copy. See you at dawn for spider boxes.
HARPER: Bring coffee.
ME: Demanding.
HARPER: Decaffeinated.
I tuck my phone in my pocket and look down Main Street and see the lampposts winking on, shop windows glowing, pumpkins lined up like a thousand small suns.
Somewhere out there, I'm sure Vernon is drafting another email with the subject line Time - Sensitive Offer , or something stupid like that. He can send twenty. We’re still going to beat him—with bunting, cocoa, spreadsheets, music, and a small army led by a cat.
Dry leaves skitter over the pavement. I picture the square full and loud, Harper laughing under the string of lights, and I make myself a promise I’ve never said out loud... I’m going to help her save this town and especially her shop.
And if I have to smile at her cat to do it, well, I can bite my tongue and do that, too.
The council chamber has that after-storm hush when we finally scrape the last folding chair.
Most of the town has spilled into the hallway to debrief and gossip; fluorescent lights hum like they’re eavesdropping.
My mother, Eleanor Rowen, appears at our table with a legal pad, a thermos of coffee, and the expression of a woman about to run a successful coup.
Dolly and Beatrice flank her like cheerful security guards…
without all the muscle, but still scary.
“Sit,” Mom says—gentle voice, battlefield eyes. We sit like good little soldiers.
She taps her pen once. “Vernon fights dirty,” she says. “We fight with stories. Be the town’s love story.”
Harper blinks. “I’m sorry—what?”
“Optics,” Mom says, already bullet-pointing. “Public, uncomplicated affection. Unified messaging. Let people see what this street means. The council can ignore bunting; they won’t ignore a narrative that fills the town square.”
I look at Harper. She’s half skeptical, half calculating. “You’re suggesting we… pretend.”
“I’m suggesting you agree to be seen together—intentionally,” Mom replies. “No lies, no false promises. You set rules. But when the town looks over at the two of you, they should feel like Hollow Creek is choosing itself.”
Dolly slides a Post-it across to us. “Beats,” she says, proud. “Mel’s Diner coffee tomorrow—booth by the window. Coordinated flannel shirts at the vendor check-in. You two at the ribbon on Opening Hour. And—” she waggles her brows “—a photograph at the gazebo with fairy-lights, for the newspaper.”
Beatrice adds, “Talking points: library annex, safe wiring, vendor sales, kid zones. Every ‘aww’ must come with a QR code.”
Harper’s mouth tilts. “Ground rules,” she says, steady now, looking at me. “No ambushing each other. No using this to win personal arguments. If either of us says ‘pause,’ we pause. And we tell each other the truth even when it’s messy.”
“Deal,” I say, before my better judgment can slow me down. The word lands in my chest and settles like something that’s wanted to live there.
Mom nods, satisfied. “Good. Then, tomorrow morning at nine, meet at Mel’s booth under the fern. I’ll ‘accidentally’ deliver apple pies.” She caps her pen. “Remember: stories beat dirt—if you give people one worth repeating.”
In the hallway, someone laughs; outside, Main Street glows warm as a hearth. Harper slides the legal pad toward me and writes in neat, deliberate letters: Optics until the vote. She underlines it once, then meets my eyes.
“We win,” I say quietly.
“We win,” she echoes, and for the first time it feels like a plan.