Chapter 19
NINETEEN
ROBYN
Robyn knew a bit more of what to expect for the book club meeting now, but that didn’t stop her from adjusting the plates, napkins, and cups on the serving table for the tenth time before restacking printouts of the second installment into crisp, satisfying piles, making everything look just right.
She added highlighters and pens to the table so others could annotate their copies the way she liked to.
“I printed extra copies in case someone needs it,” she said, mostly to fill the silence, because the bookstore felt strangely intimate before the others would soon arrive. She unclipped her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders before twisting it back up and securing it.
Tyler smiled at her with a boyish grin, making her forget that she’d ever been a serious person with a tenure-track job and a carefully curated sense of composure.
“I’m sure it’s perfect,” he said softly, rolling his shirt sleeves up.
An act that shouldn’t have been tantalizing, but here she was, fantasizing about how good those arms would feel around her waist.
If only the club members wouldn’t be arriving soon, she thought, picking up a stack of books and heading toward the historical fiction section.
She’d wanted to put together a little sales table to highlight the titles Isabel’s story reminded her of, but there hadn’t been time, and now she just needed them out of the way before the book nook turned into meeting central.
The second installment of Isabel’s manuscript had kept her up half the night—the writing was raw and urgent in a way the first part hadn’t been, the romance deepening into something fierce and complicated.
Robyn had found herself turning pages with her heart in her throat, desperate to know how the story ended.
Nervous energy prickled under her skin as she shelved them quickly, her mind darting ahead the way it always did.
Nine days. That was the number that had been hovering in the back of her mind. If they couldn’t piece the complete story together in time, the Midnight in Maple Falls event would fall flat.
There’d be no grand reveal, no finished book to sell, no reason for the influencers and tourists to stay longer than a photo op.
And without a successful event, there’d be no dream buyer walking through the door.
Just Estevez, waiting with his offer and his plans for refrigeration units where these shelves stood now.
She couldn’t let that happen. Not to Meg. Not to Isabel’s story. And not to the bookstore that was starting to feel less like someone else’s and more like her own.
Tyler followed her into the aisle, his presence warming the narrow space between the shelves. His fingers brushed her wrist as he took one of the books from her hands.
“You can slow down now. Relax,” he murmured.
Robyn gave a short laugh as she slid the last book into place. “That’s easy for you to say. People are traveling for miles to hear it. What if we don’t find the rest?”
Tyler shrugged calmly. “Worst-case scenario, you read from sections one and two at the event. Everyone will still have a good time.”
She wanted to believe him. She really did.
But the part of her brain that had clawed its way to a tenure track at Yale, that had spent her entire life being told that good wasn’t good enough, wouldn’t let her.
Two-thirds of a story wasn’t a story. It was perfect or bust. And she was not going to let the event, the bookstore, go bust.
Robyn turned, leaning back against the shelf, the paper leaves and twinkle lights from the book nook casting a warm glow down the aisle.
Something in Robyn gave way. Before she could overthink it, she reached for the front of Tyler’s shirt and kissed him.
It felt a little desperate in the way she hated admitting she could be. Like she needed the connection to steady herself back into her own body. Tyler froze for a heartbeat, and then his hand found her waist, and he kissed her back—warm and firm.
They broke apart, both of them breathing heavy, when the bell over the door jingled. Again.
Robyn didn’t usually mind déjà vu, but this was getting ridiculous.
Tyler stepped back so abruptly that he bumped the shelf. Robyn adjusted her hair clip with shaking fingers.
Mrs. C.’s voice carried down the aisle. “Hello? Sorry, we’re a bit early.”
Moments later, the trio of older ladies appeared at the end of the aisle. Mrs. C.’s eyes swept over them with immediate, razor-sharp understanding. Mrs. Bishop and Edith hovered behind her, arms full of trays and tins, all three of them looking far too pleased with themselves.
Mrs. C.’s gaze flicked between Robyn and Tyler, unimpressed. “I don’t know what you two keep hopping apart for,” she said. “Everyone knows you’re dating.”
Edith stepped forward with a tin of spiced shortbread and a fond, knowing smile.
“Your Insta post was too cute. I don’t know how you young folks find the time to do it all—manage businesses and have midnight liaisons.
Sounds exhausting,” she finished, earnest as anything. “Do you need electrolytes?”
Tyler made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh.
Robyn clapped her hands once—loud, decisive, and entirely too cheerful. “How about I get you all copies of the second installment?” she said, grabbing the safest topic available like it was a life raft.
Within minutes, the rest of the club members arrived, and thankfully, none of them opened with commentary about Robyn and Tyler’s love life.
The book nook filled again with that cozy, bustling energy—someone lighting a pumpkin-spice-scented candle, chairs scraping, plates clinking, laughter layering over the low hum of the bookstore at night.
The treat spread grew, too. Mrs. Bishop’s savory trays joined Edith’s shortbread; Zoe’s sparkling apple cider appeared beside Kit’s cranberry brie pull-apart bread and cinnamon pear tarts; and Emily set down pumpkin cupcakes crowned with thick swirls of cream cheese frosting.
Robyn was just setting out a couple of extra chairs when the bell chimed again, and Elsie breezed in last, cheeks pink from the cold, radiating that high-octane energy of hers. She shrugged out of her leather coat, phone already in her hand, and offered a bright, unapologetic smile.
“Okay,” she said, holding up her hands before anyone could tease her about arriving empty-handed. “I know. I didn’t bring anything. Please don’t exile me from the book club.”
“You’re on thin ice,” Mrs. Bishop told her solemnly, but her eyes were gleaming with amusement.
Elsie laughed, then exhaled in a way that said she hadn’t properly breathed all day.
“It’s been wild,” she said, pushing her hair behind her ear.
“Our Halloween event, Midnight in Maple Falls, has already gone viral on TikTok. I posted it, what—a day ago? And my DMs are… unhinged. In a good way, obviously.”
Robyn’s fingers tightened around the stack of plates. “Viral,” she repeated.
Madison nodded, already filling a plate with all her favorites. “We sold out of rooms at the inn,” she said matter-of-factly.
Robyn’s mind instantly sprinted ahead to every possible outcome, every possible failure, and arranged them neatly into a list she couldn’t stop reading.
“That’s um…” she managed, forcing her mouth into something that resembled a smile. “That’s amazing.”
For a moment, Robyn had the absurd urge to bolt to the stockroom and hide behind the stacks of paper towels until Halloween was over.
But then Tyler shifted closer to her. His knee brushed hers lightly under the table—brief, steady, grounding—a reminder: I’m here.
Robyn swallowed and forced air into her lungs.
Nine days still felt impossible, and her mind still wanted to sprint ahead and catastrophize, but the warmth of him beside her kept her tethered to the present: the clink of plates, the sweet-sour sparkle of cider, Elsie practically vibrating with excitement, the manuscript copies waiting on the table like a dare.
One clue at a time, she reminded herself, letting her gaze hold Tyler’s for a beat. One clue at a time.
Then she straightened her shoulders, turned back to the group, and made herself stay in the room.
Mrs. C. tapped her pen against the paper. “Alright. Second installment. What did you all think?”
The group took turns, reading through their favorite passages, giving their thoughts at the end of each chapter.
Robyn’s cheeks warmed. The words shouldn’t have felt personal.
They weren’t about her. They were about Isabel.
And yet… that familiar prickling sensation crawled up her spine again, like the room was getting uncomfortably close to seeing too much.
Like somehow, they’d put together that she was a writer too, and her secret would be exposed.
Madison flipped a page, smiling. “I love the hint of witchiness. Just enough that you’re not sure what’s superstition and what’s real.”
Mrs. Bishop waved her hand. “Oh, it’s real. I refuse to believe it isn’t.”
There was laughter, and a few more minutes of lively discussion, mostly speculation about the heroine’s past, the hero’s secrets, the way their chemistry threaded through every scene like a match waiting for a spark.
Robyn listened, heart tugging in strange little ways.
Isabel was talented. The writing wasn’t just charming; it was confident, almost alive.
It made Robyn feel connected to a woman she’d only known through fragments of her journals and the stories passed down.
It was a strange juxtaposition for Robyn, wanting to remain hidden yet wanting people to read her own writing too and hear what they had to say.
The internet gave her a taste of that, but the real world was different.
When Mrs. C. finally nodded, satisfied with the story discussion, she reached for the envelope tied with twine that had been found with the installment. “Alright,” she said. “Clue time.”
Everyone leaned in.
Robyn worried her bottom lip as the new clue was unfolded.
Mrs. C. cleared her throat and read aloud.
“Where the air smells of autumn spice,
And kitchen shelves hold all things nice,
A card among the recipes will not fail.
The best pumpkin pie leads to the end of my tale.”
For a beat, there was silence—then the entire table erupted.
“Best pumpkin pie?” Mrs. Bishop repeated. “Well, we all know who makes the best pumpkin pie.”
Cassidy pointed dramatically. “Emily. Obviously.”
Mrs. C. coughed in a not-so-subtle objection.
Robyn cut in before an argument could erupt. “The clue references the best pie back then…”
Kit frowned. “Okay, so we need the historical pumpkin pie champion of Maple Falls.”
Madison’s eyes lit up. “Was there a contest back then too?”
“Of course, there’s always been an annual pumpkin pie contest at the Fall Festival,” Mayor Bloomfield said confidently.
“But when did the festival start?” Robyn asked, pen at the ready.
Everyone was silent. Apparently, no one knew.
“Okay… we need to find out. Mayor Bloomfield, can you work on that?” Robyn asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” the mayor replied. “What year are we looking for?”
“Valid question.” Robyn thought for a moment, recalling the photo Edith had found that led to clue number two. “They buried the time capsule in 1955, so probably around then?”
“Alright then, I’ll see what I can do,” the mayor replied confidently.
“In case there wasn’t a competition then, the rest of us need to look into family cookbooks, old recipe boxes. Anything passed down you can think of,” Robyn continued.
Emily’s brow furrowed. “My great-grandmother… I know she got the recipe I use from someone else. I just can’t remember who.”
Mrs. C. nodded decisively. “We find out who made the best pumpkin pie in Maple Falls when Isabel wrote this. Then we’ll find the recipe card that points us to the last installment.”
Elsie lifted her phone again, grinning. “And I will be documenting the entire process.”
Robyn’s stomach tightened at the reminder of Elsie’s viral post and the ticking clock, but Tyler’s knee brushed hers lightly under the table, and Robyn forced herself to breathe.
She wanted to believe everything would be okay, but the perfectionist voice inside her head would not be silenced. She desperately wanted to believe they could pull the event off, for her great-grandmother’s sake, and for the future of the bookstore…