Epilogue

Epilogue

F ive years later

Dahlia

My husband is adorable when he’s acting stubborn.

Blake shakes his head petulantly and hands the microphone back to me.

“As mayor, I made an executive decision to not emcee the fall festival this year,” he says.

I press the mic into his chest. “But you’re the mayor now. It’s time to stop being a grump and embrace tradition.”

With arms crossed over his chest, he refuses to take the mic. Blake reminds me that the townspeople elected a grump and knew what they were getting with him.

“I’m not going to go back on a campaign promise,” he says, hoping to quell my spirit, I’m sure. But he can’t fool me. A hint of a smile pulls at his lip. But he’s still not budging. “They elected me. They knew what they were getting. I ain’t no flip-flopper.”

Meanwhile, judges, volunteers, and festivalgoers are milling around, waiting on the mayor.

I hold out the scroll. “It’s all right here. It’s the same speech that every mayor has delivered since the opening of the first Harvest Festival a million years ago.”

He glances down at the hollowed-out pumpkin I carry under my other arm.

“I doubt the first mayor had to wear a pumpkin on his head while opening the fair,” he says.

“It’s not just a pumpkin,” I say. “It’s a jack-o’-lantern.”

Blake grunts. “That does not make it better.”

“It does!” I say brightly. “See, because it has eyeholes so you can read the speech!”

He can’t resist much longer.

He takes the scroll. “I’ll read the script,” he says. “But I’m not wearing the pumpkin head.”

I know that my pouting isn’t going to work.

But Magnolia’s will.

I call out the big guns without taking my eyes off my husband. “Maggie Marie!”

The four-year-old, who’s been waiting impatiently with her grandmother for the rides to open, runs up. Our daughter is irresistible even without the orange and purple butterfly face paint and matching autumn-colored wings.

She answers to Magnolia, Mags, M I make the rules.”

“This is a democracy!” Magnolia cries, her pale eyes wide in horror at her dictator father.

Blake glares up at me. I’m about to have a stroke from stifled guffaws. “What are they teaching her at Montessori preschool?” Blake asks.

When he turns back to face our daughter, the trembling bottom lip is the final nail in the coffin.

“Fine. I’ll put on the pumpkin.”

Magnolia throws her arms around her father’s neck with a scream of delight. He closes one eye, wincing at the high-pitched register emitting from the little monster in his arms.

I’m shaking with delight as I help him put the freshly carved jack-o’-lantern on his head.

With Magnolia in one arm, he takes the mic. I hold the scroll at a distance so he can read it through the triangular eye holes.

“It smells in here,” he mutters too near the hot mic.

People in the crowd laugh.

He clears his throat.

“Good morning to everyone who may have gotten lost on the way to the big city. We hope you enjoyed the special treat of valet parking. If you’re here by accident, don’t worry. A volunteer will return your keys when the festival closes and after all the arts and crafts have sold out.”

Blake is adding little jokes to this speech, I see. At least he’s carrying on the tradition, and that’s what counts.

“Today, we are here to celebrate our farmers, gardeners, and anyone who opened a can of pumpkin and put it into a recipe.”

More laughter. Oh boy, he’s enjoying this.

“Autumn is when our town has the most spirit, whether it’s shown in our pumpkin displays, the leafy highways, or the slight over-indulgence in pumpkin ale. No shade to the Watson brothers, but maybe we’ll all catch another fistfight later. I’ll make the popcorn.”

Oh boy. He’s going to get a light spanking later.

“I want to thank you all for coming, and a special thanks to the volunteers. If this town hadn’t had such an active committee to make these festivals happen, I would never have seen my ex-girlfriend again. But I’m happy to say I did, and we’ve been back together ever since she first convinced me to participate in our town’s traditions.”

Aw. Was I irritated a minute ago? He just turned it around in a surprising display of sweetness.

“And with that, I officially declare the harvest festival open!”

He hands me the mic, and then wrestles with the pumpkin until it pops off his head. Then, Blake drops the giant jack-o’-lantern onto the stage, smashing it into pieces, just as tradition dictates.

He did it. I’m so proud of him.

Whoops and applause follow. Magnolia hugs her dad.

“Ew, Daddy. Your face!” she cries, wiping off bits of pumpkin from her purple, glittered cheek.

Indeed, my husband’s face is covered with pumpkin goo.

“Daddy looks scary enough to lead the ghost tour,” I say.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Blake warns.

Eagerly, I roll up on my toes to reach his face. Blake turns to me, pressing a soft, pumpkin kiss to my lips.

Our daughter shrieks, “That’s the scariest thing I ever saw!”

We laugh and go with our daughter and Blake’s mom to wait in line for the tilt-a-whirl.

As we wait, I help my husband clean the stuff off his face with the stash of baby wipes I keep in my bag.

I kiss the last bit of it from the scruff of his chin, and I do it slowly while our daughter is busy chattering to her grandmother.

Blake slinks his arm around my waist.

“My wife, the con artist,” he growls, tilting my face up and taking my lips in a soft kiss, licking into my mouth.

“I only used the weapons in my arsenal, Mr. Mayor.” He exhales as I tug at the untucked front tail of his flannel shirt, my hands itching to stroke his soft dad-bod.

“You better be careful, manipulating an elected official.”

“Good thing I didn’t have to bribe you with favors, or we’d both go to jail,” I say, blinking slowly.

He rumbles, “Why am I thinking about handcuffs now?”

“For me or for you?” I ask.

“For the instigator, of course.

A shiver runs down my spine. “I’ll accept my punishment for being a bad girl.”

“When? Right now?”

I shake my head. “After the ghost tour tonight.”

“Dammit, Dahlia. I can’t wait that long.”

We kiss again quickly as the line is moving. I thread my fingers through his. “I’ll bet you a hundred bucks that you can.”

Blake groans as we climb into the ride, and he pulls down the lap bar. But it’s a happy groan.

His hand grips me between my knees as the ride begins.

We’re whipped back and forth, but my Blake holds me tightly. My rock and my protector.

He’s mine, and I’m his.

I wonder if we’ll do fall festivals together when we’re 70, 80, or 90. I wonder if we’ll still be riding the rides, eating fair food, doing ghost tours, and dunking each other in the dunk tank.

If I were a betting woman, I’d wager that we will.