Chapter 47

forty-seven

LUKE

There should be a manual for school drop off. No matter how many times I’ve gone through the line, barking out orders so Lucy can practically jump out while it’s still moving, I still feel clueless. Sometimes the moms give me sympathetic glances, but this morning felt like I violated an unspoken rule.

Or several.

Lucy refused to get out of the car until she finished spouting off all the things she wants to do with Ella after the wedding is over. I’ve tried to explain that Ella will have her hands full, but she won’t listen. When the line monitor opened the passenger side door of the truck, it was clear she thought I committed a criminal offense by pausing those extra thirty seconds in line to listen to her.

It’s pretty much what they teach in fire safety: stop, drop and roll.

I edge my truck into a parking spot across from the Wishing Star Theater Company. We’re borrowing the historic venue for the morning for our town meeting because if there’s one thing the mayor won’t miss out on, it’s revenue dollars. Maybe if she’s heading it up, there will be fewer interruptions about things that could’ve been an email. I can think of a million things I’d rather do today than sit through an hour of arguing for five minutes of actual meeting worthy information.

Last meeting, Ethel Jones from Evergreen Enchantments spent approximately twenty minutes sharing the most recent town gossip and proposed assigned parking spaces for downtown businesses.

No matter how many times we explain to her why this isn’t feasible, she’s like a dog with a bone. I’m also not sure who really cares that Harper from down at Unicorn’s Utopia, the children’s boutique, has been seen twice now at the Wish Upon a Star Drive-In with Bobby from The Dragon’s Den Barbeque.

I mean, good for them, I guess?

For once, I wish they’d held the meeting at Once Upon a Brew. My brain is muddled with the pumpkin situation — I haven’t changed anything and they’ve been getting better. Sleep is a commodity I’ve officially lost stock in. Ever since Ella and I committed to being fake engaged, all my time outside of work has been with her.

Well, even before that, really.

And then, last night, Lucy asked if I’d consider turning the patch into Halloween Town complete with a Pumpkin Jack scarecrow and I just sighed.

Maybe she’s got the right idea.

I shove open the door and wave an apology to Sabrina as she reads out the minutes of the previous meeting. She greets me with a raised eyebrow, but doesn’t miss a beat.

Quinn and Holden wave me over to an empty chair, and I squeeze down the row, whispering words of thanks as she passes me a to-go cup. I’ll accept whatever magic inspired her to come armed with caffeine. I slump down in the chair and take the first few sips, tuning out most of everything Sabrina is saying.

I don’t love that I’ve somehow become the face of the farm for meetings like this. Growing things in the dirt is where I feel the most at home. Right now I could be asking Barbara, the librarian, to point me toward old gardening books. Or newspaper articles that might talk about this mysterious—whatever it is—plaguing my pumpkins. I’ve tried every trick I know, and the list is short since it doesn’t actually look like a disease. Just darkness, twisting and shaping the gourds into something more sinister looking.

Until the last few days.

I can’t figure it out. And I need to figure it out.

Ever After Farms runs four generations deep. My parents worked it, and so did my grandparents. Lucy loves working in the fields and with the animals. She’s the first of a new generation, and I’m sure more will come along eventually as my siblings start their own families.

I’m afraid to hope that I’ll have more kids someday that want to continue our legacy, but I want to. When Aubrey left, I didn’t think it was in the cards for me again. I was too busy trying to survive. Ella makes me think that the opportunity isn’t completely closed off.

“Mornin!” Feedback rings through the theater, causing all of us to flinch. Gus Thompson blushes, then takes a step back from the microphone. “Sorry about that.”

An outspoken member of the Rocking Chair Royals and one of the strongest players to grace the weekly Tuesday poker games, he looks right at home on the stage. I brace myself for a lecture about an upcoming trivia night or commentary about the Homecoming Game. He clearly has an agenda, with his notebook clutched in his hands and a determined look on his face .

I hope Sabrina didn’t say anything important.

“Are you taking notes?” I whisper to Quinn.

She rolls her eyes. “Daydreaming?”

“More like struggling to stay awake.”

“Is Ella keeping you busy?”

I scrub a hand down my face. Being here is bad enough. Having my relationship with Ella added to the mix is an unnecessary stress. Thanks to this town and hours of forced proximity — a term my siblings love to toss around — our relationship has its own personality.

Gaby mentioned something about shipping.

I’ve got no idea what that means, other than taking boxes to the post office, and I don’t think that’s what she meant.

“First order of business! Jack and I are having a sale at the hardware store on fire pits now that it’s getting cooler outside. Hey Luke!”

I jostle, barely preventing coffee from spilling out of my cup, and freeze under the newfound scrutiny.

“Yessir Mr. Thompson.” I yell back.

“You need to bring the future missus by and have her pick one out. The farm could probably use a couple.”

In my peripheral, Quinn tears off pieces of her apple cider donut, popping them in her mouth as her eyes volley between Gus and me. Theater seats squeak as people adjust to look in my direction.

The farm might need a new fire pit or two, but the last thing I want is more eyes on my relationship with Ella. People post about us as much as they post about Cade and Holly, which is already too often.

I learned all of this information against my will, through screenshots that constantly appear in our group chat. My response is more of a choking sound than words, so I just hold up my hand in a ‘will do’ gesture .

“Lukey boy,” Ethel calls from a couple of rows ahead. “I know there’s already a big wedding in the works on that farm of yours, but when is your big day? Will you be having an engagement party?”

Ethel needs to go back to her greenhouse and grow something.

The theater is far from warm, but it’s suddenly stifling. Wearing a flannel over a t-shirt wasn’t the best choice today. I yank at the collar of my shirt, desperate for air.

“An engagement party! What a wonderful idea!” Susie from Moonlight and Lace Bridal calls out.

I give it five minutes once I leave this building before my mom calls me, demanding to know why she’s not throwing our engagement party and someone from town is.

Because it’s not real.

Mr. Thompson is still standing on the stage, the thick caterpillars of hair above his eyes wiggling.

“Does anyone else need a firepit? Christmas is coming up and I’ve got a lot of grandkids.”

“When are we going to get to the traffic light on Main? I don’t know what’s going on, but it keeps flashing blue and no one knows what to do! It’s causing a real problem!” someone calls out.

“Better than the streetlamps over on Enchanted Oak Lane! It’s like a disco,” Ethel grumbles. “They keep changing colors and going on and off.”

“The garden gnomes are misbehaving again and they rearranged my entire flower bed in front of the shop this morning!” Florence Locksly shouts. She owns the Treasure Trove Trading Company.

“You too?” Jax pushes to his feet. “Madame Mayor. You’ve got to do something.”

I shouldn’t laugh, but seeing someone with Jax Blackwell’s stature all bent out of shape about garden gnomes is slightly amusing. Since he owns two mobile bars and a pub, The Lost Compass, I suppose they could wreak some havoc.

I’m glad we have a no gnome rule on the farm. That’s all we’d need on top of all the other chaos. Little two foot tall menaces that like to hide around corners and eavesdrop or dig up flowers and crops.

This whole town has lost its mind.

I’ve seen a lot over the years, but the uptick in strange and unusual magical activities is new. Especially where the farm is concerned.

“It’s not just me and the sleep deprivation, right? This isn’t normal.” I lean toward Quinn.

“It seems a bit more than normal.” She winces. “Things have been a little weird at the shop for a couple of days. We’ve had a couple of incidents where foam art spontaneously forms on the coffee.”

“That’s weird.”

“It’s even weirder when the smiley faces wink at you,” Holden replies. “I picked the wrong day to grab a cappuccino.”

“What do you think it is?”

They both shrug.

Seats slam back into position, echoing through the old building as people stand.

“Will your sister be doing story time at the patch this weekend?”

“Part of me wants to tell you to call the farm and ask.” I squint at her over another sip from my cup.

“Such a Grumpy Gus. I want to take my nephew.”

The coffee isn’t doing what I want to soothe my nerves, but it’s at least easing the grogginess pressing at my brain.

“Yes. Every weekend.”

“Thank you. Was that so hard? ”

“Ella called and put in an order for these,” Holden says, retrieving a white pastry box from the floor. “She told me to tell you not to eat the entire box.” He bends down and retrieves a white paper sack this time, dropping it on top of the cardboard. “These are yours.”

Quinn eyes my pastry haul. “She put an order for all that?”

“Not a word,” I say, standing.

We all shuffle out together before splitting up to go our separate ways.

“Not all at once!” Holden calls.

“I’m not sharing these with Dean!” I yell back.

I’m eating half of whatever is in this bag on the way back to the farm. Or at least that was my intention until I’ve got a sudden urge to sit in the back of my truck bed and enjoy the weather for a few minutes. The morning is pleasant, with low humidity and a breeze that makes the air breathable.

Fall might finally be on the way for more than a day at a time.

Our downtown area forms a square, shops and restaurants pressed against each other in rows of varying types of stone and stained wood. The roads are cobblestone, which isn’t exactly typical for the area. Neither is the fountain in the center, in place of a courthouse. That’s actually down the road in an old Victorian that resembles a gingerbread house.

It looks like Violet has been out here with flowers from her fields. There are rows of zinnias on each side of the fountain in the fresh beds nestled between the stonework. When it cools down, there are evening horse-drawn carriage rides through here. Somebody has been petitioning the town council for years to add a pumpkin carriage during fall, and I’m curious if it actually went through this season or not. I guess I’ll know in the next several days.

I’m halfway through my third kolache when I see Ella. She’s completely on the other side of the square, coming from the direction of the library. I know my sister’s influence when I see it. Gaby probably set aside an entire stack of books for Ella to read while she’s here because she’s got a book bag slung over her shoulder and she’s engrossed in a book as she walks.

There’s an urge to go to her, a gentle press between my shoulder blades that has me rolling down the top of my pastry sack and scooting off the edge of the tailgate. Sometimes I can’t tell the difference between my own instincts or the town misbehaving, but either way, I can’t ignore it.

As she nears the fountain, there’s a loud ruckus to my left: a screeching cat being chased by a floppy-eared dog. The dog is hot on its heels, its long tongue lolling out the side of its mouth as it covers the same amount of space in one bound as it takes the cat to cover four or five. It would be funny, except that they’re heading straight for Ella and she’s oblivious.

Right about the time I shout her name, they collide with her feet and she topples head over heels into the fountain.

That settles that: this time, it was definitely the town misbehaving.