Page 52 of By the Book

We climb out of the SUV we borrowed from our mom, seeing as mine is still parked outside my place, and follow the signs pointing us to the pumpkin patch. It leads us behind one of the barns, where rows upon rows of pre-picked pumpkins are sprawled out across the lawn. Sorted by type, wooden stakes mark the front of each row to identify the variety of gourds.

My eye is immediately drawn towards the heirlooms, with their pretty pastel colors and deep blood oranges. I make my way down a row of Fairytales—the large flat looking pumpkins—and stoop down to study them closer. Beside me, my brother does the same.

“Is there a specific process to this?” he asks.

“Oh, yes,” I nod. “First, I get overly excited and start loading up a wagon. Then I decide half of them don’t go well together and I put them back to grab even more than before.”

“They have to go together? They’re all pumpkins, doesn’t that make them all work?”

“Not at all, I can’t have too many pink while only one of the greenish-blue pumpkins. And I tend to forget about classic orange with all the other choices. But you have to have orange. So, then I load up on the rouge pumpkins because the deeper red color matches better than the bright orange.”

“Wow. Uh, then I’ll go get you that wagon,” he replies, shaking his head before standing and walking towards the barn.

I lose track of time walking up and down the rows. Ambling to the end of another row, I turn to see the wagon full, and another pumpkin tucked under Wes’s arm. “Okay, that’s enough,” I say decidedly.

“Alright, but you owe me an apple cider slushie for lugging all these around for you.”

“Deal.”

We make our way past the hay bale picture station and rows of corn stalks for sale. At the edge of the barn, an attendant waits at a wooden stand to ring us out. Handing over more money than I planned on, which is always the case here, we head back to the SUV to load up the trunk.

“How is it being home? Itching to get back out there?” I ask as I hand him a pumpkin.

“I like being in Foxport, I’m never in a hurry to leave you all again.”

“Are you saying you miss us?” I gasp, reaching for the next pumpkin.

“Something like that,” he chuckles. “What’s going on with you? You know, aside from the break-ins.”

Setting the last pumpkin in the trunk, he grabs the empty wagon and turns back towards the barns. I take a few quick steps to fall into place beside him. Thoughts race through my mind. I can’t tell him about my feelings for Tripp, that’s for sure. And I can’t give him an update on our dad’s health either. It hurts to be keeping so many secrets from my brother, and I wonder if maybe I’ve been the one keeping my distance out of guilt.

“The break-ins are enough excitement for me,” I decide on. It’s a safe answer, and certainly true.

We step into the barn that houses the market, turning to the counter just inside the door. The apple cider slushies are always at this counter in the fall, and we would know because it was once a family tradition to come pick pumpkins at the farm.

“Two apple cider slushies,” I order, sliding a five-dollar bill across the counter. Over the years, Walker Farms has managed to keep their prices nearly the same, those five dollars getting us two larges with a dollar remaining for the tip. It’s a nice reminder that some things don’t have to change.

Taking the slushies from the attendant, Wes turns to me and laughs. “Hey, do you remember when you dropped half yourallowance drinking like four of these in one visit? Then you threw up on the way home?”

He passes mine to me as we start back out of the barn. And despite the memory, I take a generous slurp from the orange striped straw rising from my drink. “It was worth it.” I laugh as well. “These are the best.”

“The Taylors are here.” A middle-aged man in a flannel jacket and ball cap waves to us as he approaches. I know him well enough as he owns the hardware store down the street from my shop.

“Hi, Gerard,” I greet him.

As he nears, he says, “It’s a real shame what they’re saying. Is it true that they’re in the process of recalling your friend, the sheriff?”

My mouth falls open, but Wes is the picture of ease. “Who knows, we don’t pay any mind to gossip.” He shrugs nonchalantly, like his best friend isn’t being threatened to have the rug pulled out from under him.

“Probably deserves to be recalled though,” the man continues.

“Excuse me. How on earth does he deserve to be recalled? That’s bullshit. No one works harder for what’s right.” The words fly from my mouth before I realize I’ve spoken them aloud. Beside me, Wes raises an eyebrow in curiosity.

“I didn’t mean?—”

“No one in this town actually knows anything about what’s going on. And until any of you own the place broken into, likeIhave experienced, you don’t get to judge. Besides, would I be out and about right now if I was concerned about his ability to catch the guy?”

“You make a point,” Gerard mumbles. He casts an embarrassed glance at my brother, probably hoping for areprieve. “If it means anything, I’d never vote him out.” Then he disappears inside the market.

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