The list goes on.
And yet none of them ring true for me. They’re all wonderful things about this small town. But they’re not what I love most. They aren’t what had me staring at my soon-to-end lease agreement and wondering if I should let the claim on my townhouse lapse. They aren’t what set my pulse thrumming and my breath quickening every time I drive past theWelcome to Folk Haventown sign.
Hugging the pumpkin to my chest, I close my eyes and let my mind soften around the simple question …
What draws me home?
The answers come slowly, but they live in vibrant color once I let them free from my heart.
The forest.
Papa’s cottage.
My family.
Him.
With a deep sigh, I allow a silhouetted image to form in my mind. It’s simple yet detailed. If I start now, I should be able to fashion what I want in an hour.
When I set my pumpkin on the ground in front of me and snatch up my knife, I spare a glance Manny’s way.
He’s staring at me.
My heart beats hard, my cheeks heat, and old defenses slip into place.
“No cheating,” I hiss to cover the way his unwavering attention affects every cell in my body.
The wolf grins, undaunted by my feigned animosity, then drops his eyes to his own vegetable canvas.
We both set to work.
If this had been the first task assigned to us, laid out for me yesterday morning, when I still set Manny in the Enemy category in my brain, I would’ve hacked away at this pumpkin frantically, desperate to create an image that far surpassed any the wolf could contemplate.
But now, I ease into the task. After I scoop out the innards, the pumpkin ends up cradled in my lap as I slip my sharp tool into the soft rind. My fingers grow sticky, the nail beds staining orange. But slowly, the picture in my head translates.
“One more minute!” My father’s booming voice tugs me out of an almost-meditative state.
When I jerk my head up, I realize the crowd has finished their eating, and they’re all watching us with held breath.
I set my pumpkin in the grass and wipe off specks of pulp before reaching for the short, thick candle left for me. With the strike of a match, the teasing scent of smoke fills the air. I light the wick, then carefully set the candle inside my creation.
“Time’s up!” Papa claps his hands, and when I meet his gaze, I share his grin.
I’ve missed this. Being immersed in his fun. The past few years, I haven’t even attended the Pumpkin Wars as a spectator. Now, I’m part of the silly tradition, and I find that I love it.
Even with the bet looming over my head.
“Pumpkin Princess, if you would be so kind as to show your creation to Mayor Nightson.”
I stand and set my pumpkin on the wood stump where it first rested, turning the gourd so the crowd can take in all the details, though some might need to come closer to get the full effect.
“I call itHome,” I say, keeping it simple, not looking to sell my creation to the judge. Either she gets it and she likes it or she doesn’t. But I’m proud of what I made.
My pumpkin shows a small rendition of my father’s house and trees towering above it. The windows flicker with the warmth of the candlelight, revealing silhouettes of people, and though they’re indistinct, to me, I see my father and sister. A half-moon hovers above my carved forest, which resembles the pines and oaks that surround my childhood home.
Tucked in between the tree trunks—so small, almost impossible to see—is a set of eyes.
Wolfish eyes, though I might be the only one who knows that.
