“No,” Annie said gravely, before immediately jumping back to full speed. “November is forThanksgiving, and Christmas has to wait until afterwards.”
“You take this very seriously.”
Annie shrugged. “My mom did. She always hated that people skipped over being thankful and jumped right into wanting presents.”
Whit looked at Evie again, who smiled once more, this time sympathetically.
“I remember that,” she said lightly, in a voice Whit had used frequently himself: a cheerful acknowledgment that respondedto the spirit of Annie’s statement. So often people allowed any mention of Helen to drastically alter their tone or mood, but Annie wasn’t speaking from grief, just memory, and Evie recognized that. She was a good aunt.
“So,” she added after a moment, “pumpkins it is, then?”
“Somany pumpkins,” Annie gushed.
“I can’t wait to see it.”
They had not parked far from the green, so Evie did not have to wait long. As with Cork Street, “cute” really was the only word for the Whelk Harbor village green. Brick-lined paths spread like spokes from the fountain at the center of the big grassy space, watched over by old-fashioned lampposts; at the far end was a bandstand crowded with piles of gourds and draped in burlap bunting. Tiny collections of trees—red maples, sycamores, white pines, balsam firs—popped in bursts of flint corn colors. And then, of course, there were the booths selling slender French green beans, squashes in every geometric shape, hairy sweet potatoes, intimidating kohlrabi, and exceptionally phallic daikon radishes. Representatives from the nearest orchards were there, surrounded by open barrels of apples, quinces, pomegranates, persimmons, pears. There were two coffee roasters offering pour-overs and Americanos and one vendor doling out paper cups of cider, hot chocolate, and wassail. Under tents were representatives from the bakery selling warm loaves of bread and giant cinnamon rolls as well as the florist and various local artists selling pottery, jewelry, and landscape paintings. Next to displays of elk jerky were quilts and woodworks, and several places were offering cartons of brown and light blue eggs. And everywhere they turned were so, so many pumpkins.
“See?” Annie said.
“I do,” Evie said enthusiastically. “It’s lovely.”
She gave Whit a knowing look and was rewarded by him mouthing the wordsI kind of hate this!
Live a little, she mouthed back, squeezing Annie’s shoulders.
“DAD, CAN WE GET HOT CHOCOLATE?”
“WE CAN GET HOT CHOCOLATE!” Whit said, matching Annie’s hyperactive tone. She laughed.
After stopping for drinks (spiked with Kahlua for the adults), Whit let Annie lead. She filled their Goodenough Books tote with purple lavender soap and vanilla-scented candles they absolutely did not need, as well as sour belts and muffins and, while Whit distracted Evie, a handcrafted ceramic mug she wanted her aunt to have for Christmas.
“Okay,” Whit said eventually, after they took a break to sit on the lip of the fountain and eat from paper cones of roasted nuts. “While we’re here, I do actually want to get some fruits and vegetables for the week.”
“Boring,” Annie sighed, but she quickly cheered up: nearly every produce vendor also had a smattering of pumpkins available. While Evie did the shopping, Whit slowly morphed into a man whose entire torso seemed to be made up of decorative gourds.
“Please, it’s too much, they aresquashingme,” he was saying in an exaggerated whine when a familiar voice broke through the noise of the crowd.
“Sir, could you save some for the rest of us?”
“Mrs.Pryor!” Annie rushed to her, throwing her arms around Kathleen’s shawled and beaded body.
“Merritt!” Another hug, this time for Merritt, who grinned a little sheepishly in her mustard yellow sweater and jeans.
“Hi,” Whit said from behind his tower. It was a general “hi,” but Annie was introducing Evie to her librarian, whom Evie was engaging with conspicuous focus, and so he and Merritt found themselves in a private pocket of conversation. Something crackled in Whit’s chest as they smiled back and forth.
“Hi,” she said. “Here, let me help.”
She moved toward him and delicately relocated the pumpkins and gourds from his arms to the nearest park bench.
“Thank you. I wonder if I could convince people to let me drive the car in here to pick them up.”
“It is a shocking number.”
Whit laughed. She had a brown paper gift bag in one hand.
“Candle?”
“Lemon verbena soap.”
