Page 42 of The Pumpkin Pie Book Nook

But then Tyler shifted closer to her. His knee brushed hers lightly under the table—brief, steady, grounding—a reminder: I’m here.

Robyn swallowed and forced air into her lungs. Nine days still felt impossible, and her mind still wanted to sprint ahead and catastrophize, but the warmth of him beside her kept her tethered to the present: the clink of plates, the sweet-sour sparkle of cider, Elsie practically vibrating with excitement, the manuscript copies waiting on the table like a dare.

One clue at a time, she reminded herself, letting her gaze hold Tyler’s for a beat. One clue at a time.

Then she straightened her shoulders, turned back to the group, and made herself stay in the room.

Mrs. C. tapped her pen against the paper. “Alright. Second installment. What did you all think?”

The group took turns, reading through their favorite passages, giving their thoughts at the end of each chapter.

Robyn’s cheeks warmed. The words shouldn’t have felt personal. They weren’t about her. They were about Isabel. And yet… that familiar prickling sensation crawled up her spine again, like the room was getting uncomfortably close to seeing too much. Like somehow, they’d put together that she was a writer too, and her secret would be exposed.

Madison flipped a page, smiling. “I love the hint of witchiness. Just enough that you’re not sure what’s superstition and what’s real.”

Mrs. Bishop waved her hand. “Oh, it’s real. I refuse to believe it isn’t.”

There was laughter, and a few more minutes of lively discussion, mostly speculation about the heroine’s past, the hero’s secrets, the way their chemistry threaded through every scene like a match waiting for a spark.

Robyn listened, heart tugging in strange little ways. Isabel was talented. The writing wasn’t just charming; it was confident, almost alive. It made Robyn feel connected to a woman she’d only known through fragments of her journals and the stories passed down. It was a strange juxtaposition for Robyn, wanting to remain hidden yet wanting people to read her own writing too and hear what they had to say. The internet gave her a taste of that, but the real world was different.

When Mrs. C. finally nodded, satisfied with the story discussion, she reached for the envelope tied with twine that had been found with the installment. “Alright,” she said. “Clue time.”

Everyone leaned in.

Robyn worried her bottom lip as the new clue was unfolded.

Mrs. C. cleared her throat and read aloud.

“Where the air smells of autumn spice,

And kitchen shelves hold all things nice,

A card among the recipes will not fail.

The best pumpkin pie leads to the end of my tale.”

For a beat, there was silence—then the entire table erupted.

“Best pumpkin pie?” Mrs. Bishop repeated. “Well, we all know who makes the best pumpkin pie.”

Cassidy pointed dramatically. “Emily. Obviously.”

Mrs. C. coughed in a not-so-subtle objection.

Robyn cut in before an argument could erupt. “The clue references the best pie back then…”

Kit frowned. “Okay, so we need the historical pumpkin pie champion of Maple Falls.”

Madison’s eyes lit up. “Was there a contest back then too?”

“Of course, there’s always been an annual pumpkin pie contest at the Fall Festival,” Mayor Bloomfield said confidently.

“But when did the festival start?” Robyn asked, pen at the ready.

Everyone was silent. Apparently, no one knew.

“Okay… we need to find out. Mayor Bloomfield, can you work on that?” Robyn asked.