Page 73 of The Pumpkin Pie Book Nook

Isabel

Robyn was speechless. She felt sick to her stomach. Her heart was racing. Her palms were sweaty.

“No, this can’t be happening. Why didn’t she finish the story?” Robyn asked the group. She’d assumed it would have had a happily ever after.

Everybody stared back at her, wide-eyed.

“Robyn, you know what this means,” Madison started to say.

“It means that you guys have a lot of work to do, because I cannot finish the story. Not me. Stop looking at me like that.” Robyn stood up and began pacing the bookshop while the rest of the club members talked among themselves.

Tyler came over to Robyn.

“I swear to God,” Robyn said, pointing at him before he could speak, “do not tell me to calm down.”

Tyler held up both hands, palms out. “I wasn’t going to.”

Robyn’s chest heaved. She hated how close she was to crying in front of everyone. She hated how her whole body felt like it was shaking with panic.

Tyler’s voice stayed low, warm. “I was only going to suggest… maybe we could do it together.”

Robyn blinked at him.

He stepped closer, not crowding her, just close enough that she could hear him over the room. “I might not be as good of a writer as you, but I can help.”

Robyn opened her mouth, ready to protest, ready to say a hundred reasons why that was impossible, why it had to be her, why she needed to get this right on her own or it didn’t count. But the words evaporated.

She didn’t have to hold everything so tightly. The world wouldn’t fall apart if she loosened her grip. Isabel hadn’t written her story alone either; she’d trusted her friends, the book club, to finish it. Maybe that was the real lesson here all along.

“Okay,” she whispered, finding the courage that had evaded her for twenty-eight years. “Let’s do it together.”

THIRTY-FOUR

TYLER

Robyn shook her head. “I still don’t know what I’m going to do about my story.”

They were upstairs in Robyn’s loft, sitting cross-legged on the floor with their backs against the sofa because the tiny kitchen table had been commandeered by Isabel’s manuscript pages and Robyn’s notebook. The flat was warm with candlelight and the lingering smell of browned butter and sage, and the windows had fogged at the edges from the cooking.

The pappardelle was extraordinary. Tyler told Robyn three times it was the best he’d ever had. She tried to wave him away, but he saw the pleased blush on her cheeks. He’d watched as she made it from scratch, rolling the pasta dough out on the counter, cutting it into thick ribbons, cooking it with roasted zucchini from his garden, cremini mushrooms, and a pinch of black pepper, before tossing them in browned butter and cream with a mountain of parmesan. Tyler had eaten three helpings and was seriously considering a fourth.

Mr. Darcy was licking his paws on the cushion above them, feigning disinterest, when really he was patiently waiting for them to look away so he could try and swipe some of the white sauce from their plates.

“Give yourself time. The words will come,” Tyler said, pouring more wine for each of them.

Robyn’s wary gaze searched his. “I wish. It doesn’t work that way. At least not for me.”

Mr. Darcy, tired of subtlety, placed both front paws on Robyn’s shoulder and leaned his full weight forward, nose stretching toward her plate with brazen determination.

She looked over her shoulder at her kitty and scratched his ears before pushing him back. “You can’t have this. But I’ll give you a treat.”

Mr. Darcy sprang off her shoulder onto the ground at the sound of the magic word, and Robyn stood to get Mr. Darcy his promised reward.

Tyler watched Robyn walk to the kitchen, still thinking about how he could help. “Okay. Then we start with what we know.”

“Which is?” she said, bending down to give Mr. Darcy the treat.

Tyler tapped his fork lightly against the edge of his bowl, thinking. “You love crafting stories. You love bringing characters to life. You love writing tension and longing and those moments where everything changes.”