Page 19 of Autumn on My Mind

“That’s what I thought,” Dominic mutters. The two of them lapse into silence once more, save for the resumed sounds of construction work.

A second later, a question in Bennett’s raised voice filters to me, barely audible above Dom’s hammering:

“Go easy on my porch, would you?”

But if anything, the noise only intensifies.

“Looking good, guys.” I smile and wipe my dirt-specked hands on my jeans as I survey the patch of pumpkins in front of me, my heart lifting at the sea of deep oranges and yellows and greens. “Everyone is going to love you.”

“Talking to the pumpkins?”

It’s the voice of Joe Bugelbach—Farmer Joe, he likes to be called—the owner of the pumpkin patch and the one who hired me to help manage this year. I turn to see him shuffling toward me, dressed in his usual flannel and jeans, his weathered skin hidden from the midday sun in the shadow of a large straw hat. His gait has grown more unsteady over the years, but so far nothing has been able to wipe away the good-natured smile that resides between his fluffy white mustache and matching beard.

“I like to talk to them,” I admit. “We open tomorrow, and I think I’d be nervous if I were waiting for someone to choose me. It can’t hurt, can it?”

“Not at all,” Joe says with a wheezing laugh. He comes to a stop next to me, looking at the pumpkins with his hands on his hips. “I do the same. ‘Course, I’m their father, so they need to hear from me.”

I smile at this. Joe’s a little odd, but I like that about him.

“We’ve got Juliet Monroe coming tomorrow morning to pick up a load of pumpkins for next week’s festival,” Joe goes on, rubbing his chin now. “Those are yonder.” He gestures further down the farm, and I nod.

A crisp breeze pushes some of my hair into my face, and I tuck it back in place before inhaling deeply. Next to me, Joe does the same, an exaggerated motion that he lets out with a sigh of satisfaction.

“Smell that?” he says to me. Then he winks. “That’s the smell of October, Miss Berkeley. She’s right around the corner, isn’t she? I think we’re all ready for her.” He gestures to the pumpkins.

And I think he’s right. Everything is looking good.

Bugelbach’s is more than a pumpkin farm; it’s a quintessential fall experience. The pumpkins are stocked in large patches on the straw-covered ground with cleared pathways running throughout like a grid. On the other side of the farm are the giant slides—two enormous black drainage pipes, each one easily large enough to fit a seated adult. We have a pumpkin catapult over in the field itself. There are hay bales built into a mountain with a winding trail up the side, and we’ll open the corn dog stand by the entrance for anyone who gets hungry while they’re here.

My stomach rumbles at this thought. I shield my eyes against the sun that beats down on me, looking in the direction of the food stand, but of course it’s empty.

I need some lunch, especially since I didn’t eat breakfast.

I was too nervous and anxious this morning, my stomach rolling with anticipation. Surely Dominic has read the letter by now, right? Is he going to say anything? He doesn’t have to, I guess—it might even be better that way. But that didn’t stop me from checking my phone every five minutes until finally I stuffed it in my pocket and forced myself to think about something else.

“Well, Joe,” I say, turning to him. “I think I’m going to head out, if you’re good here?”

“All’s well, Miss Berkeley,” he says, waving one hand at me. “You go on home and do whatever you youngsters do these days.”

The batch of creative briefs I need to finish for work before midnight crosses my mind. “We work, and we visit the bakery and treat ourselves to something sweet,” I inform him.

His eyes light up at this. “Keller’s?” he says. “Try one of the maple bars.”

“Will do,” I say, as though I didn’t grow up eating as many maple bars as I could get my hands on. I give Joe a wave and then start back toward the entrance.

My feet rustle over the straw-strewn paths as I walk, the autumn breeze playing with my hair once more. I crane my neck and look around one last time before I go, because this place is a sight I’ll never tire of—the golds and oranges and browns, the wide sky, the red barn ticket booth. I smile fondly as I pass the patch of gourds, too.

Because while I do love the pumpkins, my favorites are the other gourds—twisting and asymmetrical and wonky. There’s something endearing about how splotchy and warty they are, the ugly ducklings to the classical beauty of the bold, pumpkin orange.

When I get to my car, I knock my feet against the edge a few times to get rid of any extra dirt and mud; then I hop in and lean back, closing my eyes and soaking up the heat. I don’t move until my phone buzzes.

Liv

Have you heard anything from Dominic yet?

Ari

Oh, seconded! Has he said anything?