Page 143 of A Wolfe in the Woods

Four months later…

The Seventy-Fourth Annual Moonshade Berry Festival banner hung proudly between two decorative poles at the very entrance of Everwick-by-the-Sea’s town square.

The hustle and bustle of the festival was in full swing that sunny but brisk afternoon, a cool fall breeze blowing through as people were wrapped up in knit sweaters and thick scarves. A bonfire had been placed near the general store, an attendant nearby selling roasted spiced chestnuts, the smell of which mingled in the air. A plethora of vendor tables from the various shops around Everwick were placed in neat rows, tourists and locals alike browsing their wares—jewelry, art prints, handmade crocheted goods, used books.

Near the circle of the Acacia Whisperthorn trees, whose leaves had already begun to turn a beautiful burnished gold, an oval table, decorated in plaid, held the entries for this year’s baking contest.

When I walked up to it, I looked down at the little gilded card in front of my own entry. It read:

Moonshade Berry Pie

Submitted by: Blanchette Redfield and Jonathan Wolfe

(Made in loving memory of June Redfield)

I skimmed my fingertips over the edge of the card. The pie had turned out perfectly, the latticed crust golden and crisp. Jonathan and I had made it this morning—one of five we’d made for the festival goers—waking up early just to make sure we had time if something went wrong. Every moonshade berry tucked inside the crust we’d used from my grandmother’s restored garden. The bush had produced more fruit than we’d known what to do with, and I’d left little baskets full of them at the neighbors’ porches over the last couple weeks as they’d ripened.

The other entries at the table included tarts, jams, cookies, more pies, and cakes, all submitted by Everwick’s residents. Mr. Oatley approached, his red badge ribbon pinned to his lapel announcing that he was one of the judges, as he had been for the last thirty years.

“Your grandmother would be proud, Blanche,” he said, cupping my shoulder. “All the extra pies you brought are already gone. People were asking for more.”

“She would be pleased about that,” I replied, smiling at the old mayor. Locals, mostly, had lined up at the tasting table the moment Jonathan and I had brought them out this afternoon. Locals who remembered my grandmother’s pies or remembered her as a friend. Talking with them, sharing memories of her, reminiscing as I doled out little slivers…another fractured piece inside me had mended. For so long, I’d been running away from the grief.

But over the last few months, after leaving Graymore officially, with Jonathan’s constant support, and Megan andBernie and May helping to keep me sane as I navigated renovations and repairs, with my hometown of Everwick welcoming me back with open arms…I realized that I’d been running away from the very thing I’d desperately needed.

A community. Good friends to lean on. A purpose that went beyond corporate politics. A home I’d missed.

And then I’d found Jonathan…a completely unexpected deviation in all my well-laid plans that I’d had since moving to Graymore.

Now? I couldn’t imagine my life without him.

Mr. Oatley drummed his fingers on the oval entry table. His eyes caught on the moonshade-berry pie, and I could practically see the hungry gleam in them.

“Heard you and Jonathan are finally reopening the Hollow next week. The calm before the storm,” he announced before looking over at me, his mustache twitching. “Fully booked, I hear too.”

“We’re not quite sure what to expect,” I explained sheepishly. “And half of them are probably only coming to be nosy after the trial date was announced. But we’re managing. And excited.”

Calm before the storm, indeed. We’d hired a local college grad—a bright, bubbly half-elf named Sherry, who had aspirations toward hospitality—to help May in the front office and with the incoming onslaught of guests. The cabins were all fully restored after the fires, though the greenhouse was still a work in progress. Jonathan hoped to have it finished before winter.

We were officially booked out for a few months and receiving new inquiries every day, especially after I’d completed the website and run a few advertising campaigns throughout Graymore and Everwick. But the rebranding and the mysterious beauty of Juniper Woods, captured through the professionalphotographs we’d had done of the property, was more than enough to pique interest, far and wide.

“You’ll all do wonderfully,” Mr. Oatley declared. “May wouldn’t have it any other way. Now, I need to go gather the rest of the judges. I’ve been waiting all day to try these.”

Turning my head to peer toward Everwick Library, I spied Jonathan and Bernie chatting where I’d left them—well, Bernie was chatting, Jonathan was listening, his hands shoved deep into his jean pockets. Bernie was cradling a steaming cup of cocoa in one palm and a warm moonshade tart in the other.

My coworker turned friend had rented a little cottage in Everwick, near the coast, after falling in love with the place after one of his visits to me. He was officially retired now, having saved for most of his life, and he was traveling nearly every month. He’d just returned from an overseas trip to Noctavania. He’d brought me back a souvenir glow-in-the-dark mug, and he’d heralded me tales of ancient Nightborne vampire history over banana-nut muffins, fresh from the oven, and coffee just a few days ago as we’d listened to the crashing of the waves winding down the quiet streets. He’d wanted to be back in time for the festival, saying he wouldn’t miss it for anything.

Mr. Oatley had gone to round up the judges, and I walked toward Jonathan and Bernie. Out of the corner of my eye, however, I caught sight of a sleek black SUV pulling up silently to the curb of the town square. The driver got out, rounding to the back-seat passenger door, and I smiled as I watched Megan Banks alight from the vehicle like she was stepping out onto a red carpet.

Her golden hair shimmered on that fall afternoon, cascading down a tailored lavender-colored coat with gleaming silver buttons shaped like flowers. Beneath the long coat, she wore a slinky dress that flashed like an opal as she moved. Heels tapped on the cobblestones as she stepped forward, adjusting a handbagthat I knew cost more than my Graymore rent for the entire year. Even behind her trendy sunglasses, I knew the moment her eyes landed on me. Nearly everyone in the town square had stopped to stare at her, but she had eyes only for me, her lips downturned slightly.

Still pouting,I knew, trying to fight against my grin, just like I saw her attempt the same thing as she approached. Her long legs ate up the distance in no time at all.

When she reached me, she sniffed, peering around the town square. “How quaint,” she said. “There’d better be pie left.”

“You’re late,” I replied patiently. “It’s all gone.”

She huffed, taking off her sunglasses and propping them on top of her head, her hair falling perfectly, as if it knew which shape to form around them. Her violet eyes were twinkling, happy, though her face was the picture of disapproval. “I don’t have to tell you how long that wretched drive is from Willowmere. There wastraffic,” she added, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “How can you stand it?”