Page 236 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

The pumpkin rolling contest had somehow survived into its second year, and now had rules, matching T-shirts, and an official launch ramp that Jax insisted he had nothing to do with despite his name being written in permanent marker underneath it.

Rosie’s haunted trail was twice as long.

Walter had once again announced he was retired before seven that morning, and had spent the next five hours repairing things nobody had asked him to touch.

Marigold looked alive.

October had arrived earlier this year, or maybe I simply noticed it sooner.

Gold had already overtaken the oak beside Meme’s farmhouse. The maples lining the gravel drive burned in shades of red and orange, their fallen leaves collecting beneath the fences until children kicked through them and scattered everything again. Mums sat in old milk cans near the barn. Pumpkins crowded every porch step, fence rail, and table that could reasonably support one.

The air had warmed after a cold morning, but autumn remained underneath it. Dry leaves. Woodsmoke. Cinnamon from the cider stand. Hay warmed beneath the sun.

A year ago, I’d stood in the middle of all this wondering whether bringing the festival back would buy Marigold enough time to survive. Then the festival had become real income.

So had the farm store we’d opened in March near the front entrance.

Milk. Butter. Cheese from a local producer using Marigold dairy. Honey from June’s cousin. Seasonal produce. Clover’s baked goods three mornings a week.

Beau stepped behind me and wrapped both arms around my waist. His chin rested against the side of my head. I looked at his left hand where it crossed my stomach. No ring. Yet. His was still sitting in the little box inside my dresser.

Mine caught the afternoon light when I lifted my hand. It was an oval stone on a simple gold band, with two tiny diamonds tucked along either side. Beau had proposed in May beside the willow without an audience, a photographer, or anything resembling a coordinated plan.

He’d apparently intended to take me to dinner afterward.

Instead, his truck wouldn’t start. I’d laughed so hard I’d nearly dropped the ring. He’d accused me of sabotaging it because I’d complained that a mechanic having vehicle trouble was good for his humility.

We’d eaten Chinese food on the tailgate while waiting for Jax to come rescue us. Perfect, as far as proposals went.

Clover had been furious no one had taken pictures. She’d been compensating ever since. My phone currently contained seventy-three links to wedding dresses. I hadn’t opened fifty-nine of them.

“You’ve been staring at your hand for a while,” Beau said.

“I was thinking about how romantic your proposal was.”

His arms tightened. “I proposed beneath a hundred-year-old tree.”

“Then your truck broke.” I felt his body shake against mine with laughter.

“Don’t get too cocky, your truck was held together by rust and emotional attachment.”

“It still runs.”

“Because I rebuilt half of it.”

I smiled at the truth in his words, because over the last year, he’d made it his mission to restore the truck.

He kissed my temple. “Come with me, sweetheart.”

“I can’t.”

“You most certainly can.” Beau released me and took my hand. “Five minutes, I promise.”

“Where?”

He smiled, the one that still made me suspicious. “Come on.” I let him pull me away from the festival.

We passed the farmhouse first. Meme sat on the porch beneath a blanket, despite the afternoon being nearly seventy degrees, holding court over a collection of people who had apparently forgotten they’d come to attend an event. She wore a plum-colored dress and pearl earrings; she could’ve attended a cattle auction during a hurricane and still looked ready for church.