Page 105 of Howlin’ For You
“Is that what you and Nick were planning yesterday? Is he helping you? I know his definition of ‘handyman’ has basically turned into ‘whatever-anybody-needs-man’ but that certainly never included event planning.”
“It’s mostly me, but he’s helping with a lot on the building side of things.”
“Ahhhh.” She chuckles. “Makes sense. We’ve really needed an event planner in this town.”
Warmth suffuses my chest. It feels nice to be needed.
She passes me my tea and scone, and I take a nice long sniff. Mmm. Cinnamon, clove, and all the things that make pumpkin spice smell like autumn.
“Thanks for agreeing to help!” I turn on my heel. “I’ll probably see you tomorrow morning.”
She nods, fire-red hair falling into her eyes. “I know a caffeine addict when I meet one. Here’s my phone number. Let me know if you need any help as you’re meeting with people.”
She hands me a napkin, and I pop it next to the list in my bag. “I will. Thanks.”
Having another townie on my side can only help.
When I exit the café, a brisk fall breeze greets me. I can’t wait to see how the town decorates for Halloween.
Although I guess I’ll be gone before that, won’t I? I squash down the disappointment rising from my belly.
With one long sip of beautiful, beautiful caffeine, I look at the next name on my list. Clover—the woman who initially emailed me about two weeks ago—who apparently runs the local grocery store, Clover’s Market.
Baked goods and hot drinks are great, but feeding people is always the number one priority.
My sneakers crunch on fallen leaves as I stride along the sidewalk. Decorated lamp posts line the road itself. Do they change the decorations with each season? This feels like the kind of town that would do that.
Something about this place just feels like home. It feels safe.
Stop it, Izzy. Don’t get attached.
Clover’s Market is at the end of Main Street and is one of the few actual independent buildings. It has a sort of ‘thrift shop in a barn on the side of the highway’ vibe to it, but if they took immaculate care of the building. The white paint is fresh, and the red sign announcing the name looks like it was recently made.
Probably by Nick, if I had to guess.
I step through the front door and am immediately transported into an indoor farmer’s market. Booths and tables fill up the space to bursting, with haphazard walking paths set up in a way that I know is going to get me lost.
It smells like wood and bread, and my stomach growls despite the scone in my hand.
How many local farms are there?
“Ten just within twenty miles,” a female voice answers my internal question. “More once you open up the radius. We have many supernaturals who come here from around the state.”
I leap into the air at having my mind read, turning to find an older woman in a crochet shawl and about three million necklaces and bracelets. Her hair is short and entirely white.
I don’t necessarily enjoy the idea of someone seeing into the mishmash that is my head.
“You are Isabella Gregory, and I am Clover. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person, finally,” she continues, sticking out a time-weathered hand.
I shake it, bracelets bangling and jangling. “It’s nice to meet you! How did you... never mind. I’m here to—”
She laughs. “Come.”
With a wave of her hand to follow her, she turns and weaves her way through the people and stalls. I do my best to keep up while also absorbing all the sights, sounds, and smells.
It’s a sensory smorgasbord.
The scents shift and change above us as we walk past fresh vegetables and fruits and things I’ve never seen before. Fresh fish, meat, grains, coffee…I could spend a year here and not see everything.
