I grabbed my straw hat off the bedpost, grinned at my own dopey reflection in the mirror, and went to find my daughter.
As I walked down the hall, I could hear her talking to her stuffed animals, which was her usual habit after waking up from her morning nap. It was safe to say Marigold had adjusted better to her being in her own room than Diesel or I had. There were still occasional nights when I felt Diesel get out of bed just so he could check on her, and even more nights when I did the same.
“Hey, girlie!” I said, pushing open her door to find her standing in her crib with her hands on the front rail.
“Pa!” she said delightedly, tiny genius that she was, and she held out her arms for me to grab her.
“’Kay, no fussing now, ’cause we’re on a schedule,” I said seriously, nevertheless taking a moment to inhale the sweet baby smell of her and press a dozen little kisses to her neck. “We’ve gotta get your pretty outfit on, so you can see Uncle Beau, okay, little chickie?”
Marigold Partridge, future Oscar nominee, had learned the importance of looking her best for her public and stayed perfectly still while I changed her diaper and put her Halloween costume on her—for the second time in two weeks.
“Only in this town,” I said, picking her up and sliding the diaper bag on my shoulder, “would they have a second costume holiday halfway between Halloween and Thanksgiving. They’re crazy, but we love them.”
Especially because, as Red Johnson had explained to me a few weeks ago when I thought he was kidding, the whole point of the costume parade at the Gobblin’ was because the kids got so disappointed when Halloween was over.
“Why only have Halloween once a year?” he’d asked me, like this was a perfectly reasonable question, and I supposed in a town where people wagered money on how fast they could run through the woods with a milk pail, it kind of was. “That’s why it’s called the Gobblin’. ’Cause there’s goblins, like the scary things from Halloween, but also gobble gobble, like what turkeys do, and gobblin’ like we’ll all do with all the pecan pie and corn pudding and pumpkin bread the town’ll cook up!” He’d rocked back and forth on his feet, clearly proud of his forebearers’ ingenuity. “That there’s what they call a triple entendre, Parrish.”
“Wow,” I’d said. “That’s…”
“Sophisticated? I know,” he’d said modestly. He’d patted me on the shoulder. “And just think, you’re one of us now!”
The fact that this didn’t trouble me in the slightest meant that I’d gone all in on this town, probably around the time I’d fallen in love with my husband.
Diesel had already gotten Biscuit in the truck by the time we got down there, so after popping Mari in her car seat, it was only five minutes until we’d parked over at the fairgrounds, gotten her decorated stroller out of the bed of Diesel’s truck, put Biscuit on his leash, and entered the madness.
On one side of the entrance, a really talented band played some peppy country-pop tunes in a gazebo, while Amos Nutter and Emmaline Proud did a line dance I’d never seen before, possibly because they were making it up as they went along. Along the other side of the entrance was a seven-foot-tall wall of hay bales, and a sign draped over a gap between the bales proclaimed, “Licking Thicket Hay Maze! Enter Here. Lose yourself and find yourself again!” which was about as good a slogan for this town as any I’d ever heard. The air smelled like pumpkin and crisp fall leaves, and I felt as weightless as I’d ever felt in my life.
“You’re here!” Ava rushed up in a blue-and-white-checked gingham dress. “Oh my God, those costumes get better every time I see them, I swear.” She pressed a kiss to my cheek. “Farmer Parrish.” She motioned for Diesel to bend down so she could kiss him too. “Diesel the cow.” She knelt by Mari’s carriage, and her smile widened as she ruffled the yellow feathers of Mari’s chicken costume. “And my favorite Pullet Princess. Have you been keeping your daddies out of trouble?”
Paul, dressed as the Cowardly Lion to her Dorothy, came strolling up behind her, with baby Beau dressed as a scarecrow propped on his hip. “I’m so glad I’m not the only one who got conned—I mean, convinced,” he corrected when Ava shot him a look, “to wear a costume.” He smiled at me, in my overalls and plaid shirt. “You got off relatively easy, Parrish.” He gave Diesel an up-and-down and shook his head. “Where the heck did you find a cow-print onesie in your size?”
“Special order,” Diesel mumbled.
Paul nodded solemnly. “Nice udders.”