Prompt: Write a story in which pumpkin spice plays a key role.

I think this might be one of my favorite things I've written in a while...I took the chance to practice some dialogue techniques I was learning about earlier, and feel like it came out really well.

"Whittle!" I call through the open window. "Have you gone to town yet?"

"No." His shout barely floats through the crisp air to my ears. He rounds the corner of the house to come and stand right in front of the window. "You need it now?"

I hum in affirmation. "If you could."

He shakes his head. "I need to finish raking the leaves first."

I bite my lip, glancing at the fresh dough. "Can't you go now? I can't move forward with the pies until I have it."

"You can't do anything else?"

I don't reply as I turn away from the window to start washing the dishes.

"Sween…"

"What?" I don't glance over at him, even when he sighs.

"Alright. I'll go get it in twenty minutes."

"What are you doing, that you can't go now? Or sooner?"

"I'm just finishing cleaning up the yard after the first winds." I can't help glancing at him, but his face has already disappeared from the window.

I continue washing the dishes methodically, but my hands move slower as his words and tone run through my mind again. Oh, Whittle. Was pumpkin spice so hard to get?

Twenty minutes later, I see him heading down the lane toward town. I hope he remembered the right amount…he didn't even check in, to tell me he was going out. I sigh and seat myself at the table, having finished the dishes.

Heather and Picket are still playing in the field. I can't hear Jacks anywhere though. I push myself up and go to the front door. Whittle could have checked on the children before leaving, at least. I've been in the kitchen working all day long.

I find Jacks trying to eat grass outside and bring him in, setting him on the middle of the floor with instructions to play nicely. Then I sink into the chair in the main room, watching him.

Where could Whittle be? It's been nearly thirty minutes. It's only ten minutes to the store.

I continue to wait, grateful just for the chance to sit. As time goes on, I get irritated at him for taking so long. Finally I start to become worried. He couldn't have run into an accident, could he?

I sigh, getting up out of the comfortable chair and going to stand at the door to watch for him. To my relieved surprise, he's coming up the lane just as I reach the doorway.

"Where were you?" I demand as soon as he's in hearing distance. "It was only supposed to take a few minutes. You've been gone nearly two hours."

"Sorry," he says with a tight smile. "This was all they had at the store downtown." He held up a small bag with…multiple smaller bags inside.

I take it, glancing at it carefully. "This isn't pumpkin spice."

"No…it's the spices that go into pumpkin spice. They were out of the mix in every place I stopped in. The last store had this."

I keep back a sigh. "I don't know the measurements. And you were gone so long—I would have appreciated your help with the children."

"I'm sorry," he says again, but his tone sounds more defensive now. "I thought you wanted the spice, so I did my best."

"If you'd gone earlier in the day you probably could have gotten it," I mutter to myself as I turn to go back into the hot kitchen. The oven has been running all day because of this delay—I don't even want to think of how much fuel we've wasted.

Whittle follows me into the kitchen, watching as I begin to set the spices on the table and get out measuring spoons. "Is there anything I can do?"

"You could have gone earlier," I snap, rubbing at my eyes.

"I was busy earlier." He comes forward and puts his hand on my arm, rubbing it gently. "Forget the pies. Go lay down."

"I can't," I protest, pushing his arm away as I continue measuring the spices out into a bowl. "I have to finish them."

"Let me finish them."

"You don't know Mother's recipe. They have to be perfect."

"Then just do them tomorrow." He puts a hand on my shoulder and tries to lead me away, toward the bedroom. "You're exhausted."

I shake my head, sliding out of his embrace. "No. They have to be done today. It's the first day of autumn."

"So?"

I can't keep the tremor out of my voice. "So Mother always made pies on the first day of autumn. And I have too."

"They have to be done?"

"Yes!" I sink into the kitchen chair, hands trembling in my lap. Mother's beautiful face—from how it had been before she'd died, when she was younger and I was a young doe—appeared in my memory. "Not doing them would break… would break…"

He sighs, carefully sitting onto the chair across from me and putting his hand over mind. "Alright. But you're directing me while you sit and drink some tea."

I swallow down the lump in my throat and nod, leaning forward to hug him. A tiny tear runs down my face. "Thank you."

He squeezes me, then stands to start some water. As soon as it's done, he motions to the spices on the table. "Where do I start?"