#fralison

“It’ll be fun,” she had assured him, and only her bright smile had given him the courage to follow her into the maze.

It hadn’t been long before she had overtaken him, eager to find the correct path and continue forward, and Declan soon found himself alone and seemingly surrounded on all sides by walls of green and yellow.

He did his best to move through the maze, but his pace was slow and cautious, and the autumn day was waning, the lengthening shadows and growing dark making him question if he had already been down these paths. Was he simply going in circles? Was it possible for one to become trapped in a corn maze? Surely not. Surely someone would come and fetch him.

He had the sudden wish for a sword or a scythe, something—anything—with which he could cut down the stalks of corn and make his own straightforward path to freedom!

“Declan?” a voice called. Alison’s voice had never sounded so sweet—well, aside from their wedding day when she had said, “I do.”

“Here,” he called back. She rounded the corner on his right and he enfolded her in a hug.

“You’re shaking,” she murmured, feeling his body trembling. “Come on. We’re almost at the end of the maze.”

“Thank God for that,” he muttered as they walked side-by-side down what he hoped was the final corridor of this living nightmare.

“I grew worried when I got to the end and you didn’t appear,” Alison explained, looping an arm through his. “I insisted that I go back and look for you.”

She leveled a hard stare at a vest-wearing attendant, who grimaced but said nothing as the couple exited the maze and walked on.

“I suppose I’ve got some issues with enclosed spaces,” Declan said slowly. “Never really happened before.”

“Well, no more mazes,” Alison promised as they walked back to their car. “Corn, hedge, garden—“

“I’d wager the ones on paper should be safe enough.”

She huffed at his interruption but observed, “It’s a good sign if you’re joking.”

“Charlotte, you have to help me.”

“What’s the matter? Is Alison—?”

“She’s all right. It’s myself I’m worried about.”

“Come in,” she said, ushering him in, noticing that he had a grocery bag cradled in one arm. “What’s all that?”

“Supplies,” he mumbled, and Charlotte wondered if he was being serious or joking. She couldn’t always tell, but before she could inquire further, Fraser asked “May I use your kitchen?”

She blinked at the odd question, but led him through to the room.

He began taking things out of the bag he had brought with him, and she saw a few cans of pumpkin purée and some spice bottles. His plan began to dawn on her.

“Alison asked you to go to Starbucks, didn’t she?”

“Aye,” came the reply. “But they were out of the pumpkin spice thing she wanted. Anyway, I was passing by a shop and figured, why not try to make my own?”

Charlotte nodded. She had seen copycat recipes for various Starbucks items online. “How can I help?” she asked determinedly, and he shot her a relieved smile.

“Help me test recipes? I’m not one for those flavored coffee drinks.”

“Well, this version will be without coffee,” she pointed out.

“Given Alison’s condition,” he finished.

Charlotte couldn’t resist saying, “It’s the 21st century, Declan. You’re allowed to say ‘pregnant.’”

He dropped his gaze in embarrassment, and the oldest Heywood daughter could see how endearing a sight that could be to his beloved wife.

“Well, come on, then,” she urged him, giving him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Let’s roll up our sleeves and get to work.”