Free Town in a Pumpkin Bash by B. B. Haywood

liked the way he’d reacted when they’d first spotted Sebastian’s leg protruding from
     beneath the pile of pumpkins. While she’d stood there frozen in indecision and dread,
     he’d leapt out of the wagon with urgency and decisiveness. He’d worked harder than
     anyone to remove the pumpkins that covered the body, and his hands and clothes now
     displayed the results of his efforts, spotted with dirt and grime, though he barely
     seemed to notice—or care. She imagined he wasn’t the type of person who pursued fashions
     or fads or the latest hot spots, and probably would be equally comfortable throwing
     back a couple of beers with the local lobstermen or climbing out of a limo in a tux
     for a night at the opera. There was an earthiness and yet an elegance about him, an
     unmistakable confidence that appealed to something deep inside her.
    “It wasn’t my intention to be deceptive,” he said sincerely, responding to her question.
     “I suppose you could say I just wanted to keep a low profile initially. The family
     name carries quite a bit of cachet around here, as I’m sure you know. Sometimes that’s
     beneficial, but other times it can be a burden.”
    Candy couldn’t conceive how being a member of the wealthiest family in Cape Willington
     would ever be considered a burden, but she let that go for the moment. Instead,she gave him a mischievous grin. “So…Tristan, huh? What’s the whole thing again? Tristan
     Hawthorne something?”
    He caught her look and laughed easily. “Tristan James Hawthorne Pruitt, if you must
     know the truth. And, yes, it is a bit of a mouthful.”
    “Why Tristan? That’s a British name, isn’t it?”
    “Welsh, actually.” He squinted up at the sky, which momentarily brightened. “The Pruitts
     are originally from Wales, you know. There’s a medieval story about a hero named Tristan,
     who was one of King Arthur’s knights of the Round Table.”
    “Tristan and Isolde,” Candy said, recalling the story.
    He lowered his gaze toward her, his head tilting slightly to the side. “That’s right.
     The Wagner opera. Isolde was an Irish princess, said to be very beautiful. She was
     betrothed to King Mark of Cornwall, who sent his trusted nephew, Tristan, to Ireland
     to fetch his future bride and escort her back to Mark’s kingdom for the wedding. But
     along the way Tristan and Isolde took a potion and fell helplessly in love, creating
     a very sticky romantic triangle. Anyway, my family was obviously fond of the name,
     since quite a few of my ancestors were named Tristan, including one of my great-grandfathers—one
     of the old Welsh Pruitts. I’m his direct namesake.”
    Candy was intrigued. “And the Hawthorne part?”
    He suddenly looked sheepish. “It’s after Nathaniel Hawthorne. That was my mother’s
     idea. She was a socialite from Boston who had a classical education. She insisted
     on naming all her children after New England literary figures in some way or other,
     either with first or middle names, or in some cases both. I have a brother named Henry
     Longfellow Pruitt, and a sister Charlotte, after Brontë.”
    “My, my, that’s pretty fancy.” Candy’s eyes twinkled in amusement at his apparent
     discomfort over the current line of questioning. “And James?”
    “That was my mother’s father. He was a Hutchinson. Very old Boston family.”
    Candy whistled. “Wow, that’s quite a genealogy. You’re practically a walking New England
     history book, aren’t you?”
    He chuckled. “That’s probably true. I guess I never quite thought of it that way.
     When I was younger I thought the whole name was too long and pretentious, and since
     I’m not the pretentious type, I started calling myself T.J., and my family and friends
     followed my lead. But once I grew up I decided I needed something more mature, so
     I’ve reverted to Tristan.”
    “Well,” Candy said sincerely, “I think it’s a very nice name.”
    He grinned. “I’m glad