Page 1 of The Pumpkin Patch Sisters

DAHLIA

Dahlia sat at her glass and chrome desk on the forty-second floor of the Chicago office tower, watching the evening sky turn a cold violet. Outside the window, the twinkling lights of the Loop began to pierce the twilight, reflecting off the dark surface of Lake Michigan in the distance. The rest of the floor was dark, the empty cubicles and silent hallways a stark contrast to the buzzing activity of her workday. She'd always found solace in that silence, using the after-hours peace to map out her next career moves. But tonight, the stillness felt less like a refuge and more like an echo chamber for her regrets.

Dahlia wore her structured charcoal blazer, her dark hair pinned back in its neat twist. On the desk near her laptop sat an octagonal glass jar of peach honey, its hand-written label bearing her mother's signature in looping ink: Peach Honey, Sept.

The jar was a physical reminder of the grief she'd carried for five months. Dahlia had brought it back with her from that painful trip home for her mother's funeral. It had been the only thing she’d taken from the house. A house she’d stayed in for exactly two nights and one full day, leaving early the morning after the funeral. She’d snuck out like a thief in the early morning before any of her sisters had woken up. She swallowed the lump in her throat as guilt shot through her. Her eyes lingered on the label of the honey jar. It was a keepsake from the pantry shelves she'd spent her childhood climbing in her family home located in the small town of Harvest Hollow, Massachusetts.

Harvest Hollow had been a small town Dahlia couldn't wait to escape, yet at the same time, she'd secretly wished the people she loved most in the world had begged her to stay. Instead, she'd basically been pushed out the door, sent to a college miles away from home.

Dahlia, my love, you were meant for far greater things than digging around the dirt on this old farm.

Yes, she'd held great aspirations and dreams. They'd gotten her to where she was today, but those achievements didn't quell the loneliness she wrapped in the neat packaging of her independence. She preferred living on her own, telling herself it gave her more time to focus on her career.

Dahlia swung her chair around, looking out the large glass windows. She was seeing the world before her, but all she really saw was the lake and the massive gap that spread between her, her family home, and her three sisters. The chasm was as wide as Lake Michigan, just as dark and murky, with a depth consisting of heartache, pain, and a soul-crushing regret.

Her heart felt bruised, holding the kind of ache there was no medicine or cure for. It was the type of pain where all she could do was endure, somehow pushing through each day trying not to think of all the if-onlys, or the should-haves, or the worst one of all: wishing she could go back to ensure she never wasted time, admitted what she was feeling, or refused to forgive.

Dahlia swiped at a stray tear that'd managed to escape. She knew it had been wrong not going home sooner, and she knew she shouldn't have left the day after her mother's funeral. But the shock and disbelief that'd become part of her was still an agonizing wound, leaving her too emotionally exhausted to deal with her family and the tension between them. As the eldest of the Marchetti sisters, it'd been her duty to be the strong face of the family during one of the longest days of her life. She had to stand and put on a makeshift smile, nodding politely to accept the hugs and condolences, ensuring everyone else was okay.

Dahlia hadn't cried when her sister had called to let her know their mother had passed away. Instead, she'd stepped in, and from the safety of her Chicago base, she'd made all the funeral arrangements while her sisters fell apart. Dahlia hadn't the time or the luxury to break. She was the head of the Marchetti family now, the one everyone turned to when they needed things sorted out. So she'd sorted them, putting on the second-best performance she'd ever done.

After the funeral, when everything had been packed away and the house cleaned, her sisters had long since locked themselves into their bedrooms. When she'd silently gone upstairs, Dahlia had heard their sobs echoing through their doors. She'd checked on each one of them, bringing them warm milk and soothing them each in turn. Then, exhausted, she'd gone to her own childhood room, setting her alarm for four in the morning before taking a quick shower and creeping into bed.

On the way back to Chicago, Dahlia still hadn't let herself crack or break down. Instead, she'd carried this jar of honey around with her as if the golden honey inside had been the warm glow of her mother’s essence. She even imagined when she held it she could feel the warmth of her mother spreading through her.

She'd rushed home and thrown herself into her work because while her mind was occupied, the memories, both good and bad, played in her head, stuck in a constant loop that refused to snap. Her mother's passing left a hollow space in her chest that no amount of work could fill, and all she'd left of Rosalind Marchetti was a glass jar of peach honey made by her mother's gentle hands. Dahlia pinched the bridge of her nose as if trying to squeeze back the tears gathering behind her eyelids.

How did this year go so horribly, horribly wrong?

Dahlia shook her head and let out a sigh. Her eyes fell on the folder on her desk, the one that held the finalization of her divorce. It'd sat on the corner of her glass desk for two months, ever since her attorney had entered her office and placed it in that exact spot with a pink sticky note attached to the front: "Congratulations. You're free."

She gave a soft scoff.

Free? That was a laugh. She hadn't been free since the decision to move to Chicago'd changed her life. When people who didn't know her saw her, they saw a woman who had her world together, possessing the confidence to make an entire room of corporate executives crumble. Instead, she'd traded her small-town world for a penthouse apartment. The only real difference between her two worlds was a sprawling city versus the vast landscape of the Marchetti farm.

Her fingers lightly brushed the cardboard of the folder. She and her ex-husband had been estranged for nearly a year. At first she'd expected fear or the sharp sting of betrayal, but instead, she'd felt only a profound relief that resonated from her core. It felt as though a crushing weight pressing down on her chest had finally been lifted.

She leaned back in her leather chair, her hands tensing on the armrests as she stared at the glass jar of honey. In her old life, a crisis was something she managed with a digital ledger and a structured timeline. But the quiet pain of her loss wasn't something she could organize or file away. It was a constant presence, a soft ache that lingered beneath her busy schedule. She hadn't stayed in Harvest Hollow for long after the funeral, choosing to return to Chicago to mourn from a distance while her sisters managed the farm, but she couldn't escape her memories forever.

It wasn't until her apartment door'd slammed shut that night that the world had tilted, the numbness of the shock wearing off like a crash after an adrenaline rush. She hadn't even made it to her bedroom. She'd just broken down in wrenching sobs, sliding down the wood of the door until she sat flat against the dark wood of the threshold. She didn't know how long she'd sat there, or when her sobs'd died down simply because she was too exhausted to cry anymore. Crying didn't solve anything, and it did nothing to purge the grief that was consuming her soul.

Her phone began to vibrate on the glass surface, the low hum breaking the quiet of the office. She reached out, her fingers sliding over the cold screen as she prepared to answer. It was the call she'd been expecting from the family's estate attorney in Massachusetts, the final phase in closing her mother's affairs. Dahlia took a slow breath, bracing herself behind her professional mask as she slid her thumb across the screen.

"Hello, Dahlia Marchetti speaking," she said, her tone professional and polished, the very voice she used when navigating multi-million-dollar corporate mergers.

"Good evening, Dahlia," Mr. Abbott answered, his voice carrying the deliberate cadence of the Berkshires that immediately made her chest tighten with familiar guilt. "I hope I'm not interrupting your evening in the city."

"Not at all, Mr. Abbott," Dahlia replied, leaning back in her leather office chair, her gaze remaining fixed on the glass jar of peach honey sitting on her desk. "I was just finishing some quarterly reviews. I assume you have the final paperwork ready for my mother's estate?"

"I do," Mr. Abbott explained, the rustle of paper audible over the line. "But I'm afraid the closing of Rosalind's affairs isn't going to be as simple as signing a few standard release forms. Your mother's will contains some highly specific, legally binding instructions."

Dahlia frowned, her fingers tapping the glass of her desk.

"Why am I not surprised?” Dahlia gave a sigh and rubbed her temples with her free hand.

"You know your mother never did anything without a good reason," Mr. Abbott countered, his tone gentle but unyielding.

“Okay then, out with it.” Dahlia’s headache started to intensify trying to imagine what stipulations her mother had.