Page 11 of The Pumpkin Patch Sisters

"Sure, but Mom, it will probably only hold for one more afternoon," Evan warned her.

Dahlia stood up from her chair, the wooden legs scraping loudly against the linoleum. The sound broke the domestic rhythm of the kitchen. She picked up her color-coded notebook and tapped her gold pen against her palm, her fingers cold.

"You can’t keep running this operation on hope and temporary fixes," Dahlia asserted, her voice carrying the flat authority of her Chicago boardroom. "A leaking hydraulic seal is a safety hazard, and you’re already working yourselves beyond the reasonable limit."

Junie stopped in front of the stove, her back stiffening. She didn’t turn around immediately. She took a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling under her plaid shirt. When she finally turned, her hands were clenched into tight fists at her sides.

"This is what we do here," Junie replied, her voice dropping to a low whisper that made Carrie set her glass down with a soft click. "Or have you been away for so long that you’ve forgotten how we’ve worked this farm since we were old enough to pick pumpkins or collect the eggs?"

"I am trying to help operations be more efficient," Dahlia hissed between gritted teeth.

"No, you’re trying to find fault so you can validate the need for a farm manager," Junie retorted, her eyes flashing with rising anger. "We aren’t incompetent, Dahlia. We’ve been running this place alongside mom since before the day you left.” Her spine was stiff as she glared at her sister. “You’re here for not even a day, and without even speaking to us, you’re already judging our management abilities.”

“Junie, that is not…” Dahlia began.

“Save it,” Junie spat angrily. “We get it. You know how to make money and turn businesses around.” She dumped the mixing bowl on the table with a thunk. “But this is not Chicago. This is a farm in a small town that you can’t manage as a corporate entity. Things work differently here, and sure we need change. But it’s not solely up to you to decide that change. It is a group effort amongst all of us.”

A heavy silence fell over the kitchen as Junie’s outburst hung in the air. Dahlia stood near the table, her hand resting on the back of the wooden chair, her posture rigid as she stared at her sister. Guilt sliced through her as she realized what Junie had said was true. Dahlia had swooped in and just started dissecting everything without first speaking to all the sisters. She looked at the stacks of old bank statements and handwritten invoices, her shoulders aching from the morning's tension.

Junie didn’t look at Dahlia. Instead, she stared down at her mixing bowl, where the wooden spoon sat stuck in the thick, unbaked batter.

“Uh… I have to get going,” Carrie suddenly said, standing up. “I have to get to the school earlier today to prepare for the class outing.”

“Yeah, and I…” Evan said, rushing after his sister. “I have a thing… Uh… somewhere on the farm.”

With that, Evan and Carrie rushed out of the kitchen, leaving a fuming Junie and tense Dahlia alone.

"We can't keep operating like this," Dahlia said, her voice soft but steady. She took a step toward Junie. "The bank isn't going to wait for the apples to ripen, and they certainly won't accept fresh bread in place of a mortgage payment. We have to make adjustments."

"You've been here for less than forty-eight hours," Junie repeated, her voice dangerously quiet. "You walk in with your city notebook and your polished shoes, and you expect to change thirty years of history in a morning."

"I'm trying to keep this roof over your head," Dahlia’s voice rang with exasperation. "If we don't raise the prices at the farm stand, the entire property will be sold at auction by the end of the year. That's not a corporate theory or me judging anyone's management style. That's a basic mathematical fact."

Junie stepped around the counter, her movements stiff and jerky. She grabbed a wicker basket filled to the brim with small, red Macintosh apples from the prep table.

"You think you're saving us," she snapped, her voice rising as she stepped closer. "But you're only saving your own conscience. You left this farm the minute you had the chance, and you never looked back. Now you think throwing money and a stranger to manage it will sort it all out."

"That's not fair," Dahlia said, her heart pounding against her ribs. "Mother told me to leave. She insisted that I don’t waste my talent."

"And you were glad to go," Junie snapped, her hands shaking as she held the heavy basket. "You didn't have to watch her knees give out. You didn't have to spend every winter worrying about the heating oil or every summer hoping the well wouldn't run dry. I stayed. I did the work. You don't get to come back now and play the savior."

In her frustration, Junie turned too quickly toward the back door. Her elbow caught the corner of the wooden hutch. The impact jolted her arm, and the wicker basket slipped from her fingers.

The basket hit the linoleum with a hollow, splintering crash.

Dozens of red apples spilled across the kitchen, rolling in every direction. They bumped against the table legs, spun under the stove, and clicked against Dahlia's feet. A single large Macintosh rolled to a stop right between them, its bright skin bruised and split from the fall.

The sudden noise cut off the argument, leaving only the sound of a lone apple rolling slowly toward the pantry door.

Dahlia looked down at the mess, her anger instantly fading, replaced by a cold, hollow weight in her stomach. She knelt on the floor, her tailored pants pressing into the thin layer of flour on the linoleum. She reached for the closest apple, her fingers trembling as she picked it up.

"Let me help," Dahlia murmured, keeping her eyes on the floor.

"I don't need your help," Junie answered, her voice flat. She remained standing, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she looked down at her sister. "I've never needed your help."

Dahlia stopped, her hand frozen over a second apple. She slowly looked up, her knees resting on the cold floorboards.

"We're sisters," she whispered.