Page 12 of The Pumpkin Patch Sisters

"We're strangers who share DNA and a last name," Junie retorted, her chin trembling before she bent down to start collecting the fallen fruit. "You made that choice thirty-two years ago, and a notebook full of figures isn't going to change it."

After gathering the apples, Junie stood, turned and walked toward the screen door. Without a backward glance, she pushed the door open, the wood scraping against the frame, and stepped out onto the porch. The screen door shut behind her with an echoing slap.

Dahlia pushed herself up from her knees in the center of the kitchen. She looked down at the bruised Macintosh in her palm, the split skin revealing the pale, sweet flesh beneath. She squeezed the fruit, her manicured nail digging into the soft pulp until the sweet juice ran over her fingers, dripping onto the floor.

Dahlia was completely alone in the farmhouse, and for the first time since her return, she realized that no corporate turnaround plan could ever repair the foundation of what they had lost as a family. In that moment as she watched Junie’s retreating back she knew that before she could fix anything she needed to fix her relationship with her family. Especially Junie who was the only one that stayed.

DAHLIA

The two days following the blowout in the farmhouse kitchen were a study in absolute silence. Dahlia’s sisters avoided her with practiced coordination, moving through the rooms like polite ghosts who only spoke when farm business demanded a direct response.

Every morning at dawn, Dahlia stepped out into the damp air, walking the northern fence line where the pasture met Beckett’s land. She’d spent those early walks scanning the gray mist of the neighboring orchard, hoping to see the familiar shape of his tractor or the broad silhouette of his shoulders. But the field was empty. Beckett hadn't been there. Each morning, she’d returned to the farmhouse with her fingers stiff from the cold and an unresolved ache in her chest. The silent fence line felt like a physical barrier, a reminder of the words they'd left hanging in the damp grass.

The only people who’d spoken to her were Junie’s children, and even then, their words had been fleeting. Evan hurried through the kitchen before sunrise, his shoulders slumped with fatigue as he grabbed a travel mug of black coffee. At twenty-four, he was carrying a massive share of the daily labor, split between repairing the old wooden farm stand stall and hauling heavy crates of early squash. He’d given Dahlia a brief nod on his way out the door, his mind clearly focused on the long list of machinery repairs waiting for him. He hadn't had time for small talk, his pockets jingling with loose nuts and bolts as he ran toward the equipment shed.

Carrie’s routine was even more exhausting. Dahlia watched her niece grade third-grade spelling tests at the kitchen counter at six in the morning, her chestnut curls tucked back with a pencil. At twenty-seven, Carrie was balancing her full-time teaching job, coaching the local middle school athletics team three afternoons a week, and waking up early to help Junie prep the baking tins. When Dahlia offered to wash her coffee mug, Carrie simply muttered a quick thank-you before hoisting her heavy canvas bag and rushing out to beat the school bell. Both of them were driving themselves to the point of collapse, repeating the exact pattern of self-sacrifice that kept the farm alive for decades.

By Thursday morning, the atmosphere in the house had become completely intolerable. Desperate to escape the quiet tension, Dahlia volunteered for a task she knew none of her sisters wanted to touch: representing the farm stand at the annual Fall Festival planning meeting. It was a tedious chore that Junie usually handled, but this year, none of them had the energy to face the local committee.

Dahlia parked her car near the town green and walked up the wide stone steps of the Harvest Hollow Community Church. She pushed open the doors of the main entrance, stepping directly into the sun-drenched fellowship hall. Arched windows let in the morning light, casting warm squares across the polished pine floorboards and the long folding tables covered in green plastic tablecloths. The air carried the comforting scent of fresh cinnamon rolls and hot cider, a far cry from the damp chill of the farmhouse.

Yet as soon as she crossed the threshold, the low buzzing of voices died down. Forty permanent residents turned their heads, their conversations tapering off into whispers. Dahlia felt her shoulders tighten. These people had known her mother for forty years, and they’d known Dahlia since she was a stubborn child getting up to mischief with Beckett. She clutched her ledger a little tighter but kept her chin up and posture ramrod straight.

"She's here," Clara murmured. She had just walked in before Dahlia and moved to a table near the windows. She was a round woman whose hands were permanently marked by thirty autumns of peeling apples. She set a heavy metal pie tin down on the plastic with a loud clank. "She looks so much like her mother did when they first opened the stand."

"She has her mother's posture," Martha added, her voice carrying easily through the quiet hall. Martha had run the church bazaar since Dahlia was in middle school, and she still wore her hair in the same stiff wave she’d favored decades ago. She smoothed her soft, well-worn cotton shirt, her eyes studying Dahlia with a mixture of curiosity and nostalgia. "But she has her father's eyes. I remember Anthony standing in this exact spot thirty summers ago, arguing about the booth fees."

Dahlia walked toward an empty chair at the central table, ignoring the comments. She didn't let herself scan the room for Beckett, though her eyes instinctively flicked toward the back corner near the coffee urn.

"Hello, everyone.” Dahlia’s eyes swept the curious faces. “I've brought the preliminary sheets for our stand," she explained, her voice not too loud and calm as she sat down, her pants sliding against the plastic seat. "We need to coordinate the delivery schedule for the festival weekend so we don't have a bottleneck at the gate."

"We don't worry about bottlenecks, dear," Clara replied, offering a warm smile as she leaned forward. "Your mother always brought the first truckload at dawn, and she never failed to stop to help us set up the hospitality table. We aren't looking for a corporate schedule. We're looking for the special pumpkin cider cake. Will your sister have the first batches ready by Friday morning?"

"The baking schedule is under control," Dahlia answered, keeping her fingers flat on her closed portfolio. She felt a familiar pinch of defensive guilt. These women didn't see her as a successful restructuring consultant who'd managed multimillion-dollar budgets in Chicago. To them, she was still the headstrong girl who’d packed her bags and boarded a bus thirty-two years ago, leaving her family to carry the harvest alone.

"I remember when you were ten," Martha remarked, her tone softening as she reached for her teacup. "You tried to sell miniature pumpkins from a red wagon by the road and ended up giving them all away to the mailman because you thought he looked hungry. You always did have a soft spot, no matter how hard you tried to hide it behind those neat lists."

Dahlia sat in her chair, her back rigid as she stared at her legal pad. The memories were a physical weight, pressing against her chest until she could barely draw a full breath. She’d spent three decades convincing herself that she’d outgrown this valley, that her success was measured in skyscraper views and consulting fees. But under the expectant gazes of her mother’s oldest friends, her carefully constructed armor began to feel incredibly fragile. They didn't want her efficiency; they wanted her presence. They wanted the girl who'd given away pumpkins, not the consultant with the color-coded spreadsheets.

Dahlia adjusted her posture on the squeaking folding chair, her fingers resting flat on her closed book. The fellowship hall was warm, the morning sun streaming through the arched windows and casting pale squares of light across the long tables. Around her, the low chatter of the other volunteers filled the room, but the air at her table felt thick with silent resistance. On her left, Clara sat with her hands folded tightly in her lap, her round face set in a stubborn mask. On her right, Martha rested her forearms against the green plastic tablecloth, her bracelets clinking softly.

Just then the sound of a cane hitting the floor grabbed everyone’s attention and Nell walked in.

“Sorry I’m late,” Nell apologized. “My car was giving trouble yet again.”

“No problem, Nell,” the chairperson of the committee stated. “Take a seat we were just starting.”

Nell deliberately took a seat close to Dahlia.

“It’s good to see you here, Dahlia,” Nell said softly. “Maybe you can finally start to see that land can carry obligations that never appear in an appraisal or can be balanced by a spreadsheet.”

Dahlia frowned at Nell and bit her lip. Annoyance at the woman’s persistent digs at how Dahlia was trying to sort out the farm and save it from bank foreclosure spurted through her. But she knew not to snap at Nell or be rude as she was her elder which meant she was due some respect.

“I’m trying, Nell,” Dahlia answered beneath her breath. She glanced away from Nell and back towards the others at the table. It was her way of politely dismissing Nell’s jab. “Can we move away from the past and concentrate on the future for this year’s festival?” Dahlia said, getting uncomfortable with the conversation. “Should we talk about the inventory required at the various stands and start with my family, the Marchetti stand?” She glanced at her wristwatch. “I have a meeting to get to in a couple of hours and still need to prepare for it.”

It was a lie. She had no meeting today, but Dahlia didn't want to waste time going down memory lane and being gazed at with judging eyes. She felt guilty enough having not known about the state of the farm. She didn’t need the nosy residents of the town picking apart her choices or career.

“Sure, let’s talk about pies then.” Martha sat back, moved her notepad into position, and clicked the top of her pen, ready to take notes. “Clara?” She looked at the woman in question. “You start.”