Page 13 of The Pumpkin Patch Sisters

"The pumpkin pie has to represent the Marchetti stand, and it's got to use a traditional lard crust," Clara said, her voice rising above the room's hum as she slid an empty, dented tin pan across the table. "Butter simply doesn't hold the flakiness when the damp autumn air hits the display tables. You have to tell Junie to use the lard recipe your mother used."

“Come now, Clara, that is not true. There is a reason why Rosalind changed that recipe years ago.” Martha let out a dismissive breath and immediately reached for her own prop, sliding a heavy glass pie dish forward until its rim tapped against Clara's tin. "Lard makes the pastry heavy and greasy," she countered, her shoulders squaring. "My family's used vegetable shortening and cold cider vinegar for decades. It keeps the crust tender, even in a drafty barn."

Dahlia watched the two empty pans sit side by side on the green plastic, the physical representations of a rivalry older than she was. She reached for her paper coffee cup, only to find the cardboard had softened, threatening to buckle. She set it back down in the damp ring on the plastic.

"Could we look at the actual volume requirements first?" she asked, opening her notebook and picking up her gold pen. "The festival begins in less than six weeks, and the operating budget requires us to maximize our efficiency. If shortening is more cost-effective than lard, that's the direction we should take."

"We don't measure our heritage in fractions of a cent," Clara replied, turning her head so quickly that her spectacles slid down the bridge of her nose. She pushed them back up with a flour-stained index finger. "Your mother spent forty years building a reputation for the stand. People drive from Boston because they expect the taste they remember, not a cheap substitute."

"Our mother also spent forty years slipping into debt because she refused to adjust her prices," Dahlia retorted, her knuckles tightening around her pen as she drew a straight line on her legal pad. "If we don't control the ingredient costs, there won't be a stand left to represent next autumn."

Martha reached across the table and physically dragged her glass dish back toward her chest, her ceramic bracelet beads clinking loudly.

"The stand isn't just a spreadsheet," she remarked, her tone softening slightly but remaining firm. "It's the anchor of the festival. When the tourists arrive, they want to see the old wooden crates, the hand-painted signs, and the pies arranged on the checkered cloths. If you change the recipe to save a nickel, they'll notice the difference before they even take a bite."

Clara nodded, a rare moment of agreement that made Dahlia feel even more isolated. Clara reached for a plate of dry sugar cookies in the center of the table, picked one up, and snapped it in half with a clean sound.

“Your mother always let us handle the baking schedule," she mentioned, holding up half the cookie to emphasize her point. "She provided the pumpkins, and we provided the labor. We didn't charge her for our time, and she didn't charge us for the fruit. It was a partnership."

"A partnership that was never recorded in a ledger," Dahlia countered, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table. "There aren't any written contracts, no liability agreements, and no records of the actual distribution of the proceeds. It's an administrative hazard."

Martha set her tea mug down with a soft thump, her eyes narrowing.

"It worked because we trusted her," she replied, her voice quiet and deliberate. "We knew that if one of our families fell behind on the electric bill, a crate of squash would appear on our porch. We didn't need contracts because we are a community."

Dahlia felt a sudden wash of guilt tighten her throat. She looked down at her color-coded lists, the neat lines of black ink suddenly feeling fragile against the deep network of small-town obligations.

"I understand the value of community," she insisted, her fingers tracing the edge of her paper pad. "But my sisters and I are legally responsible for the estate now. The bank doesn't accept trust as a mortgage payment, and the utility companies don't accept community goodwill."

"You always looked at this valley as something to be managed rather than lived in," Clara remarked, setting her cookie down on the edge of her saucer. She reached into her canvas handbag, pulled out an embroidered handkerchief, and wiped her fingers. "You left for the city the first chance you got, and you only see the numbers because you don't want to see the people."

Dahlia stiffened. She closed her portfolio with a decisive snap of the leather cover, then slid her pen into its loop.

"I see the numbers because someone's got to keep the roof from collapsing," she retorted, her voice steady but cold as she stood up.

The metal legs of her chair screeched loudly against the floor, the sound cutting through the chatter and bringing a heavy silence to their corner of the room. Martha didn't look up, her hands remaining laced flat against the tablecloth, while Clara slowly tucked her handkerchief back into her bag, her shoulders slumped in stubborn resistance. Dahlia gripped her leather case, turned, and walked toward the steel coffee urn in the far corner, desperate to put some distance between herself and the table.

Dahlia stood by the steel coffee urn, her fingers curled tightly into balled fists. She needed a moment to let the heat leave her face before turning back to the table. The constant hum of the fluorescent lights overhead felt like a physical pressure, and the sweet scent of Clara's apple cake seemed to cling to her skin. She reached for a clean paper cup from a stacked pyramid on the table, her knuckles brushing against the rough wood of the counter.

"The coffee's mostly chicory and chicory-flavored water," a man said, moving from the shadow of the brick support pillar to her right.

Dahlia flinched, her hand freezing two inches above the cups. She turned her head, her shoulders squaring automatically as she took in his appearance. He was a neatly groomed man with dark hair, his tailored jacket entirely too clean for Harvest Hollow. He stood with a quiet confidence that belonged in a Boston boardroom, not a church fellowship hall.

"I was hoping for a caffeine kick," Dahlia replied, her voice resuming its professional cadence as she slid her hand back to her side. "But I'll survive without it."

Dahlia hesitated when the man extended his hand, but she shook it, her grip firm as she introduced herself.

"So you’re Dahlia, the eldest daughter? I’m Sam Hollis," Samuel Hollis said, introducing himself with a reserved smile as he moved closer to the utility table.

Dahlia didn't return the smile. "If you're here to sell festival decorations, you'll want to speak with the committee. I'm only managing the immediate farm budget."

"I'm not here to sell anything," Sam replied, reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out a small leather card case. He flicked it open with a soft snap and slid a glossy business card across the wooden table, stopping it right next to her portfolio. "I'm here because my firm is interested in the property. We specialize in converting historic agricultural lands into high-end residential estates. I understand there's a restriction in the will, but that restriction's got an expiration date."

Dahlia looked down at the card. The high-gloss paper reflected the harsh fluorescent light above, the crisp black lettering of his firm's name looking clean and modern against the weathered wood.

"The farm's not for sale," she stated, her fingers tightening on her portfolio. "My sisters and I've no intention of selling the land."

"Properties like this are expensive to maintain, especially when they're carrying secondary mortgages," Sam observed, his tone remaining polite and even, without an aggressive edge. "Forty acres of prime land is a massive asset, but only if you've got the capital to keep it running. If you ever change your mind, my firm can offer a comfortable exit strategy."