Page 2 of The Pumpkin Patch Sisters

"Rosalind's will stipulates that the farm can't be sold, leased, or transferred for a period of four years.” The sound of rustling papers came through the receiver.

Dahlia sat forward, her palm flat against the cold surface of her glass desk. "Four years? That's financially impossible, Mr. Abbott. Junie can't run that place alone, and from the brief glance I saw of the finances, we’re about to lose the place.” Her brow furrowed. “Surely there is some exit clause in the will?”

"There's no exit clause," Mr. Abbott stated, his words measured. "To secure your joint inheritance, the will requires a hands-on commitment from each of Rosalind's daughters. Each of you must return to Harvest Hollow and actively manage one complete autumn harvest season. If you don't, the entire estate defaults. The bank's outstanding mortgages'll be called in immediately, and the property'll go to a foreclosure auction."

The words felt like a physical blow, leaving Dahlia's mind racing as she tried to find a logical loophole.

"Then let's hire a professional farm manager to run the place for four years," Dahlia suggested, her voice rising slightly as she reached for her leather notebook. "I'll fund the operations from Chicago. I'll write the checks, coordinate the supply lines, and manage the digital spreadsheets from my desk. There's no need for me to physically be there."

"I'm sorry, Dahlia," Mr. Abbott replied, his tone carrying a protective firmness that offered no room for negotiation. "As I said a few moments ago, the will is ironclad on this point. It requires the physical presence and active operational management of each sister during her designated season. Your mother's instructions state that you must oversee the first season, starting this August. If you aren't on-site from opening day through Thanksgiving, the executor can't sign off, and the foreclosure process'll begin."

Dahlia stared at her cold laptop screen, her mouth opening slightly as she realized the absolute finality of her mother's terms. For the first time in her career, she faced a puzzle that her spreadsheets and plans couldn't solve. Her corporate armor, her neat targets, and the safe boundaries she'd spent years constructing in Chicago were suddenly completely useless. She had to go back to the mud, the ancient bickering, and the family she'd spent a lifetime trying to outrun.

"That isn't an option," Mr. Abbott reiterated, his tone carrying a protective firmness that offered no room for negotiation. "You can’t get out unless you’re willing to forfeit your birthright." He paused. “And just remember, it’s not just your birthright you’ll be forfeiting.”

She went quiet for a while as her mind spun trying to find a solution but her mind found only one — Dahlia was going home for a few months. Not only was she being forced to face the ghost of her mother and her complicated emotions over the farm and town… She would be forced to face a wound that never fully healed and the man that had caused it.

DAHLIA

The tires of Dahlia's sedan crunched against the dry gravel of Marchetti Lane. Late-August heat pressed against the windshield, heavy and thick with the humidity of western Massachusetts. The Berkshire foothills rose in the distance, their dense summer green showing only the faintest yellow at the very tips of the birch branches. It wasn't autumn yet, but the air felt like it was waiting for a change.

Dahlia switched off the ignition. The sudden silence inside the car was broken only by the ticking of the cooling engine. She hadn't been back to Harvest Hollow since the funeral in the spring, and the farmhouse looked smaller than she remembered. The white clapboard exterior had yellowed around the foundation, and the dark green shutters on the second-story windows hung slightly crookedly. She took a breath and gripped the steering wheel, her manicured nails digging into the black leather.

Thirty-two years ago, she had sat in a car in this very driveway, her bags packed for Chicago, begging her mother to let her stay. Her father had died only weeks before, his sudden heart attack leaving a massive void on the farm. Dahlia had been twenty, eager to postpone college, ready to work the fields. But Rosalind had been unyielding. She had ordered Dahlia to leave, to take the city life she had planned, and to never look back. Dahlia had obeyed, but the guilt of leaving had never truly faded.

Her phone buzzed in the cup holder. The screen displayed Marcus's name, her managing assistant back at the Chicago office. She swiped the screen and held the phone to her ear.

"Dahlia, please tell me you're looking at the third-quarter projections," Marcus said, his voice coming through the speaker with a crackle of static.

"I'm sitting in my mother's driveway, Marcus," Dahlia answered, leaning her head back against the leather headrest.

"The executive board wants the revised operating plan by Friday afternoon," Marcus reminded her. "If we don't submit the restructuring proposal before the weekend, they'll postpone the vote until October."

Dahlia looked through the dusty windshield at the front porch. "I'll have the spreadsheets finalized tonight," she assured him, checking her watch. "You'll have them in your inbox before your morning coffee."

"We're lost without you here," Marcus added, his tone softening slightly. "Chicago isn't the same when you're away."

"It's only for a few weeks," Dahlia replied, though her voice lacked the certainty she usually carried into boardrooms. "I'll keep my laptop active."

She disconnected the call and set the phone in her leather bag.

Dahlia opened the car door and stepped out. The humid air hit her immediately, sticking to her skin and making her tailored gray pants feel heavy. Her expensive black ankle boots sank slightly into the dusty gravel. They were polished Italian leather, completely unsuitable for the farm, but they were what she wore when she needed to feel in control. She reached into the back seat for her structured leather briefcase and her laptop bag, draping the straps over her shoulder.

She walked toward the wraparound porch. The wood of the steps creaked under her weight, a familiar sound that she used to draw comfort from. On the far side of the porch, sitting between two overgrown potted ferns, was her mother's wooden rocking chair. It was worn down and faded by the elements along the armrests where Rosalind's hands had rested for decades. The chair was perfectly still. Dahlia stopped at the top step, staring at the empty seat. The wood didn't rock. The breeze didn't move it. It sat there like a monument to things left unsaid.

She pulled her color-coded leather notebook from her bag. Dahlia flipped to the first clean page, her fingers running over the crisp white paper.

She wrote: 1. Stabilize farm finances. 2. Draft operational plan. 3. Interview prospective managers.

Writing the list made the pressure in her chest ease slightly. This was a business problem. That was what she told herself. The farm stood on forty acres of prime Massachusetts soil, but it was bleeding money, and her sisters were in no position to run it. She'd fix the numbers, hire a professional manager, and get back to Chicago.

A black crow called from the high branch of the old sugar maple near the well house. The harsh, solitary sound echoed across the empty yard.

Dahlia tucked the notebook under her arm and walked to the front door. She didn't have to reach for her keys; the door was unlocked, just as it had been every day of her childhood. She turned the brass knob and pushed.

The front door swung open, the old hinges giving a familiar, high-pitched creak that made her chest tighten. She walked into the entryway, her boots clicking on the worn pine floorboards. The air inside the house was cooler than the humid heat of the driveway, smelling faintly of dried lavender and lemon wax.

Dahlia walked straight into the country kitchen. The room was already filled with her sisters. Juniper sat on the far side of the scarred oak table, her fingers tracing a water stain on the wood. Teodora leaned against the counter by the sink, her arms crossed over her jacket, while Prudence sat near the back window, her head tilted toward the afternoon light.