The Pumpkin Patch Sisters (Fall At Harvest Hollow #1)
Dahlia
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.
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.
How did this year go so horribly, horribly wrong?
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.
"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.