4. Dahlia #3
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.
"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.