Dahlia
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.
"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."
"We're lost without you here," Marcus added, his tone softening slightly. "Chicago isn't the same when you're away."
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.
At the head of the table, Rosalind's empty chair sat tucked in. The dark wood of the spindle back looked polished and cold.
"You're late, Dahlia," Juniper said, looking at her with a tired expression. Her thick chestnut curls were pulled back into a messy knot, and faint grey smudges of fatigue showed beneath her warm brown eyes.
"The traffic on the turnpike was terrible, Junie," Dahlia answered, placing her leather briefcase on the counter. "And my assistant called from Chicago just as I pulled into the driveway."
"Marcus still thinks the world will end without you," Teodora noted from her spot by the sink. Her dark hair was cut into a neat shoulder-length bob, her hazel eyes bright with dry amusement. "Some things never change, even when everything else does."
"We needed to start this hours ago," Juniper continued, her voice tightening as she gestured to a neat stack of legal papers resting on the table. "The attorney left the documents before lunch. He said he had another meeting in Pittsfield and couldn't wait for the city traffic."
"We didn't need the attorney to stay, Junie," Dahlia explained, pulling out a chair opposite her.
She sat down, her tailored pants stretching tight across her knees.
She drew her color-coded notebook from her bag and set it on the table.
"The terms of the will are perfectly clear, even if they are incredibly impractical. "
"Impractical is a polite word for it," Teodora muttered, shifting her weight against the wooden counter. "Mother had a flair for the dramatic, even in her legal paperwork."
"It's not dramatic," Prudence murmured from the window. Her voice was soft, her small hands resting in her lap as she looked at her sisters. "She just wanted us to be here together."
"She wanted to trap us, Prue," Teodora countered, her tone firm but not unkind. "Let's be honest about the four-year clause."
Dahlia opened her notebook to a fresh page, her pen hovering over the paper.
"The farm cannot be sold for four years," she summarized, her corporate tone settling over her like a protective coat. "Each of us must personally oversee one autumn season. Since I am the eldest, I am taking the first season. That is why I am here."
"You're here because you think you can fix this in a month and run back to Chicago, Dahlia," Juniper said, her chin lifting slightly. "You think this is just another operational audit."
"It is a business, Junie," Dahlia replied, her voice remaining calm and level.
"The pumpkin patch is bleeding money. The equipment is ancient, the records are a mess, and we don't have a sustainable budget.
My goal is to stabilize the finances over the next eight weeks, draft a professional operating plan, and hire a permanent manager. "
"A manager?" Juniper asked, her voice rising slightly. She leaned forward, her hands flat on the oak table. "This farm has been in our family for three generations. We don't hire strangers to run the Marchetti Pumpkin Patch."
"We do if we want the farm to survive," Dahlia insisted, her eyes locking onto her sister's.
"A manager can handle the next three autumns.
That means you won't have to break your back every September, Teddy can stay in Portland to restore her historic houses, and Prue can focus on her art without being dragged into harvest logistics.
It is the most logical solution for everyone. "
"It's a very neat solution, Dahlia," Teodora drawled, walking over to join them at the table.
She pulled out a chair and sat down next to Prudence.
"But you're forgetting that a farm isn't a Chicago consulting firm.
You can't just slide a spreadsheet under the tractor and expect it to start running. "
"I understand how a tractor works, Teddy," Dahlia answered, her jaw tightening. “Just like I understand how to run this farm.”
"Do you?" Teodora pressed, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Because the irrigation lines are clogged, the cider press has a cracked gasket, and the main tractor hasn't had an oil change since last October. You can't manage those things from a leather notebook."
"I'm going to hire people to fix those things, Teddy," Dahlia explained, tapping her pen against the page. "I've already allocated a portion of the remaining farm account for seasonal maintenance."
"There is no farm account, Dahlia," Juniper said quietly.
The anger in her voice faded, replaced by a sudden, heavy exhaustion.
She reached for the legal papers and slid them across the wood toward her older sister.
"The local bank sent a notice yesterday.
Mother took out a secondary loan on the equipment two winters ago.
The interest payments are due next month. "
"Why didn't you tell me about this, Junie?" Dahlia demanded, her eyes scanning the columns of numbers as she pulled the bank documents toward her.
"I didn't know," Juniper admitted, her shoulders slumping. "Mother handled all the finances. She didn't share the books with me, even though I was the one running the farm stand every single day."
"She didn't share them because she didn't want us to know how bad things were," Teodora added, her voice dropping. "She was too busy saving everyone else in the county to notice her own roof was leaking."
"Teddy, don't," Prudence whispered, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "She did what she thought was right."
"She did what she wanted to do, Prue," Teodora retorted, her expression hardening. "And now we are left to pick up the pieces around this kitchen table."
Dahlia stared at the bank notice. The numbers were stark, leaving no room for corporate optimism. The outstanding balance was larger than she had anticipated, and the fall harvest was their only source of revenue to meet the deadline.
"This doesn't change the operational goal," Dahlia stated, though her voice lacked its previous authority. She shut her notebook with a soft click. "It just means the stakes are higher. We have to make this harvest the most profitable one the farm has ever seen."
"And how do you plan to do that?" Juniper asked, her voice flat. "By charging the locals double for their pumpkins?"
"By running this farm like a business," Dahlia replied.
The front screen door rattled downstairs, and the sound of heavy footsteps in the entryway broke the tense silence of the kitchen, cutting through the high-pitched argument. Dahlia turned toward the kitchen entrance, her leather notebook still clutched tightly against her ribs.