5. Dahlia #3
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. "
Dahlia stared at the glossy card. The temptation was a physical weight in her chest, a sudden memory of her quiet apartment in Chicago where the heating worked, and the bank didn't send red letters.
It would be so easy to hand him the keys, to take the payout and walk away from the whispering neighbors, the ruined family relationships, and the muddy fields.
"I can't discuss this," Dahlia’s voice dropped as she reached down, picked up the card, and slipped it into her pocket. "But I'll keep your card for our estate records."
"That's all I ask," Sam answered, nodding once before retreating toward the brick pillar. "I'll be staying in town for a few weeks to review some older land deeds. I expect we'll see each other again."
Dahlia gave a curt nod, her chest tight. She turned to walk back toward her table, but she froze when her eyes caught a movement by the back door of the hall.
Beckett stood by the wooden coat rack, a ceramic mug held in his hand. His broad shoulders were rigid under his canvas jacket, his jaw set in a straight line. It looked like he'd frozen in place. His stormy eyes were locked onto the pocket where she'd just hidden the developer's card.
The physical distance between them felt miles wide. Dahlia reached toward him, her hands trembling.
"Wait," she began, her breath catching in her throat.
He didn't let her finish. Beckett set his ceramic mug down on a nearby folding table with a hollow clank, the impact sending a splash of dark coffee over the rim.
He didn't look at her again. He turned, his tall frame moving quickly as he pushed the exit door open and walked out into the cold drizzle, letting the door snap shut behind him with a final, echoing sound.
Dahlia stood alone by the coffee urn, her fingers pressing hard against the glossy card inside her pocket.
The fellowship hall felt colder than it had been ten minutes ago, the low hum of the lights sounding like an accusation.
She'd only been back in Harvest Hollow for a week, and she was already breaking the unwritten rules of the valley.