Page 13 of The Pumpkin Patch Promise

"Reclaimed timber beams first," Prue answered, resting one hand on a thick slab of weathered white oak. "If we reconstruct the cottage on the six-acre parcel next spring, I want materials that match the original 1890s construction. Heavy oak or white pine with mortise-and-tenon joints, not modern pressure-treated lumber. I think Teddy might actually throttle me if I got anything less."

“Do your sisters know about your plan?” Sam asked with a raised brow.

“Not exactly,” Prue answered honestly. “We haven’t even decided what to do about the farm once the season finishes. I’m the one who shelved that conversation. We’ll discuss it closer to the end of the season. I don’t know if they’ll be on board with the plan, but that’s not going to stop me from doing all my research.”

Sam leaned down to inspect the edge of the oak slab, tracing the tight grain with his thumb. "This piece came out of an old cider mill. The grain density is tight, and there is no rot along the mortise pockets. It would hold up for another century."

"That is what I was hoping," Prue said, making a quick note in her small leather notebook. "I also want to look for iron hardware. Hand-forged door hinges, thumb latches, and window stays."

They navigated toward the rear stalls near the weathered livestock barn, where heavy architectural salvage was displayed on timber skids. An older vendor in a canvas apron greeted them with a nod as they approached a display of hand-forged ironwork laid out on burlap sacks.

Prue knelt near a wooden crate filled with heavy black iron hinges. She picked up a strap hinge with a cloverleaf tip, testing the weight in her palm. For a brief second, an old reflex surfaced, an impulse to turn to Sam and ask if he approved of the iron finish before deciding whether she liked it. She paused, catching the habit mid-thought, and set the hinge back down deliberately.

She did not need permission. She did not need validation to trust her own taste.

"This set of four strap hinges will fit the main entrance door," Prue declared, looking up at the vendor. "The iron is sound, and the pin joints move freely without binding."

Sam remained standing a few feet back, leaning against a timber post with his arms crossed casually. He did not interject or attempt to negotiate on her behalf. "The craftsmanship is solid," he observed. "The iron ratio indicates late 19th century forge work."

"I’ll take the set of four, please," Prue told the vendor, reaching into her tote bag for her wallet.

She was waiting for Sam to tell her it was a bad idea to buy anything before her sisters had even agreed to rebuild the cottage, but the reprimand never came.

Prue paid the vendor directly, placing the heavy iron pieces into her canvas bag. As she stood up, Sam reached out his hand toward the strap of the bag.

"Allow me to carry the weight," Sam offered gently. "Iron hinges get heavy after an hour."

Prue considered his offer for a moment. It was not an assertion of control or a subtle hint that she was incapable of carrying her own purchases. It was a simple, courteous gesture offered without pressure.

"Thank you," Prue said, handing the canvas bag to him. "I appreciate it."

They continued browsing through the mid-morning sun, pausing at a stall specializing in vintage architectural blueprints and local Berkshire maps. Prue spent twenty minutes examining hand-drawn survey maps from 1884 that showed the agricultural properties along the river corridor.

Sam stood beside her, examining the line work with professional interest. "The drafting precision on these old survey maps is remarkable," he said, pointing to an ink-drawn compass rose in the corner. "They marked every spring head and stone boundary wall with exact chains."

"It gives a clear picture of how the parcels functioned before the commercial shifts in the mid-twentieth century," Prue said, studying the layout. "It’s amazing what they could do without modern technology."

As they moved toward a row of woodworking stalls, the aroma of fresh apple cider and cinnamon pastries drifted across the aisle from a small food cart.

"Would you like a cup of warm cider?" Sam asked, turning to her with a relaxed smile.

"I would," Prue agreed. "Let’s find a bench near the maple trees before we check the ceramic hardware stalls."

They ordered two cups of cider from the cart and found a wooden bench beneath the yellow canopy of a mature maple. The morning sun filtered through the leaves, casting streaks of warm light across the hard-packed earth.

Prue sipped the hot cider, leaning back against the wooden slats of the bench. Looking over at Sam, who was calmly observing the crowd with his cup in hand, she took note of how natural their rapport had become. There was no performance required. She felt completely at ease with him.

"This was the right location for date two," Prue said, settling her cup on her knee.

Sam glanced around the bustling market. "Definitely. Away from harvests, and clipboards, and nosy old ladies in the town square."

Prue laughed. "Although I'm beginning to think I need a much larger house. This place is full of beautiful things I’d love to put in the farmhouse."

He laughed. "That's dangerous thinking at an antiques market."

"Look at that fireplace surround." She pointed to a carved stone piece displayed beneath a canvas awning across from where they sat. "I could build an entire room around that."

"You could?"