Page 16 of The Pumpkin Patch Promise

As Prue flipped to the next section, her hand paused over a folded voucher slip tucked between pages. The voucher detailed a wire transfer issued in early November the year before Rosalind died, authorized directly from Rosalind's private account. Attached to the bank receipt was a handwritten notation specifying a lease deposit and security fee paid directly to a property management firm in Boston.

Prue leaned closer to the desk, tracing the neat ink letters of the property address recorded on the margin of the slip. 21 Tremont Street, Apartment 4B.

The air in the office suddenly seemed still. Prue stared at the numbers, her pulse quickening as memories from years ago rushed back with overwhelming clarity. 21 Tremont Street was not a random Boston address. It was the exact location of the small, fourth-floor apartment she had rented when she finally gathered the courage to pack two suitcases and leave her abusive marriage.

She remembered the damp autumn afternoon she had arrived in the South End with her legal documents tucked into her purse and her heart pounding against her ribs. At the time, she had believed the small apartment was an obscure, low-rent listing she had stumbled upon through a newspaper classified advertisement. She had paid the small security deposit in cash, relieved to find a private place where her former husband could not track her down. The apartment was much better than she had ever hoped and she thought it was just a matter of luck.

Now, looking at the faded blue ink on Rosalind's ledger slip, the truth stood revealed in plain terms. The deposit had not been a coincidence. The apartment had been secured, funded, and maintained through Rosalind's covert network weeks before Prue had even made her final decision to leave. No wonder it had been so cheap. She hadn’t been the one really paying for it.

Prue set the pen down, her fingers trembling slightly as she lifted the slip to examine both sides. On the back of the receipt, Rosalind had written a single coded notation in small capital letters: ASSISTED TRANSITION / DISCREET HOLD.

A wave of conflicting emotions washed over Prue. Relief that her mother had quietly watched over her from afar warred immediately with a sharp spike of anger. For years during her marriage, Prue had believed herself isolated, convinced that no one in her family recognized the silent control and emotional erasure she was enduring behind closed doors in Boston. She had returned to Harvest Hollow believing she had built her escape entirely on her own strength.

Finding her mother's signature on the lease meant that Rosalind had known about the marital crisis long before Prue had voiced it aloud. Yet Rosalind had never reached out directly, never offered an open conversation, and never invited Prue to confide in her. Instead, Rosalind had operated from the shadows, treating her own daughter as another anonymous case file in her sanctuary network.

The door to the office opened with a soft click, interrupting her swirling thoughts. Junie entered holding a wooden tray with two steaming mugs of black tea and a plate of freshly baked cookies.

"You’re doing an excellent job this season, Prue," Junie said, setting the tray near the desk blotter. "We’re so proud of you. This has been our smoothest season yet. What are you up to in here?"

Prue quickly smoothed her expression, keeping her hand resting over the Tremont Street receipt slip. "I’m glad everything is going smoothly. I couldn’t have done it without all your help. All three of you. I’m just going through a few more of Mom’s ledgers."

Junie paused near the edge of the desk, her observant eyes scanning Prue's tense posture. "You look pale. Did you find something about who was adopted? Or about the six acres?"

"No," Prue replied, keeping her voice even as she carefully slid the slip back into the ledger sleeve. "Just more proof of how far the network extended beyond the farm."

Junie offered a reassuring smile and gave Prue’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I can imagine how many people it must have taken. Secrets were kept to keep people safe. It takes time to absorb all of it."

"Yes," Prue said softly. "It certainly does."

After Junie headed back to the kitchen, Prue stood up from the desk and crossed to the wide glass window overlooking the farm. Out in the pumpkin fields, farm workers were loading crates of autumn squash onto flatbed trailers under the bright morning sun. Tourists were also walking around selecting the perfect pumpkins to carve. Everything about the farm appeared orderly and familiar, yet the ground beneath her feet seemed to have shifted.

She pulled her knitted cream cardigan tighter around her shoulders, staring out across the pumpkin patch and the rows of apple trees. Why had Rosalind chosen financial intervention over direct connection? Was the secrecy a habit so deeply ingrained that Rosalind could not drop it even for her own daughter? Or had there been another reason why Rosalind remained silent while funding the Boston apartment?

Prue returned to the desk and picked up her notepad. She wrote down the Tremont Street address alongside the dates of the lease payments. Below the numbers, she added a single line: Ask Nell about the disbursements.

Nell Vance had served as Rosalind's trusted confidante and informal record keeper for over forty years. If anyone understood why Rosalind had funded the South End apartment without telling Prue, Nell would have the answer.

Prue closed the binder firmly, the heavy leather cover settling with a muted thud. She was tired of being kept in the dark. She intended to get the full truth, regardless of how complicated her mother's legacy turned out to be.

The farmhouse kitchen had become the warmest room in the house by late afternoon, the old oak table crowded with papers. Prue sat at the table, the green binder open before her alongside the yellowed lease deposit voucher for the apartment in Boston. Across from her, Nell moved with unhurried precision, lifting the kettle from the stove and filling two teacups.

Prue watched Nell closely. For years, Nell had been a fixture at Harvest Hollow, her presence as familiar as the cider press or the timber beams supporting the barn. Yet sitting here now with the deposit slip resting between them, Prue saw the older woman through a different lens. It wasn’t just the sanctuary she hadn’t wanted them to know about. She specifically hadn’t wanted them to get into all the files in the hidden cabinet in the cider barn. Every gesture, every measured action took on a new layer of meaning in light of the financial records open on the table.

Prue smoothed her palm over the ledger page, her fingers resting directly beside the Tremont Street address. She cleared her throat softly to break the heavy silence of the kitchen.

“Thank you for coming, Nell. I wanted to ask you about this deposit. The voucher records a lease deposit for an apartment in Boston, authorized from the secondary farm account three weeks before the lease began. Do you know anything about this?”

Nell picked up her teacup, taking a slow sip before setting it down. Prue didn’t miss the tightening around Nell’s eyes.

“I can’t really say. The records Rosalind kept reflect years of operational expenses.” She waved her hand dismissively. “There were several accounts used to maintain the farm and support regional programs. A lot of the women your mother helped ended up in Boston.”

Prue leaned forward slightly, keeping her voice steady despite the tension tightening her throat. “The lease deposit was paid directly to the management office of 21 Tremont Street, apartment four B. That was my apartment, Nell. That was the exact unit I occupied when I left my husband. I stayed in that building believing I had found it through an obscure newspaper listing. An absolute bargain. I couldn’t believe my luck. But it wasn’t really luck, was it?”

Nell didn’t flinch, but her hands tightened almost imperceptibly around the ceramic teacup. She lifted the cup again, taking another sip, then adjusted the placement of her spoon on the saucer with meticulous care.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Prudence. The farm maintained contacts throughout Massachusetts. When housing assistance was needed for individuals connected to our community, arrangements were made through established channels.”

Prue’s patience was thinning, though she kept her voice controlled.