Page 27 of The Pumpkin Patch Promise

Between them on the console lay the thick cream envelope with the letter from Sam’s mother. After decades of carrying unanswered questions about his mother's past before her move to Vermont, Sam drove with a relaxed, open posture, his grip light against the leather wheel. The tight tension that had held his jaw throughout the afternoon had vanished completely.

Prue turned slightly in her seat, looking at his clear profile against the autumn light.

“How are you processing everything we learned in Greenfield from Martha Albright?” she asked.

Sam glanced over briefly, his brown eyes calm and centered. "Having the full context does give a sense of relief," he said. "I had never understood why my mother just refused to share anything about her past. Of course, I suspected whatever it was, it wasn’t pleasant, but I couldn’t understand why she never told me. Learning that her choices were born out of protective devotion clears away every lingering doubt. It leaves me with deep gratitude for her strength. I still would have liked for her to have told me, as an adult. Probably the same way you wish your mother had told you about the sanctuary before she died, but I understand her choices better now."

Prue nodded slowly, understanding his emotion. "Real safety comes from continuous, active support. It’s okay to still be upset about the secrets."

"I agree," Sam said. "Although seeing how Rosalind operated reinforces my respect for what you want to build at the farm. Replacing historical secrecy with transparent, legal support honorably fulfills the sanctuary's original purpose. I think you’re doing it the right way. The way it really should have been done at the start."

Prue looked out the passenger window, reflecting on the path ahead. "It's such a sharp contrast between my mother’s covert operations and the open future I’m planning for the cottage," she murmured. "She had the right idea though. Her heart was in the right place. I just hope my sisters see it my way. At least they’re not completely against the idea. They just want more solid information. Especially Dahlia."

"I think they’ll come around," Sam observed. "It won’t interfere with the farm operations, and your proposal for vocational cider pressing and horticulture skills gives women real tools for long-term independence, rather than just temporary shelter."

As the highway wound along the Deerfield River, the golden light of late afternoon shifted into a soft rose and amber glow across the mountain peaks.

"The Fall Festival is going to mark the busiest weekend of the autumn season for the farm," Prue said, breaking the comfortable silence.

"I saw the farmhands finalizing the festival booths before we left," Sam replied with a slight smile. "And the townsfolk are already gearing up for the cider tasting competition and pumpkin carving displays."

"It's incredible how quickly the weeks have passed since the season started," Prue noted softly. "It feels like it’s gone so quickly. Before we know it, it will be over."

Sam smiled, acknowledging her words. "Have you only had time to think about the Fall Festival, or are you thinking about what we can do for our fourth date?"

“Well, I was actually thinking we could kill two birds with one stone. Our fourth date can be the Fall Festival,” Prue said.

“You’re going to put me to work on our date, aren’t you?” Sam said, a smile tugging at his lips.

Prue laughed. “Maybe.”

As the truck crossed the town boundary into Harvest Hollow, the golden hour of dusk brushed the landscape in rich shades of copper, amber, and bronze. Canvas banners advertising the annual Fall Festival hung from the wooden light posts along Main Street, fluttering gently in the crisp autumn breeze. Fall was in full swing in the small town. Townspeople were already hanging dried corn stalks and decorative squash along the storefront porch railings.

Sam guided the vehicle smoothly off the main thoroughfare, turning onto the road that led to the farm. Once they reached the farm, Sam brought the truck to a gentle stop near the fieldstone wall, turning off the ignition as the rustle of fallen leaves filled the evening air.

Prue gathered her canvas tote bag and jacket, turning to face him in the cab. "I’m glad you got a few answers," she said.

He leaned back against the headrest, looking at her with genuine appreciation. "Only thanks to you. And thanks for coming with me," he said. "I'm really looking forward to our date at the Fall Festival this weekend, even if you make me work."

"I’ll see you then," Prue affirmed.

Prue climbed out of the truck and shut the door behind her. Light spilled from the farmhouse windows, and she could see one of her sisters moving across the kitchen. Dinner, no doubt, would involve another discussion about the farm. Whatever the future held, Prue had a feeling it would be good.

PRUE

Saturday morning brought a radiant autumn chill to the farm, brushing the forested ridges of Berkshire County in brilliant shades of amber, bronze, and crimson. Bright morning sunbeams filtered through the arching canopy of sugar maples, illuminating the festive canvas banners painted in deep burgundy and warm gold that hung from the heavy timber frame of the main cider barn, declaring the official opening of the annual Fall Festival.

Prue stood near the center of the main orchard lane holding her wooden clipboard, reviewing the schedule and checking off the morning arrival logs with her pencil. The fall air smelled of warm cinnamon doughnuts and pumpkin pie, and the atmosphere carried an energetic hum that filled the farmyard as the first wave of festival visitors arrived through the farm gates.

Organizing this season's festival had been Prue's primary responsibility, and she had expanded the vendor lineup to feature local women artisans, craftswomen, woodworkers, and bakers. Along the fence lining the heirloom apple orchard, twenty stalls showcased hand-woven wool blankets, handcrafted wooden bowls, autumn fruit preserves, hand-poured beeswax candles, artisan pottery and a myriad of other things.

Nell had worked with her to identify legacy families whose relatives had once received emergency assistance through Rosalind's covert sanctuary network decades ago. Seeing those thriving small businesses operating in the morning sun filled Prue with a deep sense of purpose. It represented everything she wanted for the long-term future of the farm.

Prue walked along the row of stalls, stopping near a display of hand-turned wooden bowls and glazed stoneware to find out how things were going. A ceramic artist whose family had arrived in Harvest Hollow in the late seventies greeted her with a warm smile.

“We've already sold out of the apple-shaped pie dishes,” she said, gesturing toward an empty section of the display. “In the first hour.”

“That’s wonderful.”