PUMPKIN TO TALK ABOUT
A GRUMPY SUNSHINE ROMANCE
ONE
QUINN
“We’re agreed then?” I ask through the lump lodged in my throat. “We work this season. Then, at the end of it, we look at the numbers and make a final decision?”
I have to clear my throat before saying the next part. “If we’re in the red, we sell. Right?”
The wind rattles against the barn door as I glance around the picnic table where we’ve assembled for our pre-shift meeting.
I need one of my siblings—just one—of them to say “no.” To say, “let’s give it more time” or “let’s fight like hell till the bitter end.”
I’d settle for a stubborn shake of one of their heads.
Instead I barely get a “sure” from Dylan and a nod from Chase. Their responses are still better than Lanie’s.
Our little sister rolls her eyes. “God, you make it sound so serious. It’s not exactly life or death.”
The thing is… it is to me.
Carver Farms has been in our family for four generations. It survived the Great Depression and two World Wars. You’d think it could survive five whole seasons as a pumpkin patch.
As it stands now, the fifth season of Carver Pumpkin Farm will be its last.
If we finish another fall in the red, that’s the death of our farm.
That’s the end of the hopes and dreams that have rooted our family on this land for generations.
We’re all agreed that if this pumpkin season goes like the previous four, we’re done. We’ll sell the equipment to the highest bidders. We’ll turn the deed over to our neighbors.
Though it makes my stomach turn to imagine what Chad and Karen next door have planned, rationally, I know it’s the right call. They’ve made us an offer above market price. That money will go a long ways in settling our debts and setting us each up with a small nest egg.
Dylan will no doubt use his share to expand his workshop.
Chase will finally open a diner in town.
Lanie will set up a college fund for her son.
As for me… I don’t have a fucking clue what I’ll do with my cash—or my life—if it all comes to an end.
This is the only life I’ve known. The only life I’ve wanted.
Yet while my heart might say one thing, my head can read the writing on the wall. And the writing says, “This is your make-it-or-break-it year or else.”
We better make it. We have to make it. Otherwise, what was the point of all this?
“Okay then.” I clear my throat again. “I’ll open the gates. Dylan, you’ll check to make sure the apple cannon is firing?”
“Copy that.”
“And Chase, you said the kitchen is good to go?”
“We’ll have your cup of coffee and apple fritter waiting for you.”
My mouth is already watering. No one makes a better apple fritter or cup of coffee than my brother.
