Sample Chapter
IRENE LOWERED the back of the pickup truck and caught one of the smaller pumpkins as it tried to roll over the edge. The whole load shifted slightly, as if the escapee had triggered a domino effect amongst the cargo of ripe, fleshy fruit, and, despite her petite frame, Irene spread her arms like a scarecrow ready to catch any others that threatened to fall.
"Will you be making your pumpkin pie again?" Sylvia asked. The younger woman hung back, rubbing her hands together and blowing into them to keep them warm.
"It wouldn’t be a feast without it." When she was certain the load was stable, Irene gestured to Sylvia to help her start unloading the pumpkins into the barn. "We’ll can and pickle the rest to see us through the winter."
Irene was unsure how it had happened—it had been a gradual evolution, she supposed, a role she’d gravitated towards as one of the older members of the community—but she secretly liked it when the younger folks looked to her for guidance or expected her to provide all the answers.
When she was younger, if anyone had suggested that this might be where she ended up, in her hometown of Silverdale, Washington, harvesting fruit for the winter and discussing her famous pumpkin pie with the end-of-fall feast in mind, she’d have dismissed it without a second thought.
Sylvia glanced at the Olympic Mountains with their snowy hats in the distance and shivered as she reached for one of the larger pumpkins. "There’s a bite in the air already," she said, eyes lowered. "I don’t remember it being this cold this early last fall."
"Well, I recall adding a little extra spice to the soup when I prepared the first batch." Maybe this was why Irene was a natural matriarch—she didn’t pander to the whims and worries of the youngsters. "Whatever comes our way, we’ll deal with it together, same as we always do."
She nudged open the barn door with the heel of her boot and inhaled deeply as she stepped inside. Irene loved it when the barn was filled with the food they’d cultivated during the summer. Even if she closed her eyes, the smell of earthy potatoes, bulbous rutabagas, crunchy carrots, and parsnips, and all the other vegetables and fruit they’d already stored in here ready for winter preparations, filled her with warmth and satisfaction.
It was peaceful. The sky was solid blue like a child’s painting, the fir trees tall and majestic, the water smooth as glass. Irene loved the peace, wore it around her shoulders like a fur-lined cloak, buried her head in it sometimes. Like now. She hadn’t been entirely honest with Sylvia. The winters were harsher now, last winter the coldest so far, and she sensed the chill in the air too. But it was all about perspective. They had a barn full of food—well they would have once they finished unloading the pumpkins—a couple of the men were out there now chopping logs for firewood, the whump-whump of their axes as comforting as the peace they were disturbing, so they’d have warmth too. What more could they possibly want?
But as the cold bit through her jacket, a sudden feeling of unease crept into her bones. What if the peace they had grown used to wasn’t as permanent as she wanted to believe? What if the hardships they had faced before were only the beginning?
Irene tightened her grip on the basket of pumpkins, glancing over at Sylvia, who was still staring at the snowy peaks. She opened her mouth to say something reassuring, but no words came out. Instead, a gust of wind kicked up, rattling the barn door behind them, as if warning of something far worse than an early frost.
