Page 11 of The Accidental Innkeeper

And it was Pepto-Bismol pink.

3

SARAH

After dragging my suitcase behind me all the way to the pink madness, of course cursing the whole way, and then hauling it up the three-story Victorian porch steps, which were surprisingly sturdy and honestly my first pleasant surprise of the day, I rummaged through the envelope where I’d seen a set of keys and yanked them out.

The pink paint on the wood siding had faded, probably from years of sun and salt air beating it into submission. It was marginally less aggressive now but still pink, very pink.

Above the porch, a sign read: The Hartwell Inn.

White rocking chairs lined the wraparound porch, gently rocking in the breeze. Window boxes spilled over with flowers that were not just dead but aggressively dead—crunchy, forgotten, and sad.

I sighed. “If the inside is pink, I’m going to kill myself.”

After trying three keys, because of course it wasn’t the first one, I finally found the right one. I bumped my shoulder into the front door, giving it a shove before it creaked open.

Original dark wood floors squeaked under my weight as I stepped into the foyer. Beige-painted walls greeted me, and I nearly sagged with relief.

“Thank god.” I sighed.

Rich wood wainscoting lined the walls with matching door and window trims. Across from me sat a front desk that looked suspiciously like an old dresser repurposed into something functional. Sunlight streamed in through tall windows, illuminating floating dust motes like they were part of the ambiance package.

So far, so good. I could live with this.

I kept walking, suitcase wheels rattling behind me, and turned into the den area to the left of the foyer.

The den was actually lovely. A large Persian rug anchored the room. Comfortable chairs and sofas sat in careful groupings around wood side tables and coffee tables that looked heavy enough to double as weapons. Light pink striped floral wallpaper lined the walls. A large fireplace sat empty across from me, dignified and calm.

And above it—I shit you not—was a life-size painting of my great-aunt Edna, all five feet of her.

She stood stiffly, one hand gripping her walking stick and the other holding a cigarette like it was a moral statement. Her bug eyes stared out through thick glasses, her mouth pulled into the same permanent frown I remembered from childhood. She wasn’t smiling. She never smiled—not at Christmas, not at weddings, not even when she won at bingo.

But that wasn’t what made my jaw hang open.

Next to the sofa stood a life-size bronze statue of her. Same pose. Same expression.

“No way,” I whispered, walking closer. I reached out and pressed a finger to the statue, cold and hard. “Oh my god,” I breathed. “She cloned herself.”

I stepped back, glancing between the painting and the statue, half-expecting one of them to move. Or speak. Or light another cigarette.

“I thought I heard someone,” said a voice behind me.

“Ahhh!” I screamed like a banshee and smacked the back of my head on the fireplace mantel as I spun around in a flailing blur of dignity loss. Pain exploded behind my eyes, and I clutched my skull. “Ow. Ow. Ow.”

A woman stood in the doorway of the den, watching me with calm interest, like this was not the first time she’d startled someone into mild injury.

She looked to be around my age, thirty-ish and pretty. No—pretty was underselling it. She was the kind of blonde pretty that made mirrors insecure. Hair had been pulled back neatly, accentuating large green eyes and full lips. Her suit probably cost more than my monthly rent back in New York.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” she said. “You must be Sarah.”

I stared at her. Then at the statue. Then back at her. “Either I have a concussion,” I said, “or you’re not supposed to be here.”

She smiled, friendly and unfazed. “I’m Becca Hartwell.”

Ah. “Of course you are,” I told her. “Why wouldn’t there be another Hartwell hiding in my pink nightmare.” I’d never met her before, but I’d heard her name mentioned over the years—a cousin. And I wasn’t sure if I liked her yet.

Said cousin stepped farther into the room, her heels clicking softly on the wood floors. “Second cousin. Or first once removed. Or something like that. The family tree’s… complicated.”