Page 114 of The Accidental Innkeeper

I turned slowly, overwhelmed. “Why does it look like I accidentally wandered into a cooking show finale?”

Lola released my arm and gestured grandly. “Because, my dear, you are the star.”

“What?” I asked, my voice doing that thing where it wobbled just slightly, like it might betray me if I wasn’t careful.

Lola leaned in, lowering her voice. “We decided you deserved a dinner in your honor.”

I stood there, trying to make sense of it all. “In my honor?” I repeated like a simpleton.

“You’ve worked your ass off since you got here,” continued Lola. “You’ve kept this place standing. You didn’t run screaming back to New York after the first plumbing disaster, which frankly impressed all of us.”

Becca looked up and smiled. “We’re really glad you stayed, Sarah. The inn wouldn’t be the same without you.”

Helen cleared her throat and nudged her glasses up her nose. “Let’s be clear. This is not a sentimental gesture,” she said. “It’s appreciation. And morale. You’re a Hartwell. The inn belongs to a Hartwell. End of discussion.”

“And also Dottie refused to take no for an answer.” Lola laughed.

Dottie beamed. “I needed an excuse to use the good olive oil.”

My eyes burned as a sudden rush of emotions fluttered through me, fast and disorienting, like someone had shaken a snow globe inside my chest. My ex-fiancé cheating. Moving here. The inn. The endless repairs. My book deadline. Aunt Edna’s loser comment, which I pretended didn’t bother me but absolutely did. Even Dust-guy, because of course he was in there too. All of it came crashing down at once with no warning and no mercy.

I’d been holding it together for weeks—smiling, nodding, making lists, fixing things, being productive and functional and impressively fine. I’d told myself that was strength. That as long as I didn’t stop moving, none of it could catch up to me.

Turns out, it had just been waiting for candles and a long table.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight, and stared very intently at the tabletop like it might give me instructions. Say something normal. Say thank you. Don’t cry. Definitely don’t cry in front of people who will immediately notice and make it worse by being kind about it.

But my eyes burned anyway, and I had to blink fast because once the tears started, I wasn’t sure I could stop them. I had no idea what to say. Words felt too small, inadequate, like trying to wrap something enormous with a single strip of tape.

These women were real friends, all of them. Even as different as they were—a little unhinged, sharp, practical, blunt—they’d come together to do this. For me. Not because they had to. Not because it was expected. Just because they wanted to.

No one had ever done anything like that for me. Ever.

I pressed my lips together, breathed in slowly, and reminded myself that falling apart was not on the menu tonight. But the truth sat heavy in my chest anyway.

I hadn’t just been tired or stressed. I’d been lonely.

And standing there, surrounded by candles and food and people who had quietly decided I mattered, it felt dangerously close to relief.

I blinked faster. Then I laughed trying to cover it up, the sound coming out all strangled and wrong. “You guys… you didn’t have to do this.”

Dottie waved a dismissive hand. “Of course we did. Gratitude should involve carbs and wine.”

“And sex,” replied Lola. “Lots and lots of sex.”

“And watching you try to relax for an entire evening is going to be very entertaining,” added Becca with a grin.

I looked at the table again—the candles, the food, the people who, somehow, had decided I was worth this effort.

Something warm pressed against my ribs. “Okay,” I said quietly, “but if I cry, I’m blaming the onions.”

Dottie pulled out a chair at the head of the table. “Sit. Eat. Be celebrated.”

I did what I was told because arguing felt impossible, and watched as Lola poured me a generous glass of wine. The kind that said, we’ve assessed the situation and this is medically necessary.

Lola lifted her own glass first, of course. “To Sarah,” she said, her voice warm and unapologetic. “For staying. For fixing. For not running screaming back to New York like a lesser woman might have. And for having more balls than most of the men I date.”

Helen raised her glass with a decisive nod. “To Sarah. For keeping the Hartwell Inn alive. And for having the good sense to claim what’s hers.”