Page 48 of The Accidental Innkeeper

A woman in her late fifties stood in the den like she’d been there the whole time and was only now allowing herself to be noticed.

She had shoulder-length gray hair, the kind that had been cut with intention, not surrender. Tall—taller than me at five-foot-eight—with dark, assessing eyes behind black-framed glasses that looked like they’d seen a lot and approved of very little.

She wore a navy blazer that was at least three sizes too big, as though she’d borrowed it from a much broader man or a very ambitious coat rack, with mom jeans. A crisp white shirt was tucked in with military precision, a red belt cinched tight. Red-and-white sneakers on her feet made her look like she was prepared to walk briskly toward conflict at any moment.

The overall effect was casual authority: comfortable, unimpressed, and ready to judge.

She met my eye and didn’t blink.

Then she walked straight into the den like she owned it. “I’m Helen,” she said. “The mayor of Maplewood Falls. And you must be Sarah. Edna’s niece.”

Ah. Of course. Because why wouldn’t the mayor show up unannounced while I was half-hugging a statue and possibly smelling like sweat and regret.

“Yes,” I said, pushing myself upright and wiping my hands on my already-ruined shirt. “That’s me. Sarah. Niece. Wrestler of ancestral grudges.”

Her gaze flicked past me, taking in the stacked chairs, the rolled rugs, the dust, the half-moved statue.

She frowned. It was subtle, but it landed like a slap. “Well,” she said slowly. “This is… not ideal.”

Lola, still on the couch, raised her glass. “Helen. Darling. Always a pleasure to be inspected.”

Helen didn’t look at her, not even a little.

“What do you mean?” I asked, not appreciating her tone.

“This inn,” Helen said, her eyes still roaming the room, “is not moving nearly fast enough.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

She finally looked back at me. Straight on. No softness. No buffer. “It’s a disaster,” she said matter-of-factly. “And at this rate, it won’t be ready.”

Lola leaned over and stage-whispered, “She means a charming disaster.”

Helen shot her a look. “I do not.”

I crossed my arms. “Ready for what?” I eyed Lola’s drink and had the urge to walk over there, grab her glass, and finish it for her.

Helen’s brows knit together, just slightly, like that was the part that concerned her. “You don’t know,” she said.

I felt something cold settle in my stomach. “Know… what.”

“The festival,” she said.

The word hung there.

“The… festival,” I repeated.

“Yes,” Helen said, already disappointed in me. “Pearls & Pints Bachelor Weekend.”

Lola grinned like she’d just been handed a gift basket. “Oh, I love Pearls & Pints. Nothing brings a town together like cocktails, charity, and men who look good taking orders.”

What the hell was she talking about?

My brain stalled. Fully. Like a Windows 95 loading screen. “I’m sorry,” I said. “The what now?”

Helen sighed, deep and long, like a woman who had already explained this to six other people today and resented having to do it again.

“Pearls & Pints Bachelor Weekend,” she repeated, frustration high in her voice. “It’s our biggest annual event. Tourism. Fundraising. Local economy. Women with money and opinions descend on the town, men get auctioned off for charity, and everyone pretends it’s tasteful.”