Page 103 of The Accidental Innkeeper

Some of the winning ladies had already departed with their respective meat-men in tow, clutching arms, whispering plans, and wearing expressions that suggested no one would be getting much sleep tonight. The rest lingered. Of course they did.

Why rush away when there was free booze?

The lawn had shifted into a looser, buzzier version of itself. Clusters of women stood laughing too loudly, pearls glinting in the late afternoon sun, glasses refilled with suspicious frequency. Shoes had come off. Voices had risen. Someone was definitely crying happy tears near the bar.

Dottie had claimed the long tables like conquered territory. She’d laid out her finger foods with military precision. Platters of mini crab cakes, cheeses, skewers of lobster rolls, something that smelled buttery and illegal, tiny pastry cups filled with a mystery spread no one dared ask about. Flowing white linens draped the tables, fluttering in the ocean breeze like they were trying to escape.

She stood proudly behind it all, her hands on her hips, surveying her work. Her blonde hair was pulled back into two pigtails, a long, flowing light-blue linen skirt swaying around her legs.

Her apron today was a violent shade of orange with bold black letters that read:

FOLLOW THE SPOON.

I watched as she slapped a toothpick out of Jason’s hand. “Those are for guests, not growing boys who think they’re invincible.”

Jason shrugged. “I am invincible.”

“Then you don’t need food,” she snapped, shooing him away.

Laughter pulled my attention around. Lola stood in a gathering of women, Mark the sailor beside her, one hand casually hooked through his arm like he was a designer accessory she’d picked up on a whim. He looked relaxed, tan, smiling easily, clearly enjoying the attention. Lola leaned in close to him as she laughed, her pearl-blue sequined dress catching the light with every movement.

At one point, she glanced over at me and gave me a subtle little eyebrow wiggle, gesturing to his crotch.

I pretended not to see it. I absolutely saw it. And now I could never unsee it.

Across the lawn, Helen sat alone at one of the small cocktail tables, a neat stack of papers in front of her. She was counting, recounting, and then counting again.

Her red glasses were perched low on her nose, her blazer still perfectly in place, despite the heat. A calculator appeared at some point. Her lips curved into a quiet, satisfied smile, the kind that didn’t need an audience.

She looked… happy. Proud. Like the whole exhausting, bossy, table-rearranging nightmare had been worth it.

Becca stayed beside me, her presence a steady anchor in the middle of the madness. She held a glass of red wine and leaned in close, her voice low.

“Well,” she said, scanning the lawn, “no one was arrested, no one fell into the ocean, and the town made a small fortune.”

I snorted. “Give it another hour.”

She laughed and then bumped her shoulder lightly against mine. “You okay?”

I nodded automatically. “My head hurts. How can you drink? Aren’t you suffering from liver malfunction? Or at least mild organ betrayal?”

“Nope.” Becca took a leisurely sip of wine, smug and unbothered, like her internal organs had signed a non-aggression pact.

Just watching her swallow made my stomach do a slow, offended roll.

“Here,” said Dottie, suddenly materializing at my side like a witch summoned by a hangover.

She was barefoot, her toes spread out in the grass like she’d claimed this patch of lawn as her territory. Honestly, part of me wanted to kick off my heels and join her. The ground looked cool and forgiving, unlike my skull.

“It’s my hangover cure,” she announced proudly, handing me a tall glass filled with a murky brown liquid.

I stared at it and then leaned in for a cautious sniff. It smelled like tar and manure had a secret, shameful baby. “Please tell me this isn’t liquefied poop.”

Becca immediately snorted wine out of her nose. “God. Why did you have to say that?” she choked, laughing as red wine dribbled down her chin.

“Of course not,” said Dottie, beaming like I’d just complimented her haircut. That did not help. “I call it Soul Cleanse 9000,” she continued. “Drink up while it’s still warm.”

I recoiled. “It’s warm?”