Page 34 of The Accidental Innkeeper

Yeah. Super swell reading. Very comforting. No notes.

“You should have a glass of wine to calm your nerves,” announced Lola, propped elegantly on a chair next to the front desk, sipping red wine like she was watching live theater instead of my slow unraveling.

I shot her a look. “Isn’t it a bit early for wine?” It was ten in the morning.

Lola flashed me her teeth. “Only if you plan on being productive.”

I wanted to tell her to get lost. Or at least to take her wine and her commentary and shove it up her outrageously well-funded butt. But she was technically my only paying guest, tenant, long-term resident, or whatever category she fell into. And without her extremely generous check, this whole soft open would’ve been a hard nope.

Besides, her room wasn’t even ready.

Lola lifted her glass, unfazed. “Also, I just wanted to point out. It’s not early if you didn’t sleep. I was occupied. Repeatedly,” she added with a giggle.

“I slept, for a few hours, I think,” I said, flipping through my aunt’s ledger like it might suddenly translate itself. “I just didn’t rest.” No because I was in a new place, a new bed, and apparently with a new life. No way in hell was I going to get a good night’s sleep, not for another week or so.

The phone rang.

Lola smiled. “That sound? That’s destiny. And money.”

And stress. I snatched up the receiver. “Hello, Hartwell Inn.”

A pause. Then a cheerful voice. “Hi! I’m calling to confirm our reservation for tomorrow?”

Of course you are.

“Yes,” I said brightly, already sweating. “Of course. Let me just… check on that. Hold on please.”

I put the caller on hold and immediately hissed, “Why is everyone coming tomorrow? What’s so special about tomorrow? Is there some weird festival I’m not aware of?”

Lola shrugged. “Ocean air. Pink building. Word spreads, darling.”

Wonderful.

The front door rattled.

I stared at it. The phone blinked. My aunt’s ledger laughed at me silently.

“Looks like some guests have arrived early,” commented Lola, sipping her wine.

My heart dropped. “God, I hope not. Nothing is ready yet.” If whoever was trying to get in was a guest, I was going to fake my own death.

“Or it could be James for round three,” purred Lola. “He’s very good with his tongue.”

Eww.

The handle jiggled. Nothing happened. Then whoever it was leaned into it, and the door finally bumped open like it had lost the will to fight.

A woman stood there with a sturdy stance and a face that had seen things. Mid-fifties, short dark hair pulled back tight, sensible shoes, and two industrial-sized buckets hanging from each arm, the bottles clanking softly inside like she was ready to go to war.

“You must be Sarah,” she said walking up to me.

“Yes,” I said because clearly my reputation had beaten me here. “And you are?”

“I’m Maria,” she said. “Dottie sent me. I cleaned for Edna.”

I stared at the woman. Part of me wanted to tackle her into a hug, but then I remembered that I didn’t do hugs.

“You’re a gift,” I said instead, relief spreading through me. “You’re an actual miracle.”