Page 4 of The Worst Possible Plan

I felt like I was being emotionally attacked and complimented at the same time.

“The point is,” continued Lola, “our girl needs all the help she can get. She needs to look presentable if she wants to find a job and get laid.”

I choked on my coffee.

Dottie rolled her eyes. “Not everybody’s life revolves around men and sex.”

“No,” said Lola calmly. “Just the fun parts.” She smiled and gave me a wink. “This reminds me of the time I was homeless.”

I looked up at her. “You were homeless?”

“For nearly four months.”

“What happened?”

Lola waved a hand lazily. “A misunderstanding involving my third husband, a yacht broker named Antonio, and a woman from Monaco with extremely aggressive cheekbones.” She took another sip of coffee. “Anyway, technically I had nowhere permanent to live, so I simply rotated between several very generous men with excellent mattresses and low emotional expectations.”

I nodded, not sure what to say to that.

“Here we go,” said Dottie with a sigh.

“Monday through Wednesday, I stayed with a plastic surgeon who kept silk sheets on the bed,” continued Lola, completely unbothered. “Thursdays were for a divorced architect with thighs like a Greek statue. Weekends depended entirely on wine quality and whether or not the man snored.”

“That’s not homeless,” I pointed out.

“That is luxury homelessness,” Lola corrected. “There’s a difference.”

I looked down at my pancakes. The saddest part was that even her homelessness sounded more glamorous than my actual life.

“I need the strongest cup of coffee you’ve got,” ordered a familiar voice.

I whirled around in my seat. A woman in her late fifties marched toward us with the energy of someone on her way to either solve a crisis or start one. Her shoulder-length gray hair brushed against the collar of her navy blazer, and she wore bright red glasses over a green shirt and a pair of faded jeans that looked suspiciously like they’d once belonged to an ex-husband.

Helen. Our town mayor.

Lola leaned back in her chair, watching Helen as she dumped her bag on the floor. “What crawled up your butt this morning?”

Helen glowered at her. “I’m not in the mood for your vulgarities.”

Lola shrugged. “Darling, changing the batteries of your vibrator is really not that difficult.”

Yup. It was going to be one of those days.

Helen’s face reddened, but she didn’t add anything to that.

“Here. Fresh pot,” said Dottie as she poured a steaming hot cup of coffee for Helen.

Our mayor pulled out a chair and sat. “I’ve been up since five this morning, going through all the résumés I have on file. And nothing. No one is qualified to help.”

“With what?” I asked before shoving half a pancake into my mouth and seeing Lola shaking her head disapprovingly at me.

Helen grabbed the coffee mug with both hands like it contained emotional stability. “The Summer Festival.”

I paused mid-chew.

The Maplewood Falls Summer Festival was a huge deal. Tourists flooded the town for fireworks, live music, food vendors, games, craft booths, a parade, and usually at least one small public disaster involving some nakedness.

“It starts in two days,” continued Helen. “And practically nothing is prepared. If Sheriff Walker calls me one more time about festival permits, I’m retiring.”