Chapter 3
SARAH
After dragging my suitcase behind me all the way to the pink madness, of course cursing the whole way, and then hauling it up the three-story Victorian porch steps, which were surprisingly sturdy and honestly my first pleasant surprise of the day, I rummaged through the envelope where I’d seen a set of keys and yanked them out.
The pink paint on the wood siding had faded, probably from years of sun and salt air beating it into submission. It was marginally less aggressive now but still pink, very pink.
Above the porch, a sign read: The Hartwell Inn.
White rocking chairs lined the wraparound porch, gently rocking in the breeze. Window boxes spilled over with flowers that were not just dead but aggressively dead—crunchy, forgotten, and sad.
I sighed. “If the inside is pink, I’m going to kill myself.”
After trying three keys, because of course it wasn’t the first one, I finally found the right one. I bumped my shoulder into the front door, giving it a shove before it creaked open.
Original dark wood floors squeaked under my weight as I stepped into the foyer. Beige-painted walls greeted me, and I nearly sagged with relief.
“Thank god.” I sighed.
Rich wood wainscoting lined the walls with matching door and window trims. Across from me sat a front desk that looked suspiciously like an old dresser repurposed into something functional.
Sunlight streamed in through tall windows, illuminating floating dust motes like they were part of the ambiance package.
So far, so good. I could live with this.
I kept walking, suitcase wheels rattling behind me, and turned into the den area to the left of the foyer.
The den was actually lovely. A large Persian rug anchored the room.
Comfortable chairs and sofas sat in careful groupings around wood side tables and coffee tables that looked heavy enough to double as weapons.
Light pink striped floral wallpaper lined the walls.
A large fireplace sat empty across from me, dignified and calm.
And above it—I shit you not—was a life-size painting of my great-aunt Edna, all five feet of her.
She stood stiffly, one hand gripping her walking stick and the other holding a cigarette like it was a moral statement.
Her bug eyes stared out through thick glasses, her mouth pulled into the same permanent frown I remembered from childhood.
She wasn’t smiling. She never smiled—not at Christmas, not at weddings, not even when she won at bingo.
But that wasn’t what made my jaw hang open.
Next to the sofa stood a life-size bronze statue of her. Same pose. Same expression.
“No way,” I whispered, walking closer. I reached out and pressed a finger to the statue, cold and hard. “Oh my god,” I breathed. “She cloned herself.”
I stepped back, glancing between the painting and the statue, half-expecting one of them to move. Or speak. Or light another cigarette.
“I thought I heard someone,” said a voice behind me.
“Ahhh!” I screamed like a banshee and smacked the back of my head on the fireplace mantel as I spun around in a flailing blur of dignity loss. Pain exploded behind my eyes, and I clutched my skull. “Ow. Ow. Ow.”
A woman stood in the doorway of the den, watching me with calm interest, like this was not the first time she’d startled someone into mild injury.
She looked to be around my age, thirty-ish and pretty. No—pretty was underselling it. She was the kind of blonde pretty that made mirrors insecure. Hair had been pulled back neatly, accentuating large green eyes and full lips. Her suit probably cost more than my monthly rent back in New York.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” she said. “You must be Sarah.”
I stared at her. Then at the statue. Then back at her. “Either I have a concussion,” I said, “or you’re not supposed to be here.”
She smiled, friendly and unfazed. “I’m Becca Hartwell.”
Ah. “Of course you are,” I told her. “Why wouldn’t there be another Hartwell hiding in my pink nightmare.” I’d never met her before, but I’d heard her name mentioned over the years—a cousin. And I wasn’t sure if I liked her yet.
Said cousin stepped farther into the room, her heels clicking softly on the wood floors. “Second cousin. Or first once removed. Or something like that. The family tree’s… complicated.”
“Right.”
Her gaze flicked briefly to the bronze statue of my great-aunt and then back to me. “You met Edna.”
I nodded. “I met her when she was alive too. Now she’s very… present,” I said. “In multiple mediums.”
Becca laughed lightly. “Yeah. Bet she did that on purpose.” She stared at me a moment. “So you’re the writer? Write anything I know.”
And there it was. The dreaded question all authors faced. I swallowed. “Probably not.” I wasn’t in the mood to have a polite conversation about my writing. I wasn’t famous, not by a long shot. But I did make enough to live, and so far, that was good enough for me.
I rubbed the back of my head and immediately regretted it because, yep, cartoon-level bump happening. “So,” I said slowly, “why are you inside my inn?”
“Oh.” She said it like the answer was obvious. “I’m a realtor. Edna asked me to assess the place. Prep paperwork. Be on standby.”
I blinked. “Standby for what.”
She hesitated just a fraction. “Options.”
Ah. “No one told me about options,” I said. “What kind of options?”
“I assumed,” Becca said carefully, “that you’d sell.”
I laughed—a short, slightly unhinged sound. I totally sounded crazy. “Wow. Okay. I’ve been in Maplewood Falls for…” I checked my watch. “Maybe forty minutes, and already the town has plans for me.”
She raised her hands slightly. “I’m not pushing. I’m just… here. Our aunt wanted everything ready in case you didn’t want to deal with it.”
I glanced around the den at the wallpaper, the furniture, the statue that was definitely watching me.
Deal with it.
That’s right. Dear aunt Edna thought I was a loser. And what did losers do? They bailed out of complicated situations. That’s what.
Becca followed my gaze. “That wing’s been closed for years,” she added casually. “Don’t open the door by the stairs unless you enjoy mold. The boiler screams sometimes, but only at night. And the roof over the east side leaks when it storms.”
My traitorous brain immediately drifted to Dust-guy. To his perfect face. Then to his very fine ass. Then, annoyingly, to what he’d said about the condition of the inn. And then, because I had no self-control, right back to his scrumptious ass.
Yeah. I needed therapy.
My eye twitched. “I get the feeling this inn’s been closed a long time. There’s a lot of dust.”
Becca nodded. “Six months.”
“Six.” I repeated because sometimes my brain needed subtitles. “Months.”
“Mm-hm.”
Six months. That was long enough for spiders to unionize. Long enough for dust to form its own ecosystem. Long enough for the inn to develop a personality disorder.
Damn. I looked past her, down the hall, as if I might spot the exact moment the place had given up. “So… it’s been sitting here. Empty. And pink.”
“Yes.”
“And no one thought to mention this little detail in, I don’t know… the letter. The will. A smoke signal.”
Becca gave me a sympathetic smile. “Our aunt wasn’t big on… communicating.”
“That is an understatement.” I glanced back at bronze Edna and her cigarette of judgment. “She communicated exclusively through intimidation and decor.”
Becca’s eyes flicked to the statue. “She commissioned that after the town put up a plaque for her. She thought it was too small.”
“Figures.” I rubbed my forehead and tried to organize the madness in my head into manageable pieces. It immediately turned into confetti. “Okay,” I said. “Basic question. Do I have running water?”
“Yes.”
My shoulders dropped in relief so fast I almost thanked god again. “Electricity?”
“Yup.”
“Heat?”
Becca winced slightly. “Technically.”
I stared at her.
“The boiler works,” she clarified quickly, “but it’s… temperamental.”
“Right.” I pressed my lips together. “So. Water and electricity are good. Heat is not really an issue in July.” But you can bet your ass it would be come September.
Still, a place this big needed a lot of money to keep it going.
Money I didn’t have. “How are those bills even being paid if it’s been closed? ” I asked.
Becca’s expression softened. “Your aunt paid ahead. A couple of months in advance. She… didn’t want the lights shut off while you were getting here.”
“Thoughtful.” I didn’t expect that. Not from Edna Hartwell, queen of frowning at children.
Becca laughed and then stepped deeper into the den like she belonged here.
She perched on the edge of a chair with the ease of someone who didn’t fear antique upholstery.
“She closed the inn when she got sick,” continued Becca.
“When she couldn’t run it anymore. And then…
well… you know the rest. I’ve been checking in on the place, making sure it didn’t… you know. Collapse.”
“And I’m assuming Edna also gave you keys?”
“Yes.”
I set my suitcase upright near the doorway because I needed something to do with my hands that wasn’t clutching my head or waving at ghosts. The wheels rattled against the floor.
Becca watched me for a beat. “So,” she said carefully, “if you decide to stay… do you… know how to run an inn?”
There it was. The question.
It should have been asked before my aunt legally strapped a pink Victorian to my back like a cursed backpack.
My brain flashed through everything I knew about inns, which was basically: People sleep there, there are keys and doors, and muffins? Sometimes?
Yeah, I had nothing.
“I mean,” I said aloud, stalling like a professional. “How hard can it be?” The lies came shooting straight out of my ass.
Becca’s eyebrows lifted.
“You check people in,” I added. “You hand them keys, you pretend you’re not judging them for wearing flip-flops in public. Boom. Inn.”
Becca’s smile widened, but her eyes stayed sharp. “You know there’s more to it than that.”