Chapter 10 Sarah
SARAH
“Move,” I said through clenched teeth.
I angled my body, pressed my hands on Edna’s statue’s face, and heaved as much as I could. The statue didn’t even move one centimeter.
Not a wiggle. Not a courtesy rock. Nothing.
I let out a frustrated breath. “What kind of statue this size weighs a freaking ton!”
The statue stared back at me with Edna’s permanently disappointed expression, chin lifted, lips pursed like she’d caught me doing something shameful. Which, to be fair, she probably would’ve considered existing shameful.
“You need to put your weight into it, darling,” said Lola, sipping what looked like a martini while sitting on one of the couches in the den and watching me sweat.
I glared at her. “What do you think I’ve been doing for the past twenty minutes.”
Lola shrugged. “Lots of heavy breathing and sweating.” She grinned. “That’s also my cardio. But unlike you, I use real males. Strong, glorious males.”
“Ha. Ha.”
I swear if this woman hadn’t given me that huge check, I might be considering throwing her out on her ass. Or at least hiding her martini glass and watching her spiral.
I repositioned my hands, this time bracing my shoulder against Edna’s bronze collarbone. Cold. So cold. Why was she cold? Was this statue haunted? Because it felt haunted.
“Okay,” I muttered. “We’re going to try this again, Edna. You and me. One final showdown.”
I pushed. Nothing.
I pushed harder.
Still nothing.
Motherfracker. “I know you’re doing this on purpose,” I told it. “You were stubborn in life, and apparently you’re stubborn in stone. Congratulations on the follow-through.”
Lola leaned forward slightly. “Have you tried apologizing?”
I shot her a look. “To the statue?”
“To Edna,” she corrected. “Some women require acknowledgment before they release their grip on a space.”
“I am not apologizing to a dead woman who once told me I’d never amount to anything and then left me an inn out of spite.”
Lola lifted her glass. “Fair.”
I took a step back, wiped my forehead with the hem of my shirt, and assessed the situation like a general surveying a losing battlefield.
The den was half cleared. Chairs stacked.
Side tables moved. Rugs rolled. Yet Edna remained, planted dead center, holding on to her cigarette and daring me to try again.
“Who commissions a statue of themselves?” I muttered.
Lola smirked. “Someone who expects history to agree with them.”
A ring sounded from the front desk and I stilled, waiting. After the third ring, I heard a click, and that’s when I knew the answering machine picked up.
Dottie had shown me how to do it so I could one, use the bathroom, two, go change out of my yoga pants and pull on some jeans, and three, clean the den to get ready for the guests tomorrow.
Maria was still cleaning the rooms, so I thought I’d pitch in. And what I meant by pitching in was getting rid of that creepy life-size statue of Edna.
If I wanted this business to succeed, I shouldn’t scare away the guests.
I turned back to Edna, fueled by fresh irritation. “That’s it.” I bent my knees, wrapped my arms around the statue’s waist—which was deeply uncomfortable, by the way, because stone Edna had no give—and lifted.
My feet slid.
The statue did not.
And I might have let out a fart.
I was in hell.
“Oh my god,” I gasped, my face inches from bronze. “Do you have lead in you? How the hell was anyone able to bring this in?” With a crane, I’d believe it.
Lola clapped once, delighted. “This is better than cable.”
“I am going to win,” I told the statue. I turned around, and using my back, I started to push.
The statue remained unmoved.
Sweat trickled down my back. My thighs burned. My dignity lay somewhere near the rolled-up rug by the fireplace.
“Have you considered,” Lola said thoughtfully, “that she wants to stay?”
I paused. “I’m not leaving this thing in here. It’s creepy.”
“Maybe she likes watching you struggle.”
I looked Edna in the eye. “You enjoy this. Don’t you?” Her stone lips said nothing, but spiritually? She was smiling.
I let go and stumbled back, breathing hard. “Okay. New plan.”
Lola perked up. “Involves explosives?”
“No,” I said. “Involves leverage. Physics. Possibly swearing.”
Lola raised her glass. “My favorite combination.”
I dragged a nearby chair closer, wedged it carefully under the statue’s base, and tested the angle. The statue shifted—barely—but enough to give me hope.
“There,” I said. “See? Progress.”
Lola leaned back. “You’re glowing. And you stink.”
I let out a breath. “Thanks. I needed that.” But she wasn’t wrong. Still, I wasn’t looking forward to another shower with a bar of soap that looked like it belonged in the 1970s. Yay me.
“So,” said Lola, drawing the word out like she had all day and nowhere to be, “what did you think of Alex? The two of you seemed pretty cozy.” She lifted her brows meaningfully.
“What? Pffft.” I waved a hand, already turning back toward the statue. “He was just here to help fix some things. That’s it.”
Lola hummed loudly… judgingly.
Dust-guy had proved to be more useful than I’d expected.
Annoyingly so. Competent. Focused. The kind of man who didn’t waste words and somehow made you feel like you were the one rambling.
Even though he’d been a jerk and doused me with dust and never once apologized for it.
Which I had absolutely not forgotten. Or forgiven.
I braced my hands on Edna’s statue again and pushed.
Nothing.
My mind, traitor that it was, drifted anyway.
To the way his hands had brushed mine while we fixed the door.
How it hadn’t been dramatic or lingering, just…
there, warm and solid. Enough that my body had reacted before my brain could shut it down.
The quick, inconvenient spike of awareness had no business existing while I was sweating through my shirt and arguing with bronze.
Nope. Not doing that.
I shook my head, as if I could physically dislodge the memory. Alex was not a distraction. He was not stupidly attractive. He was not allowed to live rent-free in my head while I was trying to run an inn, wrestle with unresolved family trauma, and evict a judgmental stone effigy.
Lola was still watching me, her lips curved.
“He’s just a man who fixes things,” I said firmly. “I have things to fix. Including this statue. Priorities.”
Lola took a slow sip of her martini. “Of course you do, darling.”
I pushed harder, ignoring the heat creeping up my neck that had absolutely nothing to do with Alex’s stupid, calm voice or the way he looked when he concentrated.
This was not the time. This was not the place.
And if my pulse had briefly betrayed me earlier, that was between me and the statue.
Someone cleared their throat.
My hands slipped mid-push, and I stumbled, nearly falling head-first into Edna’s statue. I caught myself at the last second, my palms slapping against cold bronze and my heart pounding like I’d just been caught shoplifting or accidentally liking an ex’s Instagram post from 2014.
I whirled around.
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?”