Chapter 10 Sarah #2
Helen sighed, deep and long, like a woman who had already explained this to six other people today and resented having to do it again.
“Pearls & Pints Bachelor Weekend,” she repeated, frustration high in her voice. “It’s our biggest annual event. Tourism. Fundraising. Local economy. Women with money and opinions descend on the town, men get auctioned off for charity, and everyone pretends it’s tasteful.”
I stared at her.
She stared back.
Lola lifted her glass. “It is tasteful. Compared to last year. Though I will say—auction paddles make excellent accessories.”
My mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “This is a real thing. You auction off men?”
“Bachelors,” Helen corrected.
That was… not better. I stared at her. She stared back, calm and unbothered, like she’d just told me the recycling pickup schedule, not that my inherited inn was about to host a live-action mating ritual.
“You’re telling me,” I said, “that women come here, drink cocktails, and bid actual money on men.”
“Yes.”
“For dates.”
“Yes.”
“In public.”
“Yes.”
I glanced at Lola. She smiled like she’d just remembered a fond vacation.
Helen continued, because apparently she enjoyed watching my sanity unravel. “It’s for charity. The lighthouse fund this year. Harbor maintenance. Scholarships. Very respectable.”
I laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. “You just said the word bachelors like it was a zoning category.”
Helen adjusted her glasses. “The men volunteer. It’s not like we force them.”
Lola snorted. “Eventually.”
Helen shot her a look. “They’re eager participants.”
“Mm-hmm,” Lola said. “Nothing motivates a man like wine, applause, and a numbered paddle.”
I rubbed my forehead. “Okay. Walk me through this. Slowly. Like I just woke up from a coma.” Because, that’s how it felt. “When,” I asked carefully, “is this happening.”
Helen checked her watch. “Next week.”
The room tilted. “Next week,” I echoed.
“Yes.”
I gestured wildly at the statue, the dust, the chaos. “This place is barely standing. I just stopped the boiler from screaming like it was being murdered.”
Helen nodded. “I know.”
That did not help.
“And you thought,” I said, my voice climbing, “that this was the moment to bring this up?”
Helen tilted her head, studying me. “I thought you’d want to be prepared.”
Prepared! I laughed. A short, slightly hysterical sound. “I am currently in a physical standoff with my dead aunt.”
Helen’s gaze flicked to Edna’s statue. Her mouth tightened. “Yes. Well. Edna was… very committed to her presence.”
“That’s one word for it.”
Helen stepped closer, lowering her voice just enough to make it feel like a warning. “This inn has always been central to Pearls & Pints. People book a year in advance. They expect standards.”
I swallowed. “Right. Standards.”
Helen nodded, like she’d been waiting for permission. “The weekend starts Friday. Welcome reception. Cocktail hour. Light mingling. Nothing aggressive.”
Lola lifted her glass. “Debatable.”
Helen ignored her. “Saturday night is the auction. Each bachelor is presented. Name, age, profession. Any relevant… talents.”
“Talents,” I repeated faintly.
“Skills,” Helen clarified.
Lola leaned forward. “Some transferable.”
Helen sighed. “The highest bidder wins a date.”
“What kind of date?” I asked.
Helen thought about it. “Dinner. Sailing. Wine tasting. Picnic. Guided hikes.”
Lola smiled sweetly. “And sometimes dessert.”
I made a strangled sound.
Helen continued, “Sunday is recovery. Brunch. Regret management.”
“That’s not a thing,” I said.
“It absolutely is,” Lola said.
I looked back at Helen. “And my inn is…”
“The central lodging,” she said. “The social hub. The place everyone congregates between events. Edna always hosted the event at this inn. Every year.”
I gestured wildly around us. “This place currently contains dust, trauma, and a statue that refuses to move.”
Helen glanced at Edna’s bronze likeness. “Yes. We’ll need that addressed.”
“Addressed how.”
“Removed,” Helen said. “Or at least repositioned so she’s not… overseeing cocktail hour.”
Lola raised her glass. “Edna always loved supervision.”
I dropped onto the arm of a chair. “How many people are we talking about.”
Helen didn’t hesitate. “Forty women. Maybe more.”
My soul briefly left my body.
“And how many men.”
“A dozen. Maybe more,” Helen said. “We cap it.”
Lola smiled. “For safety.”
“For whose safety,” I whispered.
Helen folded her arms. “This weekend brings in more revenue than any other event all year. Restaurants, shops, tours. People plan for it.”
“I did not plan for it,” I said.
Helen’s expression softened just a fraction, not with sympathy but strategy. “You inherited an institution, Sarah. Maplewood Falls doesn’t stop because you weren’t ready.”
Lola nodded. “She’s right. I’ve been planning my outfits for months.”
“You live here,” I said weakly.
“Yes,” Lola said. “And I like to be prepared.”
I stared at the statue again. At the dust. At the half-cleared room. At my reflection in the dark window—sweaty, frazzled, holding together with caffeine and spite.
“One week,” I said.
“Yes,” Helen confirmed.
I swallowed.
Lola leaned closer, her voice low and delighted. “On the bright side, darling? You’re about to learn exactly how sturdy this inn really is.”
I looked at Helen. “And if it’s not ready?”
Helen met my gaze, steady and expectant. “Then Maplewood Falls will be very disappointed.”
Oh. Great. No pressure at all.