Chapter 13 Sarah
SARAH
Have you ever heard of exhaustion insomnia? Me neither. But trust me, it’s a thing. A cruel, ironic thing that sneaks up on you after your body collapses but your brain decides it’s the perfect time to host a symposium on Every Bad Decision You’ve Ever Made.
Last night, I dragged myself to bed fully clothed, face-planted onto the mattress, and waited for unconsciousness like it was a bus that was supposed to arrive any second now.
It did not arrive.
Instead, my brain flipped on like a stadium light—bright, loud, and unhelpful.
Did I lock the back door? Was the boiler still humming? What if we lost power during the Pearls & Pints weekend? Did we have a backup generator? What if we were hit by a hurricane that blew the inn away? What if I failed spectacularly and ended up living in my car?
I was a total spaz and clearly losing my damn mind.
Around three a.m., I stared at the ceiling and accepted that sleep was more of a suggestion than a guarantee.
When I finally dragged myself out of bed, my head was throbbing, and every muscle in my body hurt more than it had yesterday. Shoulders. Legs. Arms. Muscles I didn’t even remember owning were filing formal complaints.
Why is that? Why does the body wait until the crisis is technically over before giving out?
My phone said 5:35 a.m. when I shuffled into the bathroom, my eyes half-open and crusted, soul fully exhausted.
And that’s when I noticed it.
Fresh towels.
Fresh towels. Light gray and fluffy, so no exfoliating while drying off with the other ones. There was also new hand soap. Actual hotel soap. Body wash. Shampoo. Conditioner. The tiny bottles you steal and hoard like currency even though you never use them.
Maria had been here. Bless her. May her pillow always be cool.
I stared at the setup for a long moment, genuinely touched, and then glanced down at Edna’s ancient bar of soap sitting on the sink like a threat. That thing could’ve sanded furniture.
I grabbed it, didn’t even aim, and flung it over my shoulder.
I heard a distant plop.
“Consider this a breakup.”
The shower was hot. Blessedly hot. Steam filled the room, loosening the knot in my head, and when I reached for the body wash, it slid into my hand smooth and slick and smelling like lavender and calm and a life where things were under control.
I moaned. Out loud. Zero shame.
If this was what nice hotels felt like, I understood why people paid money for them instead of inheriting a pink madness.
By the time I got dressed, with my only pair of black dress pants and fitted black shirt, my headache had retreated to a dull pulse instead of a full marching band, and my reflection looked…
marginally human. Tired, yes, but determined.
The kind of determined you get when failure is not an option because you’ve already burned the exit ramp.
By morning, I’d retrieved my car, deposited Lola’s check at the Maplewood Falls Bank, and convinced myself that four hours of sleep counted as rest.
The bank smelled like disinfectant, like I’d just missed the early cleaning crew.
The lobby lights were on, but the place was empty except for the ATM humming.
I fed Lola’s check into the deposit slot and watched the screen think about it.
Too long. Way too long. Panic rose in my chest. This wasn’t a small check.
It was a massive one. And there was always the risk of the machine spitting it back and telling me to go see the bank teller.
Please don’t bounce. I have plans for you. Big plans.
The machine finally accepted it.
No alarms or flashing red warnings. And no sirens summoning a financial SWAT team.
Okay, then.
The inn opened at seven. I was back there at six forty-five, coffee in hand, optimism already on life support.
I unlocked the front door and stepped inside, the quiet hitting me all at once. Morning light spilled through the windows, dust motes floating lazily. The place smelled faintly of coffee, wood polish, and something floral that might’ve been lavender or lilac.
I set my cup down behind the desk and took a breath. “You can do this.”
Today was the day. My first guests. Five of them. Well, six, if you counted Boomer, the dog belonging to the woman who’d booked one of the ground-floor rooms and asked three separate times if there were “rules about barking.”
There were no rules. I was making them up as we went.
I checked the reservation book again, even though I’d already memorized it in a sleep-deprived haze. Names. Dates. Notes. One allergy. One early riser. One guest who requested “low ambient energy.” No idea what that meant. But… whatever. I was going to wing it and see what happened.
I straightened the bell on the desk, adjusted it, and adjusted it again. Too far left. Too far right. Perfect. And then a thought occurred to me.
Breakfast.
Shit.
What were we going to serve for breakfast?
My brain did that horrible record-scratch thing and went completely blank. Not empty in a peaceful, Zen way. Empty in a forgot-to-study-for-the-exam-you’re-already-taking way.
Menus. I hadn’t gone over the menus with Dottie. I hadn’t confirmed what she was making. Or how much. Or if it involved allergens. Or if it involved fire. Dottie’s cooking lived somewhere on the spectrum between comforting and mildly illegal, well, from what I’d observed so far.
I looked at the clock behind the desk. 6:52 a.m.
Seven minutes.
Seven freaking minutes until guests started emerging, hungry and hopeful, expecting things like food and competence.
I grabbed my coffee, took a frantic gulp, immediately burned my tongue, hissed, and slapped the cup back down.
“Great,” I hissed. “Fantastic start.”
I rounded the desk and power-walked toward the back of the house, my internal monologue sprinting ahead of me.
What if Dottie decided breakfast was optional? What if she was still asleep? What if she’d made one of her experimental health concoctions she’d tried to force-drink me last night?
I walked with my butt cheeks squeezed together, which made no sense but seemed required for speed-walking. I barreled down the hallway, nearly tripping over my own feet, and made a beeline for the kitchen.
The door was already ajar. Light spilled out. So did sound.
Pans clinked. A radio hummed something cheerful and vaguely old-fashioned. The unmistakable smell of bacon, real bacon, not “turkey-adjacent” bacon or “bacon-flavored.”
I rushed into the kitchen. The kitchen island was covered. Bowls. Whisks. Plates. A stack of pancakes rested under a clean towel. A skillet sizzled on the stove. Eggs waiting patiently in a carton.
Dottie stood at the counter, her hair piled up in a messy knot, moving with the confidence of someone who had fed an entire town at least once. The white apron across her middle read: EXPERIMENTAL BATCH.
Not sure how that made me feel.
I sagged against the doorframe, my spine turning into warm pudding. “Oh thank god,” I breathed.
Dottie glanced up, spatula in hand and her eyes bright. “Mornin’, sunshine. Did you sleep well? I slept great. Closed my eyes and—bam—giant mushrooms. Very hostile. I did brew a little tea before bed. Picked the mushrooms myself in the woods behind my house. Pretty sure they were fine.”
I walked forward. “You’re… cooking.”
She smiled wider. “That is generally what I do in kitchens. But I do have a lab at home. I call it ‘Dottie’s Try-It-And-See Room.’” She flipped the spatula once, pleased.
“That’s where I brew all my natural remedies.
Tonics. Creams. Tinctures. Salves. Teas.
Sometimes devices.” She lowered her voice, like this was common sense.
“Doctors are helpful, but they miss things. Herbs don’t.
Also, I don’t trust anyone who doesn’t grow at least one plant.
” She waved a hand. “It’s very organized.
If you don’t count the wires. Or the soldering iron. Or the smell. Mostly eucalyptus.”
“Right,” I admitted, my hands braced on the island. “I completely forgot to go over breakfast with you. I thought I’d opened an inn with no food, and we’d all have to apologize and hand out protein bars.”
Dottie flipped something in the pan with a practiced flick. “Don’t worry. I’ve been doing breakfast here longer than you’ve been alive.”
That was both comforting and mildly insulting.
I scanned the spread. “What are you making?”
“Eggs. Bacon. Pancakes. Fruit. Toast. French Toast. Beans in maple syrup. Coffee strong enough to wake the dead.” She eyed me. “You look like you could use the last one.”
“I slept four hours,” I said. “And I spent most of that time thinking about fire codes and towels.”
Dottie snorted. “Rookie mistake. You think about towels after breakfast.” She slid a plate toward me. A pancake, perfectly golden, with steam curling up like it was calling my name. “Hungry?” she asked.
My stomach answered immediately with an enthusiastic growl. “I am. Very. But also I might throw up if I eat.” Yeah, pretty sure I would.
Dottie leaned her hip against the counter, studying me with that look she had, half maternal, half amused, fully unbothered. “It’s your first day. Totally expected.”
“It is?” Not sure how I felt about that.
“You’ve got the eyes,” she said. “Wide. Wired. Like you’re waiting for something to go wrong and explode.”
“I kind of am.”
Dottie made a face. “Speaking of exploding, I think I left my arthritis-glove prototype on a boiler in the lab. It hums when it’s happy.” She chuckled and went back to the stove. “Eat half. You’ll live.”
“I don’t know,” I said, eyeing the pancake like it might bite me. “What if a guest comes in while I’m chewing? What if I get syrup on myself? What if I choke?”
Dottie turned, her spatula pointed at me. “If you choke, I’ll Heimlich you. If a guest walks in, they’ll see the owner eating her own food and think, Oh good, she’s human. If you get syrup on yourself, congratulations. You’re officially running an inn.”
I stared at the pancake. She wasn’t wrong.