Chapter 23 Sarah #2
But my eyes burned anyway, and I had to blink fast because once the tears started, I wasn’t sure I could stop them. I had no idea what to say. Words felt too small, inadequate, like trying to wrap something enormous with a single strip of tape.
These women were real friends, all of them. Even as different as they were—a little unhinged, sharp, practical, blunt—they’d come together to do this. For me. Not because they had to. Not because it was expected. Just because they wanted to.
No one had ever done anything like that for me. Ever.
I pressed my lips together, breathed in slowly, and reminded myself that falling apart was not on the menu tonight. But the truth sat heavy in my chest anyway.
I hadn’t just been tired or stressed. I’d been lonely.
And standing there, surrounded by candles and food and people who had quietly decided I mattered, it felt dangerously close to relief.
I blinked faster. Then I laughed trying to cover it up, the sound coming out all strangled and wrong. “You guys… you didn’t have to do this.”
Dottie waved a dismissive hand. “Of course we did. Gratitude should involve carbs and wine.”
“And sex,” replied Lola. “Lots and lots of sex.”
“And watching you try to relax for an entire evening is going to be very entertaining,” added Becca with a grin.
I looked at the table again—the candles, the food, the people who, somehow, had decided I was worth this effort.
Something warm pressed against my ribs. “Okay,” I said quietly, “but if I cry, I’m blaming the onions.”
Dottie pulled out a chair at the head of the table. “Sit. Eat. Be celebrated.”
I did what I was told because arguing felt impossible, and watched as Lola poured me a generous glass of wine. The kind that said, we’ve assessed the situation and this is medically necessary.
Lola lifted her own glass first, of course. “To Sarah,” she said, her voice warm and unapologetic. “For staying. For fixing. For not running screaming back to New York like a lesser woman might have. And for having more balls than most of the men I date.”
Helen raised her glass with a decisive nod. “To Sarah. For keeping the Hartwell Inn alive. And for having the good sense to claim what’s hers.”
“To Sarah,” said Becca. “For choosing this. For choosing us. And for finally realizing she’s stronger than the story she came in with.”
Dottie held up a spoon instead of a glass. “And for not dying. That’s always worth celebrating.”
They all looked at me.
My face burned. I wasn’t used to being the center of attention like that. Still, my throat tight, I lifted my glass. “Wow. Okay. This is… a lot. But thank you. Really.”
“Drink,” commanded Lola. “Before you get emotional and ruin my mascara by association.”
I laughed, which helped. A lot. We clinked glasses, and spoon, the sound bright and solid, and for the first time in weeks, something in me loosened instead of tightened.
They sat, their chairs scraping softly against the floor, all except Dottie, who disappeared toward the stove with purpose.
Lola produced a compact from her purse and dotted her forehead. “I hate an oily forehead.”
“You’ve got another date,” said Helen, “or should I call it what it is. A sex date.”
Lola laughed. “You’re just jealous because the last time you were on a date, the streets had cobblestones.”
Ouch.
Helen’s face darkened a few shades, but she didn’t rise to it.
“Of course it’s a sex date,” Lola went on. “If I don’t have sex at least once a day, I break out in hives.”
“Told you she was a slut,” Dottie called from the stove.
Lola snapped her compact shut and gave me a wink. “I prefer the term sexually proactive. Slut just sounds underqualified.”
Okay then.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Dottie called over her shoulder. “Because I made something that could end wars.”
She returned carrying a massive pan, steam rising. The smell hit me instantly, rich, savory, and comforting in a way that felt unfair. Layers of roasted vegetables, bubbling cheese, herbs that made my mouth water on contact.
“Vegetable lasagna,” Dottie announced proudly. “With a béchamel that took patience and a light emotional breakdown.” She set it in the center of the table and immediately started cutting into it, decisive and efficient. The knife slid through with ease, revealing perfect layers.
She served me first, placing the plate in front of me like an offering. “For the guest of honor,” she said. “And because you look like you need it most.”
I stared down at the plate for a second, overwhelmed by how good it looked. “This smells illegal.”
Dottie beamed. “I know. Eat.”
I did. One bite and I closed my eyes without meaning to. “Wow,” I said, my mouth still half full. “Okay. This is… really, really good.”
Dottie pressed her hands to her hips. “I know that too.”
Plates were passed, wine refilled, forks clinked, and conversation picked up like it hadn’t been waiting patiently for permission.
“So,” said Helen after a few bites, setting her fork down. “Fall’s coming, which means we need to start planning the festival.”
Becca groaned. “Already? We just had the Pearls & Pints. And I’m still recovering from the Spring Fling Incident.”
“That was not my fault,” said Helen. “No one told me the inflatable pumpkin had weight limits.”
“It launched a child,” said Becca.
Helen shrugged. “He landed. Didn’t he?”
Lola laughed. “Ah, yes. The Maplewood Fall Festival. Where pumpkins are weapons and cider is a lifestyle.”
I looked up. “There’s a fall festival?” I didn’t know why I was surprised. I had a feeling this town would throw a festival at any excuse.
Helen stared at me like I’d just admitted I didn’t know my own birthday. “Sarah. The Hartwell Inn has hosted the fall festival every year for decades.”
“Right.” Looked like she forgot I only got here a few weeks ago.
“With costumes,” Becca added. “And bonfires.”
“And the haunted hallway,” said Lola. “Which is only haunted because Helen insists on historical accuracy.”
“It’s not haunted,” corrected Helen, raising her chin. “It’s atmospheric.”
Dottie waved her spoon. “I’ll be doing caramel apple stations. And soup. And something with squash that will confuse people.” She widened her eyes. “Last year, I added some nuts I found drying in my lab. Turns out they weren’t for eating. People took naps they didn’t plan.”
I laughed, real and unguarded, looking around the table at them. The candles flickered. The food disappeared among the easy rhythm of shared stories and mild madness.
And suddenly, without effort or doubt, I knew.
This. This was where I was supposed to be. This table. This inn. This strange, wonderful group of women who argued and teased and showed up anyway.
This was what I was supposed to do. Keep this place alive. Fill it with warmth and noise and food and people who mattered.
Dust-guy crossed my mind for half a second. Then I let the thought go.
I took another bite of lasagna and smiled to myself.
This was home.
This was me.