1. Sophie #2
She marched over carrying a plate so massive it nearly disappeared beneath the food. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, toast, and something caramelized that may once have been fruit before Dottie decided sugar and frying it were better ideas. She set down a fresh mug of coffee beside it with a satisfied nod.
“Here you go,” she announced proudly.
The smell alone nearly healed me emotionally.
“Thank you,” I said, just as my stomach gave an enormous growl. My face burned. “Got to feed the beast.” I laughed, patting my stomach.
Lola slowly lowered her coffee cup. “Darling, I think your organs are trying to communicate with us.”
I grabbed my fork before my stomach could publicly embarrass me any further.
“Don’t eat too much,” said Lola. “Or you’ll never be able to fit your ass in a decent pair of jeans.”
I blinked. “Thanks for the tip.”
Dottie shook her head. “Don’t listen to the tramp. Eat your carbs. They’re good for you. And your butt.”
“She says that because she cooks entirely with butter,” Lola replied smoothly.
Dottie raised her brows. “Flavor matters.”
“It’ll make her fat,” countered Lola. “That’s the last thing she needs.” She waved a finger at me. “The woman got dumped. Lost her job and her apartment. Trust me. She can’t afford to put on weight. She’s already close to the point of no return. That’s a sizable ass.”
“What?” I turned around in my seat and tried to look at my butt. No idea why I did that.
Dottie pulled one of her spoons out of her hair and pointed it at Lola. “Leave her alone. She’s allowed to eat her sorrows. That’s what carbs are for.”
“Wine is for sorrows,” Lola corrected. “Carbs are for people who’ve given up.” She shook her head. “Only ugly people eat carbs. Sophie is not ugly.”
“I guess… thanks?” I said, not sure where this conversation was going.
I felt like I was being emotionally attacked and complimented at the same time.
“The point is,” continued Lola, “our girl needs all the help she can get. She needs to look presentable if she wants to find a job and get laid.”
I choked on my coffee.
Dottie rolled her eyes. “Not everybody’s life revolves around men and sex.”
“No,” said Lola calmly. “Just the fun parts.” She smiled and gave me a wink. “This reminds me of the time I was homeless.”
I looked up at her. “You were homeless?”
“For nearly four months.”
“What happened?”
Lola waved a hand lazily. “A misunderstanding involving my third husband, a yacht broker named Antonio, and a woman from Monaco with extremely aggressive cheekbones.” She took another sip of coffee.
“Anyway, technically I had nowhere permanent to live, so I simply rotated between several very generous men with excellent mattresses and low emotional expectations.”
I nodded, not sure what to say to that.
“Here we go,” said Dottie with a sigh.
“Monday through Wednesday, I stayed with a plastic surgeon who kept silk sheets on the bed,” continued Lola, completely unbothered. “Thursdays were for a divorced architect with thighs like a Greek statue. Weekends depended entirely on wine quality and whether or not the man snored.”
“That’s not homeless,” I pointed out.
“That is luxury homelessness,” Lola corrected. “There’s a difference.”
I looked down at my pancakes. The saddest part was that even her homelessness sounded more glamorous than my actual life.
“I need the strongest cup of coffee you’ve got,” ordered a familiar voice.
I whirled around in my seat. A woman in her late fifties marched toward us with the energy of someone on her way to either solve a crisis or start one.
Her shoulder-length gray hair brushed against the collar of her navy blazer, and she wore bright red glasses over a green shirt and a pair of faded jeans that looked suspiciously like they’d once belonged to an ex-husband.
Helen. Our town mayor.
Lola leaned back in her chair, watching Helen as she dumped her bag on the floor. “What crawled up your butt this morning?”
Helen glowered at her. “I’m not in the mood for your vulgarities.”
Lola shrugged. “Darling, changing the batteries of your vibrator is really not that difficult.”
Yup. It was going to be one of those days.
Helen’s face reddened, but she didn’t add anything to that.
“Here. Fresh pot,” said Dottie as she poured a steaming hot cup of coffee for Helen.
Our mayor pulled out a chair and sat. “I’ve been up since five this morning, going through all the résumés I have on file. And nothing. No one is qualified to help.”
“With what?” I asked before shoving half a pancake into my mouth and seeing Lola shaking her head disapprovingly at me.
Helen grabbed the coffee mug with both hands like it contained emotional stability. “The Summer Festival.”
I paused mid-chew.
The Maplewood Falls Summer Festival was a huge deal. Tourists flooded the town for fireworks, live music, food vendors, games, craft booths, a parade, and usually at least one small public disaster involving some nakedness.
“It starts in two days,” continued Helen. “And practically nothing is prepared. If Sheriff Walker calls me one more time about festival permits, I’m retiring.”
Lola sat straighter in her chair and pushed out her chest. “Wish Sheriff Walker would call me.” A slow smile spread across her face. “Tall, grumpy men with badges are exactly why I still own handcuffs.”
“It’s a disaster.” Helen pointed at her coffee for emphasis. “The event planner quit yesterday. Said I was too demanding.”
“Shocker,” mumbled Lola.
Helen rubbed her forehead. “I need someone organized. Competent. Calm under pressure.”
Every instinct in my body told me to remain silent.
Instead, for reasons I will never fully understand, my hand shot into the air, and I heard myself say, “I can do it.”
The words flew out of my mouth so fast I almost looked around to see who’d said them.
Helen stared at me.
Lola lowered her coffee cup very slowly.
Dottie looked delighted.
I swallowed hard, waiting.
“Well,” said Helen cautiously, staring as though this was the first time she’d ever laid eyes on me. “Do you have experience planning events?”
“Yes. Lots,” I answered. Total lie. The lie was so smooth, confident, and disturbingly natural I nearly believed it myself.
Wow. Unemployment had unlocked new personality traits.
“Really?” asked Helen.
“Absolutely,” I told her.
Technically, I had once organized a surprise birthday party for my friend Nicole. Okay, yes, the restaurant lost the reservation and someone’s husband got drunk and cried near the desserts, but overall people had eaten cake and survived. So, I took that as a win.
But inside, my brain was already screaming.
GOOGLE THE CRAP OUT OF EVENT PLANNING.
WATCH YOUTUBE VIDEOS.
BUY A CLIPBOARD.
Helen narrowed her eyes slightly. “You think you can pull together the festival in two days?”
I nodded, mostly to convince myself. “I do. Absolutely.” My voice sounded weirdly confident for a woman who’d nearly set her own toaster on fire making a bagel last month.
Helen studied me for another long moment. “Can you start today?”
“Yes,” I blurted out immediately.
Lola leaned toward Dottie and whispered loudly, “This is either going to save her life or destroy the entire town.”
Dottie shrugged. “Could go either way.”
I ignored them, my eyes fixed on Helen. “You can count on me.”
Look at me. I was doing it. I was moving forward with my life.
I had a job.
An actual real job.
Sure, I had absolutely no experience planning a town festival, had just lied directly to the mayor over pancakes, and currently knew roughly the same amount about event planning as I knew about brain surgery, but still.
Progress.
And then Helen reached into her bag, pulled out a thick overstuffed binder, and dropped it in front of me with a heavy thud.
“Wonderful,” she said. “The parade permits were denied, two vendors canceled, and someone accidentally booked a death metal band for the senior luncheon.”
My smile froze.
Lola leaned back into her chair, a slow smile creeping over her face. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
I stared at the binder.
And for the very first time since moving into the Hartwell Inn, I seriously considered faking my own death.