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Chapter 1 — Sarah Jane

“Remember Janey Dee?”
“What happened to her was so crazy!”
“Do you think she did it on purpose? Like, for attention?”
“Probably not, seeing as she disappeared after.”
“Yeah, where did she go?”
“Where is she?”
“Where is Janey Dee?”

You’d think by now, I’d no longer be starting my mornings by scrolling through social media, looking for comments about myself. It’s been two years since that mortifying day that ended my time as an influencer. I need to let it go.

Just can’t get enough of torturing myself, I guess.

But that’s enough for today. My cell phone and all the social media temptation it holds are staying behind with the rest of my belongings in the attic.

I’ve got an inn to run.

It’s early, but I’m a morning person now. I have to be. Some people are born with the propensity to be bright and bushy-tailed at the first sight of the sun. Others, like me, get our bushy tails thrust upon us. In my case, it came with inheriting my grandmother’s beloved inn, Aubie Bed and Breakfast. Also known as the Aubie.

My name is Sarah Jane Darby, and at twenty-seven years old, this wasn’t what I’d planned for my life. But the inn has become my sanctuary—and, okay, a little bit of my obsession.

As I descend the stairs from my attic pad that I snarkily call The Penthouse, I spot a million little imperfections that drive me nuts. There’s the chip in the paint near the left side of the ceiling, and the nick in the wallpaper just out of reach. Nothing that would bother our guests, I know, but it’s enough to make my eye twitch.

The place has come a long way since I came to start restoring it two years ago, but it’s still going to be a while before I feel like it’s just right.

If that moment ever really comes at all.

Like always, my first order of business is checking on my inn guests. I make my way down the hall, tapping lightly on each door. Guests generally appreciate the wake-up call—they do want to catch that “breakfast” part of B&B. But if they don’t answer, I don’t press it. The smell of food and coffee will waft their way soon enough, and that can accomplish what my light tapping won’t.

When I reach room 12, Mrs. Abernathy flings open the door with her usual enthusiasm. “Good morning, dear! You’re just in time to meet my new friend.”

Before I can ask what she means, I spot a familiar white chicken pecking at the carpet. “Doris!” The hen turns a beady black eye toward me, like she knows I’m here to shut down her fun. “How did you get in here?”

Doris lives in the coop out back, where I keep a few hens for fresh eggs to serve the guests. Mrs. Abernathy has taken a liking to Doris on her frequent visits to the coop. Today, it seems, she’s decided to bring her new feathered friend inside for an early morning chat.

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. As much as I appreciate Mrs. Abernathy’s special brand of spunk, there are rules about farm animals in the guest rooms. “I’m afraid Doris will have to go back outside. The other guests will wake soon, and you know how particular Mrs. Margaret is.”

Mrs. Abernathy pouts. “Must you spoil our fun so soon? The day is still new!”

“I’m sorry, but Doris will be much happier in the coop with her friends,” I say gently. “Why don’t I take her out right now, and you can visit her after breakfast?”

“Oh, very well,” Mrs. Abernathy concedes with a dramatic sigh. “But do give her an extra treat from me!”

“Will do,” I tell her. I probably will, too. I’ll give Doris some leftovers of her own scrambled eggs, and the little cannibal will gobble them up.

Scooping Doris into my arms, I hurry down the hall like a chicken-smuggling ninja, ducking into doorways when I hear guests stirring.

Funnily enough, this isn’t Doris’s first run-in with trouble. Far from it. Last year, we went through a period when even the most docile of my hens was copping an attitude with me at every turn. I thought that Randall the rooster was the ringleader of the rebelliousness among the Aubie chickens, so I sold him to a farm. But soon, I realized it was actually Doris who had been leading the chicken revolts.

I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of her, though—partly because I felt bad about passing the trouble of keeping her in line off to someone else. Doris is my problem, for good.

I’ve almost reached the top of the stairs when I hear floorboards creaking down the hall. To my horror, Mrs. Margaret emerges from her room, peering around through sleepy eyes. I need to think of a way to hide Doris, and fast.

“Good morning, Miss Darby,” Margaret says, stifling a yawn. “I thought I heard chatter and footsteps. Is everything alright?”

“Just fine!” I reply brightly. Doris chooses that moment to let out an enthusiastic cluck from within the apron I’ve wrapped her in. Margaret’s eyes widen.

Thinking quickly, I give a little cough. “Excuse me, I seem to be picking up a little cold.” I pretend to cough again as Doris clucks and fidgets in my apron, no doubt feeling the temptation of rebellion calling her name.

Mrs. Margaret eyes me with suspicion. “How dreadful. I hope it’s not contagious. I have a sensitive constitution, you know.”

“Of course, my apologies. I’ll just step outside for some fresh air.” I inch toward the back door.

Margaret sniffs. “See that you do. Can’t have you infecting your guests!” With that, she retreats into her room and closes the door.

I breathe a sigh of relief, hurrying outside to deposit my feathered cargo back with her hen friends. Ah, mornings at the Aubie. They’re never dull.

“Morning, Miss Darby!” Mary, one of our regular guests, greets me from her seat on the wraparound porch, a mug of dark coffee in hand.

“Good morning, Mary!” I reply with a smile, trying to infuse my voice with as much energy as possible. My petite frame and curly auburn hair may bounce brightly with every step, but I can feel the exhaustion weighing me down. There’s no time for rest, however, when guests’ needs are waiting to be met.

“Is there anything I can get you?” I ask Mary, tucking a stray curl behind my ear.

“Actually,” she says, glancing down at her empty plate, “I wouldn’t say no to another one of those delicious scones Millie made.”

“Of course! I’ll be right back with that,” I say, pivoting on my heel and heading inside to the kitchen.

In a way, “Is there anything I can get you?” is a silly question, because the moment I ask it, the answer is always “yes.” Guests’ mouths instantly salivate, or their skin gets colder, or their throats dry up, at the mere possibility that I could fetch them a snack, or a blanket, or a beverage. One of these days I’ll have nothing left to offer and they’ll still come up with something, and next thing I know, I’ll be googling “how to make miracles happen” just to keep up with their requests.

But I don’t mind. An interaction like this is a simple way to help guests remember that I’m here to look out for their every need.

“Millie, do we have any more of your blueberry lemon scones left?” I call out, peering into the glass display case stocked with baked goods.

“Sure do, hon,” Millie says. Her warm smile, as usual, never leaves her face as she hands me a plate with a fresh scone.

“Thanks.” I rush back out to the porch to make sure Mary gets it while it’s still warm.

“Here you are, Mary,” I announce triumphantly, setting the plate down in front of her. “Enjoy!”

“Thank you, Sarah Jane,” she says, taking a bite and sighing with contentment. “You always know how to make us feel right at home here.”

I beam at the compliment. That’s exactly what I like to hear. I turn away to continue attending to guests, pride swelling in my chest. This old inn might not have been the life I initially envisioned for myself, but now, I wouldn’t be me without it—and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

“Miss Darby!” another guest calls out, reminding me that there’s no time to indulge in daydreams.

Once the morning rush has subsided and the last guest is satisfied, I make my way to my small office, which is tucked away in a quiet corner of the inn’s second floor. This is where the real work begins. As much as I love tending to our guests, it’s the behind-the-scenes tasks that truly keep this place running like clockwork.

“Alright,” I mutter to myself, opening up the financial spreadsheet on my laptop. “Let’s make some magic happen.”

I spend hours pouring over every detail of the inn’s finances, making sure everything is accounted for—from the cost of the fresh flowers adorning each room to the exact amount spent on Millie’s exquisite ingredients. After double-checking the numbers, I move on to marketing the inn online.

The internet’s not exactly my favorite place these days. Not after what happened two years ago. But, just like I’ve done IRL, I’ve carved out a corner of comfort for myself online. I scroll through the glowing reviews left by recent guests and smile.

When I update our social media accounts with pics of our charming rooms and colorful breakfast dishes, it’s hard not to think back to my old life as an influencer. It still hurts to think about it—a nasty bruise left by one awful moment that wrecked everything and made me run all the way back to Auburn Cove.

It makes me paranoid—what if I let someone in again, only for them to tear me apart?

I shut my laptop and let out a deep breath. This is my world now—running the same B&B where I spent my summers as a kid, bringing the place back to its old, comfy vibes. Far from all the bullshit of the outside world that almost swallowed me up. It’s safe here, but I can’t get rid of that pesky, lonely feeling in my heart.

“Millie,” I call out as I enter the kitchen. “Have you seen the extra tablecloth? We have a full house tonight, and I want everything to be perfect.”

“Check the hallway closet,” Millie says, expertly flipping an omelet in the air. “Or, you know, you could always go buy another at Mrs. Owens’ fabric store?”

My pulse skyrockets just thinking about venturing beyond the safe confines of the inn. “Millie…” I warn.

“I know, I know.” She’s just testing me, of course. “But Sarah Jane, you can’t hide from the world forever. I know it’s hard, but life goes on outside these walls too.”

A part of me knows Millie is right, but my fear sticks so deeply inside me that I don’t know how to break free.

“Hey,” Millie says softly, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. “I’m always here for you, okay? No matter what.”

“No matter how much of a basket case I am, you mean.” I smile at her, but she doesn’t really smile back.

Great. When you can’t even joke with your best friend about your lack of sanity without getting that “oh, honey” look back, you know you’re in a bad state.