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Mom clutches Georgie’s arm as if she’s trying to stop her from assaulting someone. “You’re well into your eighties.”

“And I’ve still got the bone structure for a tiara.” Georgie lifts her chin as if to demonstrate. “Mark my words, Preppy—one good corset and a stage name like Vampirella Van Doom and I could run this life and the next.”

“You can barely run to the bathroom,” Mom balks. “Let’s not get ambitious.”

A laugh escapes before I can stop it. I hike Ella higher on my hip and take in the scene spread across the expansive lawn of the Country Cottage Inn.

It’s seven days until Halloween, and all of Cider Cove—or Spider Cove as it’s known in the month of October—has turned out for opening night of the Spider Cove Halloween Harvest Festival. Our annual five-acre takeover that’s somehow gotten bigger every year since we started it.

The sky is a deep, bruised purple, the stars are out, the moon is riding high, and the Country Cottage Inn has officially surrendered every last shred of dignity to Halloween.

Not that I’m complaining.

Every nook, cranny, tree, shrub, doorway, and probably a few innocent woodland creatures have been festooned for the occasion. Pumpkin lanterns dangle from the branches overhead, glowing orange against the night, while an entire haunted maze made of hay bales snakes through the old orchard. I’m told people are paying good money to get lost in there and have strangers in masks jump out at them.

Apparently terror is recreational now.

Pumpkin-carving stations have multiplied across the lawn, the midway is lit up like a carnival fever dream, and we’ve got games, rides, a haunted hayride, and a haunted house that has already produced enough screaming to concern anyone unfamiliar with the evening’s itinerary.

And then there’s the kettle corn.

That warm, buttery, sugary smell has settled over the entire property like a delicious fog, and I’m fairly certain I’ll still be thinking about it next July.

If Halloween had a smell, this would be it.

And don’t think I won’t be helping myself to a bucket or two. Or at least I will when I get the use of my own two hands again. I’m currently holding my baby girl, who’s decided that my shoulder is a great pillow for her nap. Ella, aka Elizabeth Georgie Ree Wilder, would be my sweet one-year-old daughter who stole my heart and my ability to sleep through the night in one fell swoop. She’s dressed as the cutest cowgirl on the planet and even has the tiniest pair of pink cowboy boots to prove it.

A “Thriller” remix thumps from somewhere near the hayride. Teenagers are shrieking with either joy or terror—hard to say which—from the direction of the haunted barn. The air smells like churros and woodsmoke and the particular kind of October night that makes you think anything could happen.

And this year, in addition to our annual Halloween festival, we’re hosting something called the Scream Queens Showcase.

Thirty of the most famous horror film hostesses in the country are here for a full week of panels, signings, and live events, all building up to the Beyond the Grave Rave on Halloween night.

I’m running refreshments and themed buffets for each of the seven headline acts—one per night—plus craft activities to match. Mackenzie co-organized the whole thing through the mayor’s office, because she is the mayor, and because apparently nothing says Spider Cove economic development like thirty women in velvet descending on a coastal Maine inn.

But according to the crowd, every kooky, spooky soul in Spider Cove approves. And perhaps every soul in the great state of Maine approves, too.

Regardless, I wasn’t going to argue with that logic. The budget alone could greenlight three new cottages. And I’ve had my eye on expanding for quite some time.

“Check out that cool cat,” Georgie says, stabbing a finger at the stage. “She has a tiara made of cat skulls. Cat skulls, Ree. I need to have dinner with her immediately.”

Mom fans herself with the festival program she’s been clutching since the parking lot. “Georgie, you are eighty-something years old.”

“And absolutely firing on all cylinders,” Georgie is quick to point out.

The women on that stage aren’t simply dressed for Halloween. They’ve built entire careers out of looking as if they might invite you in for cocktails and bury you beneath the hydrangeas before dessert.

There’s enough black velvet to upholster the inn twice over, slits that climb to places slits probably shouldn’t go, and antique cigarette holders being wielded with enough attitude to make me nervous. One woman even has an adorable fuzzy gray cat draped over her shoulders like a living stole. The cat looks considerably more dignified than the rest of them combined.

They’ve gathered around the merchandise table now, signing autographs, posing for pictures, and soaking up every ounce of attention coming their way.

And judging by how naturally they’ve arranged themselves around the spotlight, I’m guessing none of them has ever met a center of attention she didn’t consider rightfully hers.

Georgie’s gray tumbleweed of hair bobs as she leans in for a better look. “Look at them. They’ve made whole lives out of this. I respect it. I relate to it. And I’m still wondering why no one told me this was a career option.”

Georgie Conner is one of my favorite people on earth and my mother’s very best friend. She has the mischievous blue-gray eyes of a woman who’s never once done what anyone expected, and she’s loud, wily, and wildly enthusiastic about the opposite sex. She’s also a self-proclaimed man-eater, a title she wears with entirely too much pride.

She’s wearing a burnt-orange kaftan covered in little black cats because apparently Halloween starts the moment someone says October. I’m sort of with her on that.