“I’m honored, man.”
“When do you want to meet about this?” He nodded toward the rest of the barn.
“You tell me when you’re available. The sooner the better.”
“We need all the time we can get. Shouldn’t be any supply issues with the basics, but you’ll want to order appliances and windows ASAP.”
“How does Saturday look?”
“I’ll check with Presley and let you know tomorrow.”
“Good enough,” I said as the women approached.
“We came up with more questions,” Presley said.
“Will there be a coat room for guests?” Magnolia asked.
I hadn’t given that a single thought, but it was a valid concern. “There’ll be a place for coats,” I said noncommittally.
“What about a room for gifts?” Magnolia pressed. “One with a lock?”
I was starting to wonder if she was just trying to be a pain in my ass or if people expected a lockable room for gifts. Did people really steal from the bride and groom?
“I’ll have a full layout once West and I put pencil to paper.” Again I addressed Presley with my answer because I found it easier to smile when I didn’t have my nemesis in sight.
“That’s fair,” Presley said. “I can’t wait to see what you settle on. I have no doubt it’s going to be perfect.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Magnolia’s brow go up slightly, as if she wasn’t sure about that.
Damn her. There’d been a time when I’d thought she actually believed in me, but now she was my biggest doubter.
Was I out of my element with an event venue?
Maybe.
But I damn sure wasn’t about to let that get to me—let her get to me.
I’d never had the advantages she’d grown up with. I’d spent my life working against the odds—the farm kid, the C student, the dude who wore old jeans and a bargain T-shirt to school every day.
This project was a significant part of my and my daughter’s future though. I’d sure as hell figure it all out.
Chapter Four
Magnolia
At the risk of sounding like a mushy greeting card, sometimes a person came into your life and changed everything—including you.
Dotty Jaworski was that person for me.
She’d been my first lesson in gratitude after my father cut me off and kicked me out.
We were the unlikeliest of friends. She was in her sixties, had come from a humble upbringing, been married twice, and was well-known and loved throughout town. I was the opposite in every way. And yet I trusted her like I trusted no one else.
“Whatever you’ve got cooking, it smells delicious, Maggie May,” she said as she entered my apartment bearing a bottle of wine.
I took it from her, and we hugged.
I said, “I hope you like a simple bowl of chili mac and cheese.”
