The voice cut through the quiet as a tall redhead stepped out from the back, letting the door swing shut behind her. She looked tired—like someone who’d been holding up too many things for too many people for too long—but when she spotted us hovering near the bar, her posture straightened, eyes brightening enough to pass for enthusiasm.
Then her gaze landed on me.
“Well, hell,” she drawled, blinking like she wasn’t sure I was real. “You’re the girl who passed out in my brother’s studio last night.”
Dig nudged me with his elbow. “Wow. You really know how to make an entrance.”
Magnolia’s brows lifted as she moved behind the bar, slipping into motion with the ease of someone who’d done this dance a thousand times. She grabbed a rag and started polishing a glass that didn’t need polishing, but clearly gave her something to do with her hands.
“We’re not technically open yet,” she said, “but if y’all promise not to faint, or worse, I’ll happily make you a drink.”
There was a bright smile on her face, but a thread of wariness behind it mixed with a kind of hopeful desperation I recognized all too well. Maybe she needed us to sit down more than we needed the drink.
“I’ll have… actually, I don’t know. I’ve never been so stumped before,” Dig said, eyes darting between the menu and the rows of liquor behind the bar like he was selecting a wedding cake.
“You like bourbon?” Magnolia asked, southern twang twinkling through the room, already reaching for a bottle. “I make a pretty decent drink with peach liqueur. It’s like sippin’ on Savannah.”
Dig lit up, practically bouncing on his stool. “Sold.”
Magnolia turned to me next, one brow lifting. “And for the lady? I’m guessing something less boozy, on account of your... situation?”
She cut a quick glance toward Dig, like she wasn’t sure if he was in on the secret.
Dig raised both hands. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t get her into this mess, I’m just the support staff.”
I gave him a shove with my elbow and looked back at Magnolia. “I’ll take an iced tea, if you’ve got it.”
She grinned and turned toward the fridge. “This is the South, hunny. They’d shut me down if I didn’t.”
As it always happens when a screen is within reach of a human attention span, Dig and I turned toward the TV while Magnolia fixed our drinks. He started talking, mostly to himself, about the show’s dynamics and which contestant had won him over. I hadn’t seen a single episode, so I wandered off to check out the photos lining the wall.
Black and white frames stretched along the length of the bar, running from the edge of the stage to what I assumed were the bathrooms and office. I paused at each one, following the quiet story they told. The outfits and haircuts changed with the decades, but the bar itself looked mostly untouched.
At the last frame, I stopped. A man in a scally cap stood behind the bar, smiling, with two kids propped on either side of him. Their small hands rested near pint glasses that were hopefullyfilled with root beer. The girl had to be Magnolia. She looked about twelve, freckles clear even in black and white, smiling like she already owned the place.
I hadn’t heard her come up behind me and nearly jumped when she slid a glass of iced tea onto the table in front of me.
“That’s my Uncle Cole and my brother, Charlie,” she said quietly, eyes still on the photo. There was a weight to her voice, the kind that settles somewhere deep in your bones. She let out a slow breath, scanning the wall of photos like they were old friends. “This bar’s been in my family a long time. I’m Magnolia Pruitt, by the way. We weren’t properly introduced last night.”
She offered her hand, and I took it for a slow shake. “Tally Aden. Doyle’s older sister, as you know. I’m sure he’s already given you the highlight reel.”
Magnolia’s mouth curved, her laugh low and easy. “I’ve heard a few things here and there.” She gave me a quick wink. “Nothing you need to worry about. Your brother loves you.”
That was hard to believe.
From his stool, Dig perked up, cocktail in hand, and sauntered over. “And I’m the comedic relief—Diego Salvador. But you can call me Dig.” He leaned in to get a closer look at the photos, stopping every few steps. “Wait, this place is yours?”
“This place is mine,” she said, falling into step with us as we made our way along the wall. “O’Malley’s is legendary in Savannah. Or at least it used to be.”
Dig lit up, shimmying like he’d been handed a backstage pass. He started firing off questions, one after another, and Magnolia answered each in that easy Southern rhythm, telling us how her family came over from Ireland and how the bar had survived wars, hurricanes, and more than a few city ordinances.
My chest ached when she mentioned losing her parents. And when she said her uncle had passed recently and left the bar to her, I blinked back the tears. Damn hormones.
Still, she rallied, her voice steady as she moved into lighter memories. She told us about the time she and her friends snuck in and threw a party that lasted until sunrise while her uncle was out of town. She pointed to a framed photo near the door and explained how, according to local legend, the first St. Patrick’s Day parade in Savannah had started right outside the front door.
There was an ease to the way she spoke, as if the bar had shaped her just as much as her family had. And maybe it was the lighting, or the comfort of hearing someone talk about a place they loved, but one of the tight spools of anxiety I’d been carrying around started to unfurl a bit. Not all the way. But enough for me to take notice.
If you lifted this building, you’d find Magnolia’s roots. And I’d wondered, briefly, where mine would ever be planted.
