“I haven’t decided yet,” I tell him, because I need him to know that, to be honest about at least this much. “I mean, whether I’ll stay, whether I’ll accept the conditions.”
He nods slowly. “That’s your choice to make, ma’am. But if you do decide to walk away,” he meets my eyes, “just know that what you’re walking away from is more than a building. It’s more than a business. It’s over thirty-five years of Mavis’s heart and the hearts of everyone who loved her.”
He turns and walks back down the stairs, leaving me alone in my great-aunt’s apartment, surrounded by the life of a woman I never knew.
I sit on the turquoise sofa and look out the window at the mountains. I try to imagine spending six months in this place. Months of pickup trucks and twangy accents and a bar called The Rusty Spur. Months of small-town nosiness and country music, and a blue-eyed manager who looks at me like he is trying to figure out if I am worth trusting.
Months of being someone other than Eleanor Whitfield, etiquette instructor, keeper of her mother’s legacy, and professional failure.
The thought is terrifying.
It is also, I realize with surprise, the first thing that has made me feel anything at all in years.
I have some big decisions to make.
For now, I will just sit in Mavis’s apartment, watch the sun set over the Blue Ridge Mountains, and wonder what on earth I have gotten myself into.
I have made a terrible mistake.
That is the thought that is running through my mind over and over as I stand in the doorway at The Rusty Spur on a Friday night, frozen like a deer caught in the headlights of approximately forty pickup trucks’ worth of patrons.
This bar is packed, wall-to-wall with people wearing denim and flannel and cowboy boots, laughing and shouting over music so loud I can feel the bass vibrating in my chest. The disco ball I noticed yesterday is spinning now, casting fractured light across the dance floor, where couples are doing something complicated with their feet that I could not replicate if my life depended on it. It is certainly not the waltz.
And every single person in this establishment is staring at me.
I am wearing a pencil skirt. A pencil skirt. Navy blue, perfectly tailored, paired with a cream silk blouse and my mother’s pearls. I spent forty-five minutes on my hair, pinning it into an elegant chignon that says, “Professional businesswoman here to assess her inheritance.” But what it actually says, apparently, is “Lost tourist who wandered in looking for the nearest Whole Foods.”
A woman at a nearby table leans over to her companion and says in a voice that carries perfectly despite the noise, “Well, bless her heart, she must be from the city.”
I have been in Georgia long enough to know that “bless her heart” is rarely a compliment.
The smart thing to do would be to leave, go back to the little bed-and-breakfast where I spent last night. It is the only available accommodation in Copper Creek, run by a woman named Mabel who asked me seventeen questions about my marital status over breakfast. Regroup. Return tomorrow during daylight hours when I can conduct a proper inspection without an audience.
But I am Eleanor Whitfield, and Whitfields do not retreat.
I straighten my spine, lift my chin, and walk into the chaos.
The crowd parts for me like I am Moses approaching the Red Sea, if Moses had been wearing Ferragamo pumps and attracting bewildered stares.
I walk toward the bar, where I can see Wyatt pulling beers from the tap with the easy efficiency of someone who has done it about ten thousand times. I’ve never even touched a beer or a tap.
He sees me coming. Of course he does. Those blue eyes track my progress across the room, and I watch his expression shift from surprise to what appears to be concern.
“Ms. Whitfield.” He sets down the beers he has just poured and leans against the bar, his arms crossed over his chest. The Henley he wears tonight is black, and it does nothing to diminish the breadth of his shoulders. I must stop noticing such things. Maybe the mountain air is affecting me. “I didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”
“I own this place,” I remind him, raising my voice to be heard over the music. “I have every right to be here.”
“Well, I never said you didn’t.” The hint of a smile plays at the corner of his mouth again. “Just figured you’d want to ease into things. Friday nights at the Spur are a lot.”
As if to illustrate his point, someone behind me lets out a whoop that could probably be heard in the next county, followed by very enthusiastic applause as the band on stage launches into a new song.
“I can handle ‘a lot’,” I say, with air quotes and more confidence than I actually feel. “I’d like to observe the operations, see how things run.”
“All right, suit yourself.” Wyatt gestures to an empty stool at the end of the bar. “Have a seat. I’d offer you a drink, but I’m guessing you’re not a Bud Light kind of woman.”
“I don’t drink beer.” I sound snooty. Actually, I sound like my mother.
“Color me shocked,” he says, putting his hand on his chest. He is now smiling, and I cannot tell if I am irritated or something else. “So what’s your poison?”
