“I’ll have a glass of Sancerre, if you have it.”
Wyatt raises an eyebrow. He looks at the young woman working the bar beside him, early twenties, auburn hair in a messy braid, wearing a vintage Dolly Parton t-shirt.
“Hey, Presley, we got any fancy French wine?”
The young woman, Presley, apparently, looks at me with curiosity. “We’ve got a Chardonnay that comes in a box. That close enough?”
I open my mouth to decline, but something in their expressions stops me. They are not being mean. Not exactly. They are just testing me, seeing what I am made of.
“That will be fine,” I say. I’ve never drunk wine from a box, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything.
Presley grins, and then her face transforms from pretty to genuinely beautiful. “Coming right up. You must be Mavis’s niece, the one from Atlanta.”
“Great-niece, and yes.”
“I’m Presley Tucker. Harlan’s my uncle.”
She pours wine into a glass that is definitely not a proper wine glass. It is a mason jar, because of course it is, and slides it across the bar to me. I’ve also never drunk anything from a mason jar. Wow, so many firsts tonight.
“Mavis talked about you sometimes. Said you were fancy.”
“I’m not,” I start, and then stop. By every measure that these people would use, I am absolutely fancy. Denying it would make me look foolish. “I guess I am, by some standards.”
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with fancy,” Presley says. “It’s just different, is all. Mavis always said different was good. Kept things interesting.”
Before I can respond, a large hand lands on the bar beside me, and I turn to find myself face to face with the biggest human being I have ever seen in my entire life. He is easily six and a half feet tall, broad as a barn door, with a shaved head and a full beard, but his eyes are surprisingly gentle.
“You’re the new owner.” It is not a question. It is a statement. And even if I wasn’t the new owner, I would say I was because this man could squish me with his pinky finger.
“I am. Eleanor Whitfield.”
“Boone Davidson.” He puts out his hand that could probably crush my skull like a grape, and I shake it. His grip is carefully controlled. “I handle security. Anything you need, you let me know.”
“Thank you, Boone. I appreciate that.”
He nods once, satisfied with the exchange, and moves away to resume his position near the door. I watch him go, marveling at how somebody so massive can move so quietly.
“Don’t let his size fool you,” Wyatt says. “Boone’s the gentlest soul in this county. Mavis used to say he was proof that God had a sense of humor, because he put the heart of a poet in the body of a linebacker.”
“He writes poetry?”
“Reads it mostly, but yeah, he’s written a few. Won’t show them to anybody, though.” Wyatt pours another round of beers for a customer. “Mavis was the only one he ever let read them.”
There it is again, the shadow that crosses his face whenever he mentions my great aunt, the grief that is still clearly fresh for him.
“You all loved her very much,” I say, as quietly as I can over the music.
Wyatt’s hands are still on the tap, and for a moment, he does not even look at me. When he does, his expression is unreadable.
“She was family, not by blood but by choice. And that means a lot around here.”
“I’m beginning to see that.”
“Are you?” He holds my gaze, and there is a challenge in his eyes. “Because from where I am standing, you’re here to figure out how to get through the next six months with minimum involvement so you can sell this place and go back to your real life.”
The accuracy of his assessment stings a little more than it should.
“I haven’t decided anything yet,” I say, which is technically true. “I’m still assessing.”
