I have seen Wyatt break up two more potential fights, each time with that same calm authority. I have watched Presley perform a song during one of the band’s breaks, her voice clear and haunting, and understood why Mavis encouraged her to pursue her passion. I have seen Boone gently escort a drunk patron outside and then make sure he had a safe ride home. I have watched Dolly comfort and charm her way through dozens of interactions.
And I have seen the customers. The regulars who greet each other like family. The couples on the dance floor who have clearly been doing this for decades. The young people who are learning the steps from their elders. I have seen birthday celebrations and anniversary toasts, and what I am pretty sure was some kind of informal engagement. I mean, the woman said yes, the bar erupted into cheers, and Wyatt poured free shots for everyone.
It is not what I expected. It is not the rough, dangerous roadhouse I imagined when I heard I had inherited a honky-tonk bar. It is something else entirely. Something I do not even have a word for.
The crowd is starting to thin out when Wyatt appears beside me again.
“Closing time is in thirty minutes. You’ve been here for hours. You must be tired.”
“I’m fine,” I say. And then yawn, my jaw cracking loudly.
He almost smiles. “Okay. Right. Fine. You know, you can go upstairs whenever you want. The apartment is yours.”
I had almost forgotten about the apartment. The charming, eclectic space that was Mavis’s home. That is apparently now mine, at least for the next six months.
“I should probably just stay at the bed and breakfast,” I say. “I don’t want to impose.”
“Um, it’s not imposing, because it’s your apartment,” Wyatt says, shrugging. “But suit yourself. Mabel’s biscuits are worth the interrogation about your love life.”
“She asked me if I had a ‘special fella’ three times during breakfast.”
He laughs. “Only three? She must like you. She asked me seven times at church last Sunday.”
The image of this rugged, tattooed man sitting in a little church pew while an elderly woman grills him about his romantic prospects is so absurd, so unexpected, that I actually laugh out loud.
“You should do that more often,” Wyatt says quietly.
“Do what?”
“Laugh. You look different when you laugh. Less like you’re waiting for someone to grade you.”
The observation cuts a little too close to home. I look away, focusing on the last few customers gathering their things to leave.
“I should go,” I say. “It’s late.”
“It is.”
He does not move to let me pass.
“Ms. Whitfield. I mean, Eleanor. I know I’ve been hard on you tonight. I just, I need you to understand what’s at stake here.”
“I think I’m beginning to.”
“Good.”
He steps aside, finally giving me room to slide off my stool.
“For what it’s worth, Mavis was never wrong about people. And if she thought you belonged here, then maybe you should consider she knew something that you don’t.”
I do not know how to respond to that, so I just nod and make my way toward the door.
The night air hits me as I step outside, cool and clean, heavy with the scent of pine. The parking lot is nearly empty now, my Lexus looking lonely among the remaining trucks.
I am halfway to my car when I hear it, music coming from inside. It is not the band. They have packed up and gone home. This is softer, simpler. It is just a guitar and a voice.
I turn back and look through the window.
Inside the bar, it’s mostly dark, with chairs upturned on tables. But on the small stage, illuminated by one single light, sits Presley with a guitar, playing something slow and sad. Wyatt is behind the bar, wiping down the counter, but he has stopped to listen.
