More silence.
Then Cynthia starts laughing. Great, howling laughs that make me hold the phone away from my ear for fear of eardrum rupture.
“Oh my gosh,” she gasps. “Oh my gosh. Eleanor, your mother must be spinning in her grave.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Well, it’s a little funny.” She is still giggling. “Eleanor Whitfield, etiquette instructor to Atlanta’s elite, owner of a honky-tonk bar. You just can’t make this stuff up.”
“Oh, there’s more.” I take a breath. “I have to keep it for six months. Live here. Keep it operational. Or it goes to the local church.”
The laughter stops.
“Wait. You have to live there for six months?”
“That’s what the will says.”
“But what about the studio and your clients?”
I think about my three bored teenagers, my empty appointment book, and my pile of unpaid bills.
“I’ll figure something out.”
“Eleanor.” Cynthia’s voice has gone serious, which is a rarity. “Are you okay? This is a lot.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically. “I’m just adjusting.”
“Adjusting to what? Country music and cowboy boots?”
“Something like that.”
I watch a pickup truck rumble past, its bed loaded with musical instrument cases.
“I’d better go. I need to move into my apartment.”
“Your apartment above the bar?”
“Yep.”
“The honky-tonk bar?”
“Yes, Cynthia.”
She is quiet for a moment.
“Call me tonight. I want to hear everything. And Eleanor?”
“What?”
“Maybe it isn’t the worst thing that could ever happen. I mean, maybe it’s what you need.”
She hangs up before I can ask her what she means.
The Rusty Spur looks very different in daylight, without the neon sign blazing and the parking lot full of trucks. It is almost a peaceful place. The weathered wood of the building glows in the warm morning sun, and I can hear birds singing in the trees that border the property. A creek, I am assuming Copper Creek, runs behind the building, its gentle burbling audible in the quiet.
I park my Lexus in the empty lot and sit for a minute, trying to gather my courage. I grab my overnight bag and head for the side entrance Wyatt showed me yesterday, the one that leads directly to the apartment stairs. The door is unlocked, because of course it is. I am learning that locked doors are apparently an optional thing in Copper Creek.
I called Cynthia again this morning, and she will be mailing some of my belongings to me. Just enough to get through six months. I won’t need all of my things because the odds of my staying here are slim to none.
