“She also said you’re the best man she ever knew.”
“Mavis had low standards.”
“I don’t think she did.” I study him in the dim light of the office. “I think she saw people very clearly. That’s what everybody keeps telling me, anyway.”
He is quiet for a long moment.
“What else did she write?”
“That she thought I wasn’t happy. That she wanted to give me a chance to figure out who I am.” I pause. “Was she right? I mean, could she really tell that from a distance?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.” His eyes meet mine, and there is no judgment in them. “Are you happy? I mean, were you before all this?”
The question catches me off guard. I open my mouth to say yes, of course, I had a successful business and a nice apartment and a perfectly adequate life, but the words will not come out.
“I don’t know,” I admit finally. “I thought I was. Or I thought I was supposed to be, which felt like the same thing.”
“It’s not.”
“No. I’m starting to realize that now.”
He leans forward, his elbows on his knees.
“When I came back from overseas, I thought I knew what my life was supposed to look like. Get a job, settle down, be normal, you know? I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t sleep, couldn’t focus, couldn’t stop waiting for something bad to happen. PTSD, among other things.” He shrugs like it is no big deal. “Mavis found me one night, sitting in my truck outside the bar, having a panic attack. She didn’t ask any questions. Didn’t try to fix me. Just sat with me until it passed and then offered me a job.”
“And that helped you?”
“Well, it gave me something to do. Something to focus on besides my own head. The bar needed me. The staff needed me. The customers needed me. It’s real hard to spiral when people are depending on you.”
I think about my empty studio and my dwindling client list, and the growing sense that I was becoming irrelevant.
“I understand that more than you might think.”
“Yeah. I figured you might.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment. Outside, I can hear the creek burbling in the distance and the faint sound of music from the festival.
“Tell me about her,” I say suddenly. “About Mavis. I mean, not the legend. Not the saint everyone keeps describing. The real person.”
Wyatt considers the question for a moment.
“Well, she cheated at poker. Badly. Everybody knew it. No one ever called her out because watching her try to be subtle was just way too entertaining.”
I laugh. “Really?”
“She also couldn’t cook to save her life, despite what she told everybody. And that barbecue sauce recipe she’s so proud of? Dolly’s grandmother’s. Mavis just added the bourbon.”
“The letter mentioned the bourbon and the coffee.”
“Oh, the coffee was also her contribution. That was the only good idea she ever had in the kitchen.”
He is almost smiling now, lost in the memory.
“She sang off-key. She argued with the TV during football games. And once she got into a fist fight with a woman who insulted Dolly’s hair.”
“A fist fight?”
“Well, more of a slap fight. Neither of them could throw a punch worth a dang. But it’s the thought that counts.”
