I’m not sure how to respond to this, but it definitely does not feel like a compliment.
“Eleanor is still settling in,” Dolly says. “Give her time.”
“Well, time’s all any of us have,” Earl agrees. “Well, that and Ruthie’s banana pudding. You tried it yet?”
“Not yet. I was saving room for dessert.”
“Smart girl.”
The conversation swirls around me as I pick at my overloaded plate. People stop by to introduce themselves, but the names and faces blur together. I meet the hardware store owner, the librarian, and the woman who runs the hair salon. Everyone has a connection to Mavis, a story about something she did, or a memory they want to share.
And then everyone has questions about me.
“So you’re single?”
“No husband waiting for you back in Atlanta?”
“What exactly is an etiquette school? Like, you’re teaching people what fork to use?”
“How long are you staying here?”
I answer as best I can, trying to be polite without giving away too much information. I feel myself tensing up with each question, each curious glance, each well-meaning but invasive inquiry into my life.
Pastor Dale is definitely not what I expected.
He’s younger than I imagined, maybe in his mid-fifties, with kind eyes and a gentle manner that immediately puts me at ease. But he’s also, I remember, the person who would have inherited the bar if I hadn’t accepted the terms of the will.
“Ms. Whitfield,” he says, extending his hand. “I’m so glad you could join us. Mavis would have been so pleased.”
“Thank you, Pastor, and please call me Eleanor.”
“Eleanor, then.”
He takes a seat across from me, and I notice that his plate is as overloaded as mine.
“I wanted to say, I hope there aren’t any hard feelings about the will.”
“Mavis and I talked about it at length, and she was very clear about her wishes. No hard feelings at all. I understand she wanted the bar to go to someone who would appreciate it. She wanted it to go to you specifically.” His eyes are warm. “She spoke about you often, you know, wondered about what kind of woman you’d become.”
“I wish I’d known her.”
“She wished that too.” He pauses, choosing his words carefully. “Mavis had a gift for seeing potential in people, and she saw something in you that made her believe you were meant to be here. So I hope that you’ll trust that instinct, even when things are difficult.”
Before I can respond, a woman appears at his side, his wife Ruthie, I assume, based on the way she touches his shoulder.
“Dale, stop monopolizing the new girl. Let her eat.” She turns to me with a smile. “I’m Ruthie. Has anyone told you to try the banana pudding yet?”
“Yes, everyone has told me to try the banana pudding.”
“Well, good. It’s my grandma’s recipe. I’d be offended if you left without having some.”
She’s gone before I can respond, off to manage some other aspect of the potluck.
Pastor Dale watches her go.
“Thirty-two years,” he says, “and she still keeps me on my toes.”
“That’s wonderful.”
