I think about Mavis, who left Atlanta all those years ago and never looked back. Who built her life here and became part of this community, earned the kind of love that fills a wall with photographs.
“How do I do that?” I ask. “How do I learn to just join in?”
Ruthie’s expression softens.
“You start by just showing up. Not as an observer, not as a judge, but just as a person. You make mistakes. You apologize. You try again. And you let people see the real you, not the polished version.”
“Well, I’m not sure I know who the real me is.”
“That’s honest at least.” She turns back to her dishes. “Keep coming to the potlucks. We’re patient people, most of us. We’ll give you time. And if you ask, God will always give you opportunities to see who you really are. Question is, are you brave enough to ask?”
I walk back to The Rusty Spur because I need the air and time to think about what happened at the potluck.
The afternoon is warm, a perfect spring day, like a postcard. I pass the town square with its white gazebo and towering oak trees, the storefronts with their cheerful awnings, and the people who wave at me even though they do not have any clue who I am. Or maybe they do know. In a town this size, everybody probably knows everything about everyone.
I am almost to the bar when I spot Wyatt’s truck sitting in the parking lot. He is sitting on the tailgate, drinking root beer from a bottle and watching me approach with an expression I cannot quite read.
“Heard you went to the potluck,” he says as I get closer.
“Wow. Word travels fast around here.”
“Well, it’s Copper Creek. It travels at the speed of gossip, which is faster than light.” He pats the tailgate beside him. “How’d it go?”
I consider lying, telling him that it was fine and I handled it perfectly, that I am adapting to small-town life. Instead, I climb up beside him and say, “I accidentally insulted Ruthie’s banana pudding.”
“Uh-oh.” He takes a sip of his drink. “That’s a serious offense.”
“I didn’t mean to. I was trying to compliment her by saying it was better than the banana pudding I’ve had in Atlanta. Well, actually, I said it was surprisingly better.”
“Oh.” He nods slowly. “Sounds like you were surprised she could compete with Atlanta.”
“Yeah. Well, that’s what Dolly said. And Ruthie.”
I lean back on my hands, staring at the mountains in the distance. “I don’t understand the rules here. I’ve spent my entire life learning etiquette and how to navigate social situations, and it seems like none of that applies. I’m speaking a different language here.”
Wyatt is quiet for a moment. “You are speaking a different language. The language you learned, the Atlanta society language, is about hierarchy. About establishing where you fit. You know, who’s above you, who’s below. Every compliment, every comment, it’s positioning.”
“Well, that’s not—” I start to protest.
He’s not wrong.
“Up here, it’s different,” he continues. “It’s not about hierarchy. It’s about connection. When someone asks you what you think of their banana pudding, they’re not asking for an evaluation. They’re asking you to share a moment with them. To appreciate what they made.”
“So what would you have said?”
“Just, ‘This is delicious,’ would’ve been fine. Or, ‘I love it.’ Or, ‘Ruthie, this is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Can I have the recipe?’” He grins. “That last one would’ve made you her best friend for life.”
I think about all the interactions I have had since arriving in Copper Creek. All the times I have said the wrong thing, made the wrong impression, and failed to connect with people.
“How do I learn this?” I ask. “Like, the real rules, not the ones I was taught.”
“You watch. You listen. You stop trying to impress people and start trying to know them. You show up as Eleanor Whitfield, not the etiquette instructor. Just Eleanor. The person who’s trying to figure things out.”
“Well, that’s terrifying.” I realize I’ve been walking around my whole life wearing the mask my mother put on me the day I was born.
“Most real things are.”
We sit in silence for a moment, watching the late afternoon paint the mountains gold.
