“The inheritance, the bar, whatever it is that you’re dealing with up there in, um…” I hear papers rustling. “Copper Creek? Dear Lord, is that really the name of the town?”
“Yes, it is really the name of the town.”
“Oh, charming. Very, um, rustic.” The way he says rustic makes it sound like a communicable disease. “Anyway, I’ve done some research, and property values in that area are actually pretty promising, especially with the development interest in the Blue Ridge region. So if you play your cards right, you could walk away with a significant return.”
I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling.
“Archie, I haven’t even decided what I’m doing with the place yet.”
“What’s to decide? You’re not actually planning to stay there, are you?” He laughs again, as if the very idea is absurd. “Ellie, come on. You’re not a bar owner. You’re not even a small-town person. You belong in the city, in civilization, doing what you do best.”
“And what exactly is that?”
“Being Eleanor Whitfield.” He says it like it’s obvious. “Elegant, sophisticated, refined. Not serving beer to hillbillies in the middle of nowhere.”
The word hillbillies lands like a slap to my face.
I think about Dolly, with her big hair and bigger heart. About Boone, who reads poetry and builds furniture and carries peppermints for nervous children. And Presley, with her dreams of music and her fierce loyalty. And about Wyatt, who stayed in the middle of nowhere because love mattered more than ambition.
“They are not hillbillies,” I say quietly.
“What?”
“The people here, they’re not hillbillies. They’re just people. Good people.”
Archie is silent for a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice has shifted to what I recognize as being his “handling a difficult client” tone.
“Of course, I didn’t mean to offend. I’m just saying this isn’t your world, Ellie. You don’t belong there.”
“Well, maybe I don’t know where I belong anymore.”
“That’s exactly my point,” his voice warns. “You’ve been through a lot these past couple of years: your mother’s death, our breakup, the business struggles, and it’s natural that you’d feel lost and grasp at anything that feels different. But running away to the mountains isn’t the answer.”
“I’m not running away. I inherited a bar. There are conditions.”
“Conditions can be negotiated. Laws can be interpreted. I know some great attorneys who specialize in estate disputes. We could probably find a way to break a will or at least modify the terms so you’re not trapped up there for six months.”
For a moment, just a flicker of a moment, I’m tempted.
The familiar pull of Atlanta. Of my old life. Of the world I understand.
His voice is like a siren song calling me back to everything I used to be.
The etiquette studio. The social circles. The endless performance of being Eleanor Whitfield, acceptable, appropriate, and utterly hollow.
“I don’t know if I want to break the will,” I hear myself saying slowly.
“Oh my gosh, of course you do. Think about it logically. What does a honky tonk in Copper Creek offer you? I mean, six months of your life wasted in a town with no culture, no future, no opportunity. You can come back to Atlanta use that money to revitalize the studio. I can help you. We could…” He pauses for a moment. “We could talk about things. About us.”
“There is no us, Archie. We broke up.”
“We took a break. There’s a difference.” His voice drops. “I’ve missed you, Ellie. These past six months, I’ve realized what I let go. I was too focused on my lifestyle, on appearances. I should have seen what really mattered.”
I want to believe him. Part of me, the part that’s spent over two years planning a future with this man, wants to desperately believe that he’s changed, that he sees me now, and that going back to Atlanta would mean going back to something real.
But another part of me, a new part that’s been growing since I arrived in Copper Creek, knows better.
“What really mattered?” I ask. “What do you think really mattered?”
