“In thirty days?” I ask. “While also running the bar and dealing with everything else?”
“Yes,” he says easily. “The cooler repair was already on our radar. I can fix the roof this weekend. The organization just takes time and a plan. And soap dispensers are easy.”
I sink onto one of the barstools, suddenly exhausted.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit. “I spent weeks thinking I was getting the hang of things, and then someone shows up with a clipboard, and I realize I’m completely in over my head.”
“You’re not in over your head,” Wyatt says.
He moves behind the bar and starts making coffee. He doesn’t ask if I want any. He already knows.
“You’re just learning,” he continues. “You think Mavis knew how to run a bar when she first bought this place? She was a society woman from Atlanta who’d never poured a beer in her life. Just like you.” He sets a mug in front of me. “She figured it out,” he says gently. “And you will too.”
The comparison to Mavis hits harder than it should. I’ve been reading some journals of hers that I found, learning about her life, but I hadn’t really thought about the fact that she probably started out just as lost as I am now. How long did it take her to figure it out?
And how do I miss a woman I never met?
“From what she told me, a while,” Wyatt says. “She had help. That’s what we do here. We help each other. And before you say you can’t ask for help, I’m going to remind you that you’re not asking. I’m offering. And so is half the town, probably.”
He pulls out his phone and starts texting someone.
“What are you doing?”
“Texting Boone. He’s going to want to know about this.”
“Why would Boone care about the health inspector?”
Wyatt looks at me like I’ve said something especially naive. “Because this is his bar, too. I mean, not legally, but in every other way that matters. Boone’s been coming here for decades. Dolly’s worked here a long time. This place is part of the town’s fabric. When it has a problem, we all have a problem.”
His phone buzzes almost immediately.
“Boone says we need to organize a workday. Get a group together, tackle all the little repairs ourselves, save you money on labor.”
“I can’t ask people to give up their weekend to fix my bar.”
“You’re not asking. We’re offering.”
He’s already typing another message.
“I’m texting Dolly and Presley too. We’ll plan it for Sunday. That’ll give us some time to get supplies.”
I want to argue, to insist that I can handle this myself by hiring people, but the truth is, I can’t. I don’t know how to fix a roof, repair a cooler, or organize a commercial storage area to meet health code standards. And I really don’t have the extra money to do it.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“Don’t thank me yet. Wait till you see what happens when I let Boone organize a workday.”
Despite everything, I laugh.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of worry and planning. Wyatt gets quotes from three companies for the cooler repair in case he and Boone can’t fix it. The cheapest is $3,500, which makes my stomach hurt. He insists he can patch the roof himself for about $500 in materials.
$4,000. Four thousand dollars I barely have.
I’m in the office after closing, staring at the bar’s bank account on my laptop, when there’s a knock on the door frame. It’s Dolly, wearing her favorite pink vest with the little hearts on it. She looks concerned.
“Sugar, Wyatt told me about the inspection. You doing okay?”
“I’m fine.”
