“Well, that’s bull, and we both know it. You’ve got that look you get when you’re trying to hold it together.”
I close my laptop and rub my eyes. “I don’t… I just… I don’t know how I’m gonna pay for all this. The bar account has about $3,000 right now, and I need $4,000 just for the repairs. Plus, I have to pay all the normal bills, and I’m not really paying myself anything, and my personal credit cards are maxed out from Atlanta,” I stop myself before I completely spiral.
Dolly sits down across from me. “First of all, the work day on Sunday is gonna save you a lot of money. Wyatt can do the roof, Presley can help reorganize the storage, and Boone knows a guy who might be able to look at the cooler for cheaper. The point is, we’ll figure it out.”
“Why are you all doing this?”
“Because Mavis would have done the same for any of us. And honestly, she did, many a time. And because you’re trying, Eleanor. You’re showing up every day, working hard, caring about this place, and that matters.”
“Does it? Or am I just fumbling around pretending I know what I’m doing?”
“Honey, we’re all just fumbling around. That’s called life.” She pats my hand. “You’re doing better than you think, and you’re not alone, so stop trying to carry this all by yourself.”
After she leaves, I sit in the quiet office, surrounded by Mavis’s notebooks and the weight of the responsibility I’ve been given. I pull out my phone and look at my bank account.
$347 in checking.
That’s it. That’s all I have in the world, besides the bar account, which needs to cover payroll, supplies, utilities, and everything else.
I could put the cooler repair on my credit card, but I’m already close to maxed out, and if something else goes wrong, or when something else goes wrong, I’ll have nothing.
For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to just walk away. To sell this place to someone who actually knows what they’re doing. To go back to Atlanta and start over with whatever I can salvage.
But then I think about how kind Dolly is, and the dreams Presley has, and Wyatt’s steady presence, and the community that’s starting to feel like home.
I can’t walk away. Not yet. Not when people are willing to fight for this place, and not when I’m starting to think I might want to fight for it, too.
Sunday morning arrives quickly. I’m awake at 6 a.m., nervous and grateful, but completely unsure of what to expect. Wyatt told me people would start showing up around 8, but the first truck pulls up at 7:30. It’s Boone, and he’s brought three other people with him, all holding thermoses of coffee and wearing work clothes.
By 8 o’clock, there are twelve people in the bar. Twelve people who showed up on a Sunday morning to help me fix a place I’ve barely begun to figure out.
I stand there, overwhelmed and not sure what to say. I’ve never had a community around me. I always basically worked alone or with my mother.
Wyatt puts a hand on my shoulder. “Just say thank you and point us toward the coffee maker. We’ve got work to do.”
He takes charge with the easy authority of someone who’s done this before. He assigns tasks, explains what to do and what needs to happen, and makes sure everyone has the tools they need. I watch him work the crowd and understand, maybe for the first time, what a wonderful leader he must have been in the military.
“Eleanor,” he calls, waving me over. “You’re with me. We’re caulking the windows in the main room. They need to be sealed before winter.”
I follow him to the first window, where he’s already laid out the supplies. Caulk guns, tubes of sealant, rags, and painter’s tape.
“Okay,” he says, “first lesson in home repair. Have you ever caulked anything before?”
“I once paid a very nice man $300 to caulk my bathroom.”
He laughs. “Well, today you’re learning to do it yourself. Here, watch me.”
He loads a tube of caulk into the gun like a professional, cuts the tip at an angle, and then demonstrates on a small section of the window frame. His movements are smooth and precise, laying down a perfect bead of white sealant.
“See? Not that hard. Your turn.”
He hands me the caulk gun, his first mistake. It’s heavier than I expect, and the trigger is stiff. I position it against the window frame as he showed me and squeeze.
And then a giant glob of caulk erupts from the tip, completely missing the seam and landing on the windowsill in an ugly blob.
“Okay,” Wyatt says, trying not to laugh. “That’s a start, I suppose.”
“I’m terrible at this.”
