“It was.”
“You’re good at this, you know. The community thing. Making people feel welcome.”
“I’m just trying not to mess it up.”
“You’re not messing anything up.”
He reaches up, unexpectedly, and tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering for just a second longer than necessary.
“You’re doing exactly what Mavis hoped you’d do.”
“What’s that?”
“Becoming yourself.”
The words echo what Harlan said weeks ago, and they hit me just as hard now.
Before I can respond, he steps back, breaking the spell.
“I should go. Early start tomorrow.”
“Right. Of course.”
He heads for the door and then pauses and looks back.
“I know I’ve said it before, Eleanor, but I’m really glad you’re here. Even if it’s just for six months. Even if you leave in October. I’m glad I got to know you. You’re getting to know this place and…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, just gives me one of those looks that makes my stomach flip. And then he’s gone.
I stand in the office, surrounded by Mavis’s notebooks and the smell of paint and cleaning supplies, touching the spot behind my ear where his fingers were.
Oh, this is dangerous, I think. This feeling growing between us. This pull I feel whenever he’s near. The sense that I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
In less than six months, I have to make a choice. Stay or go. Build a life here, in this place I never expected, or return to Atlanta and figure out what comes next.
And the longer I stay, the harder that choice is going to be.
I sink into my desk chair and let myself sit with it for a moment.
Tomorrow I’ll worry about the follow-up inspection, whether that Rick guy can really fix the cooler for $1,500, and all the other million things that need my attention.
But for tonight, I’m going to let myself feel grateful. Grateful for this new community that showed up. Grateful to be in a place that’s starting to feel like home. Mostly grateful for a man with kind eyes and gentle hands.
The week after the workday, everything feels different. Maybe it’s because I’m not constantly panicking about the health inspection anymore. A guy named Rick, Boone’s friend and an HVAC pro, came on Tuesday, fixed the cooler for $1,500, and had it running perfectly by the end of the day.
Then Gloria came back Thursday for her follow-up inspection, walked through the place, and finally said the words I desperately needed to hear, “You’re in compliance.”
I might have cried a little bit after she left. Just a little.
But passing the inspection doesn’t mean my problems are solved.
Thursday evening, I’m in my office trying to make sense of Mavis’s files again, which feels like a full-time job, when an email notification pings on my laptop. The sender’s name makes me pause.
Gary Allen, Ashby and Associates.
I stare at it for a moment before clicking it open.
Dear Ms. Whitfield,
