“Well, straight to business. I appreciate that.” He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a file considerably thicker than I expected. “Before we get into the particulars, I want you to understand something about Mavis. She was not just some bar owner. She was the heart of this community. When she bought The Rusty Spur, it was a failing roadhouse with a reputation for trouble. Well, she turned it into something quite special, a place where everybody was welcome, where folks came together, and where music and laughter meant something.”
I nod politely, wondering where this is headed.
“When Mavis got sick—cancer—it moved fast. She spent a lot of time thinking about what would happen to the Spur after she was gone. She had no children, not even a spouse. Her closest living relative was you.”
“But we never even met. Not really.”
“No, you did not, and Mavis knew that. She knew you might not want anything to do with her bar or her town, but she also knew,” he pauses, looking like he is choosing his words carefully, “she knew that sometimes people need a chance to become who they are supposed to be. She thought maybe you needed that chance.”
I have no idea what he is talking about. I suspect my expression makes this clear.
Harlan chuckles. “Let me just read you the relevant portions of the will. Then you’ll understand.”
He opens the folder and pulls out a document covered in dense legal text.
“I will skip the boilerplate. Here is what matters. I, Mavis Louise Flanigan, being of sound mind and ornery disposition.” He glances up. “She insisted on that wording.”
“Of course she did.”
“Do hereby bequeath to my great-niece, Eleanor Grace Whitfield, the following: the property and business known as The Rusty Spur, located at 247 Mountain Road, Copper Creek, Georgia, including all fixtures, equipment, inventory, and the residential apartment located on the second floor of said property.”
I blink. “The apartment?”
“Mavis lived above the bar. It’s a nice space, actually. She renovated it about ten years ago.”
“I see.” I am trying to calculate property values, wondering what a bar and an apartment in a tiny mountain town might be worth. Enough to pay off my debt? Enough to save the studio?
“There’s more,” Harlan says. Something in his tone makes my stomach clench.
“This bequest is made with the following conditions: Eleanor must maintain ownership of The Rusty Spur for a period of no less than six months from the date of my death. During this period, the bar must remain operational, maintaining regular business hours and honoring all existing commitments, including but not limited to, scheduled entertainment and community events.”
“Six months?” My voice comes out higher than intended. “I have to keep the bar open for six months?”
“That is correct.”
“But I do not know anything about running a bar. I teach etiquette classes.”
“Well, that was an anticipated concern. The current staff of The Rusty Spur, including the bar manager, Mr. Wyatt Rivers, will be retained and granted full authority to manage day-to-day operations. Eleanor’s role is to maintain ownership and presence, but not to single-handedly operate the establishment.”
“Presence? What does that mean?”
“It means you need to be here, in Copper Creek, for six months.”
The room tilts slightly. I grip the arms of my chair, trying to process what he’s saying to me.
Six months. Six months in this tiny town. This place with roads named for possums and tractor traffic, running a honky-tonk bar I have never even seen.
“What happens if I refuse? I mean, if I just don’t accept this inheritance?”
Harlan’s expression softens. “Well, then the property will go to First Baptist Church of Copper Creek to be sold and the proceeds used for their building fund. And Pastor Dale is a good man. He’d put the money to good use, but the bar would almost certainly be torn down. Developers been sniffing around this area for years, wanting to put up vacation condos.”
“And if I accept, but don’t fulfill the conditions? If I leave before the six months are over, or close the bar down?”
“Same result. Property goes to the church.”
I stand up abruptly, moving to the window because I need to move around. I need to do something to abate the panic rising in my chest. Below me, Main Street is continuing its lazy afternoon existence, completely indifferent to the fact that my entire life is being upended.
“Harlan, I have a business in Atlanta. A studio. Clients.”
