Why? Because I have decided that even if I don’t stay in Copper Creek long-term, I know now that I don’t want to teach etiquette again. That much I have learned about myself.
Still, three and a half million dollars would solve every single financial problem I have. It would let me start over, give me options I haven’t had in years, and probably never would have.
I close my laptop and lean back in the chair, staring at the wood-paneled walls covered with photos of people who loved this place.
Wednesday at 2 p.m.
That’s in two days.
I don’t tell anyone about the email. Not on Monday night when Wyatt and I close up the bar together and he walks me to the stairs, his hand lingering on the small of my back. Not on Tuesday when Dolly asks me how the date went and I just smile like an idiot and say, It was perfect. Not on Tuesday night when Wyatt texts me, thinking about you, and I stare at my phone for five full minutes before texting him back, thinking about you, too. We have a conversation entirely in emojis that makes me laugh until my face hurts.
I don’t tell anyone because saying it out loud would make it real, and I don’t know what to do with it all yet.
Wednesday arrives too fast.
At 1:55 p.m., a black Mercedes pulls into The Rusty Spur’s parking lot. It’s so out of place among the pickup trucks and sensible sedans that people actually stop and stare. A man gets out, 50-ish, wearing an expensive suit, perfectly styled silver hair, and the kind of confident posture that comes from never having been told no. He surveys the building with an expression of someone mentally calculating property values.
I watch from the office window as he approaches the front door.
I’ve changed three times, settled on dark jeans and a white blouse, professional but not trying too hard. Not the pencil skirt and pearls version of Eleanor, but not the paint-stained work clothes version either. I land somewhere in between.
The bell over the door chimes, and I hear Presley’s cheerful voice.
“Hey there, welcome to The Rusty Spur. What can I get ya?”
“I’m here to see Eleanor Whitfield. I have an appointment.”
Gary Allen is everything I expected and worse. He’s charming in that practiced way that wealthy people are charming, with all their big white teeth and firm handshakes and compliments that feel calculated rather than genuine. He orders a beer he never drinks and spreads papers across the table like he owns the place.
“Ms. Whitfield, thank you for taking the time to meet with me.” He gestures to the seat across from him. “I promise this will be worth your while.”
I sit, keeping my expression neutral. “You mentioned an offer.”
“Direct. I appreciate that.”
He slides a folder across the table. “Three and a half million dollars for the property, the building, and the land. We’d give you sixty days to vacate, though, of course, we’d be flexible on timing if needed in your situation.”
“My situation?”
“The inheritance stipulation. The requirement.” He leans back, completely at ease. “We’ve done our research, Ms. Whitfield. We know you inherited the property with some conditions attached. We also know you had a successful business in Atlanta that unfortunately had to close, and that can’t be an easy transition for you.”
The way he says it, sympathetic but with an edge, makes something cold slide down my spine. He’s done his homework. Probably knows exactly how much debt I’m carrying and exactly how desperate I should be.
“Well, I’m managing,” I say coolly.
“Oh, I’m sure you are, but managing isn’t thriving, is it?” He taps the folder with one of his well-manicured fingers. “This is life-changing money, Ms. Whitfield. The kind of money that gives you options, the freedom to start over on your own terms.”
I don’t open the folder. I don’t look at the number printed on the page, because if I look at it, if I actually see it written out with all those zeros, I might find it impossible to say no.
“And what do you want to do with the property?” I ask.
“Transform it.” His eyes light up with the kind of enthusiasm typically reserved for a kid in a candy store. “The Copper Creek area is on the verge of significant growth. Mountain tourism is booming. People are looking for the authentic experience combined with modern luxury. We envision a boutique resort, upscale accommodations, fine dining, spa facilities, event spaces, and this property would be the cornerstone.”
“And what happens to The Rusty Spur?”
“Well, it would be incorporated into the vision, reimagined as an upscale restaurant and event venue. We would probably keep the name, of course, maintain local flavor, but elevate the experience.”
Everything he’s saying sounds reasonable, like progress. Sounds like exactly what somebody in my position should want to hear.
