She lets out a low whistle. “Wow. That is a lot of money. But not enough.”
“What do you mean, not enough?”
Dolly looks at me with sharp eyes. “Sugar, I told you that developers came through here promising the moon. Jobs, growth, prosperity. They bought up half of Main Street, turned the old hotel into luxury condos, and opened fancy shops that no one here could afford to shop in. Locals got priced out. Rents went up. Property taxes went up. Small businesses that had been here for generations had to close because they couldn’t compete anymore. And those developers? They made their money, and then they moved on to the next town. Left Copper Creek with empty storefronts and people who couldn’t even afford to live in their own community anymore.”
“Gary says he wants to help the town bring economic growth.”
“Oh, I’m sure he did say that. And I’m sure he believes it in his own way. But men like Gary Allen don’t see places like The Rusty Spur as homes. They see them just as investments. And when the investments stop paying off, they move on.” She moves toward the door and then pauses. “Mavis got offers, too, you know. Every year or so, someone would come through wanting to buy the bar, turn it into something ‘better.’ She always said no.”
“Why?”
“Because she knew the place was worth what the place was worth. Not in dollars, but in people, in memories, in the kind of community that can’t be bought or sold. The question is, do you know that?”
She leaves me alone in the office with that question echoing in my mind.
Friday comes too fast. I haven’t slept more than a few hours each night. I’ve read Gary Allen’s proposal a dozen times and looked at my bank account. I’ve made lists of pros and cons till my hand cramped. I haven’t talked to Wyatt. He’s been avoiding me, working different shifts, leaving before I can corner him, responding to my texts with one-word answers that tell me everything I need to know about where we stand now.
During my process of making a decision, I decided that I can’t worry about what Wyatt thinks. I have to make this decision for myself. I’ve never had the chance to make a decision without someone else being involved, namely my mother. This time, I decide, the decision needs to come from me. No outside pressure. No guilt. Wyatt was right about one thing - I have to figure out what I really want.
Friday afternoon at 1:45 p.m., Gary Allen’s Mercedes pulls into the parking lot yet again. I watch from the office window as he gets out, looks at his expensive watch, and adjusts his expensive tie. He looks confident, like he knows he’s about to close a deal.
I think about the folder on my desk with all the zeros. I think about my maxed-out credit cards and my failed business, and the life I left behind in Atlanta, I can never get back.
But I don’t want it back anyway.
I think about Wyatt’s face when he said I would be giving up everything. I think about Dolly’s story about the developers who turned part of Copper Creek into something unrecognizable. And then I think about Mavis, who said no every single time.
I take a deep breath, and then I walk out to meet him.
Gary Allen is sitting at the same table as before, looking relaxed and confident. He seems to think he’s got this whole thing sewn up already. He stands when he sees me approach, his fake smile already in place.
“Ms. Whitfield, I was hoping we’d have good news to celebrate today.”
“Mr. Allen,” I don’t even sit down. “I’ve made my decision.”
“Excellent. I’ve already drawn up the preliminary paperwork.”
“I’m declining your offer.”
His smile doesn’t falter, but I see something shift behind his eyes. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
“I’m saying no. I will not be selling The Rusty Spur.”
He laughs, but it’s a short, disbelieving sound. “Ms. Whitfield, I don’t think you understand what you’re turning down. Three and a half million dollars for a bar that probably brings in, what, two hundred thousand a year? Three hundred? This is a once-in-a-lifetime offer.”
“I understand perfectly, and my answer is still no.”
“May I ask why?” His tone is pleasant, but there’s an edge. “Surely you can see the benefits.”
“I can see what you’re offering, and I can see what it would cost, and the answer is no.”
He sits back and studies me. His pleasant mask slips just slightly. “You’ve been here, what, a few weeks? A couple of months? You think you understand this place, but you don’t. You’re playing at being a small-town bar owner, but we both know you don’t belong here.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“Well, I know you’re broke. I know your business failed. I know you’re one emergency away from financial disaster.” He leans forward. “And I’m offering you a way out. Security. Stability. The kind of money that means you never have to worry again. And you’re throwing it away for what? For these people who aren’t even your family? For a building that’s falling apart?”
“This conversation is over.”
