These lies taste bitter on my tongue. I have three bored teenagers and a pile of unpaid bills. It is hardly a thriving enterprise.
“I can’t just abandon everything for six months.”
“I understand this is a lot to take in.” His voice is patient. “Mavis knew it would be. That’s why she left you the apartment rent-free. The bar is profitable, not wildly so, but it turns a decent income, so you wouldn’t be struggling financially.”
I turn back to face him. “Why? Why would she do this? She didn’t even know me. I didn’t know her. Why would she leave me everything and then trap me here for months?”
He is quiet for a long moment. “All I can say is that Mavis was a wise woman. She did this for reasons only she knew, but I believe they were good ones.”
“I need to see it,” I hear myself say. “The bar. Before I make any decisions, I would like to see what I’m dealing with.”
He nods, as if he expected it. “The Rusty Spur’s about a mile outside of town on Mountain Road. Can’t miss it. Just follow the road, pass the church, and look for a neon boot. It’s closed right now, but Wyatt should be there prepping for tonight. I’ll call ahead and let him know you’re coming.”
“Wyatt. The manager.”
“That’s right. Good man, Wyatt Rivers. Mavis trusted him completely. You can, too.”
I gather what’s left of my composure and stick out my hand. “Thank you, Harlan. I’ll be in touch.”
His handshake is warm. “Take your time, Ms. Whitfield. This is a big decision. But if I might offer some unsolicited advice from an old country lawyer?—”
“Please.”
“Sometimes the things that scare us the most are exactly what we need. Mavis believed that. She lived it. Maybe she saw something in you that made her think you needed to learn it, too.”
CHAPTER 3
Mountain Road is unsurprisingly a road that goes up a mountain. I drive slowly because the curves are sharp and unfamiliar, but also because I am delaying the inevitable. The forest presses close on both sides, broken occasionally by driveways that disappear into trees, leading to houses I cannot see.
I pass the First Baptist Church, white clapboard, tall steeple, and a sign out front reading: FREE COFFEE + ETERNAL LIFE.
I continue climbing. And then I see it.
The Rusty Spur announces itself with a giant neon sign that is visible even in daylight, a cowboy boot with a spinning spur, outlined in red and blue lights. The building itself is a very large wooden structure, weathered to a silvery gray, with a wide front porch and a parking lot that could hold at most thirty cars. There are string lights strung across the porch, unlit now, but promising evening festivity.
I pull into the parking lot and sit in my car, staring.
How did I get here?
It is worse than I imagined, but somehow better. The building has a certain ramshackle charm, like a beloved old dog that has seen better days but still wags its tail. There are flower boxes on the porch. They look like they have been tended, with red geraniums spilling over the edges. A hand-painted sign on the door reads “WELCOME Y’ALL” in letters that are a little bit crooked, but enthusiastic.
I can hear music from inside. Country, of course. Something with steel guitar and lyrics about a truck or heartbreak or maybe both.
I take a deep breath, check my reflection one more time, and get out of the car. The porch steps creak under my heels. The front door is heavy, real wood, with a brass handle worn smooth by how many hands have touched it over the years.
I push it open and step inside.
The interior is dim, lit only by afternoon light filtering through the windows. They sure could use a good cleaning. My eyes adjust, and I begin to make out the details. A long wooden bar running along one wall, bottles of liquor glinting on shelves. Tables and chairs scattered around a scuffed wooden floor. A small stage in the corner, complete with a drum kit and a microphone stand. Mounted deer heads and vintage beer signs, string lights, and, inexplicably, a disco ball.
It smells like old wood and spilled beer and something else that I cannot quite identify. It definitely doesn’t smell like my studio back in Atlanta.
Standing behind the bar, watching me with an expression I cannot read, is quite possibly the most attractive man I have ever seen in my life. He is tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders that strain against a gray Henley shirt, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms tanned, muscular, and tattooed. Dark hair with a slight curl at the ends. Square jaw covered in stubble. Blue eyes, startlingly so, that are currently examining me with a mixture of curiosity and something that might be amusement.
“Well, you must be Eleanor,” he says. His voice is deep, with just enough Southern drawl to make my name sound like something musical. “Harlan called. Said you’d be coming by.”
I straighten my spine, summon my mother’s voice in my head. Poised, Eleanor. Presence. Never let them see you sweat.
“And you must be Wyatt Rivers,” I say. “The manager.”
