“That’s me.” He sets down the glass he was polishing and walks around the bar, moving with such an easy confidence that shows he is completely comfortable in his own skin. What must that be like?
He is wearing worn jeans and work boots, and he looks like he belongs here in a way that I never will.
Wyatt extends his hand. “Welcome to The Rusty Spur.”
I shake it, noting the calluses, the strength, the warmth. “Um, thank you. I’m here to assess this situation.”
One corner of his mouth quirks up. “Assess the situation? That sounds official.”
“Well, I’ve just come from Mr. Tucker’s office. He explained the terms of the will.”
“Oh, the six months thing,” he says, nodding. “Yeah, Mavis told me about that before she passed. She wanted to make sure you’d give the place a real chance.”
“A real chance of what exactly?”
He shrugs, his impressive shoulders rising and falling. “Well, that’s something you’d have to figure out for yourself, I reckon. Mavis wasn’t a woman who liked to explain herself. She just trusted that the reasons would make sense eventually.”
I look around the bar again, trying to see it through objective eyes. Obviously, the floor needs refinishing. The windows definitely need cleaning, and the disco ball is just a crime against aesthetics. I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a disco ball in person.
“How many people work here?”
“Four, including me. Dolly’s been waitressing here for over thirty years. Boone handles security. He’s a big guy, gentle as a lamb unless you give him a reason not to be. And Presley waits tables and tends the bar with me when she’s not writing songs.”
“Songs?”
“Well, she’s a singer. Performs here sometimes. Mavis encouraged it.”
Something flickers across his face. Grief, maybe? I do not know what to say to that. This man clearly loved my great aunt, and I am standing here in her bar, looking at property values and exit strategies. I didn’t know her. This stranger knew her, and I didn’t. It’s so strange.
“The apartment upstairs,” I say, changing the subject. “Can I see it?”
“Sure. Follow me.”
He leads me through a door at the back of the bar, up a narrow staircase that is very clean and well-lit. At the top, he opens another door and steps aside to let me enter, but I am not prepared for what I find.
The apartment is wonderful. Completely, unexpectedly wonderful.
It is open and airy, with exposed wooden beams and large windows overlooking the mountains. The furniture is definitely eclectic. A velvet sofa in deep turquoise, mismatched armchairs, and a coffee table made from what looks like an old barn door. The walls are covered with art, vintage concert posters, local landscapes, photographs of people laughing and dancing, and everywhere, little touches of someone’s personality.
I’m assuming my great aunt’s.
A collection of cowboy boots is displayed on a shelf. A guitar is propped in the corner. Books are stacked on almost every surface. A kitchen with copper pots hanging from a rack and herbs growing in the window.
It looks like someone actually lived here. Someone who was very happy. It is like I walked into the middle of someone’s life. It feels comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time.
“Mavis had good taste,” Wyatt says from the doorway. “Different than probably what you’re used to in Atlanta, but good.”
I look at him. “You knew her well.”
“She gave me a job when I needed one. Gave me a purpose when I had lost mine. She was,” he pauses, and I see him swallow hard, “she was the best person I ever knew.”
The sincerity in his voice makes something crack inside my carefully constructed composure. This is not just a bar to him. It is not just a job. It is a home, a family, and a life.
And I am jealous of him in this moment, that he knew my great aunt so well, and I knew nothing.
How did I miss out on knowing the greatest person someone ever knew?
I am just the outsider who has inherited all of this.
