Chapter 3
Three
The woman who’d checked him in—Barb, fifty-something, with silver hair and a handshake that could crack walnuts—had given him the grand tour with the efficiency of someone who’d done it a thousand times but still cared.
“Breakfast is at eight,” she’d said, leading him up the stairs. “But if you’re an early riser, coffee’s on by six. We’ve got a business center,” she pointed to a small room off the second-floor landing, “—which is really just a desk and a printer, but the Wi-Fi’s solid.”
“That’s all I need.”
“Good. Are you here for work or pleasure?”
“Work.”
“What kind of work brings you to Spoon in December?”
Jake hesitated, then relaxed. Something about Barb—her directness, and the way she locked eyes with him—made him want to trust her.
“I’m with Regional First Bank. Agricultural recovery.”
Barb stopped at the door to his room, key in hand. She gave him a long look. “You’re here about Wes Dalton’s place.”
Of course, she knows, Wes thought. Small towns.
“I can’t discuss client details.”
“That’s a yes.” Barb unlocked the door and pushed it open. “He’s a good man. Works harder than anyone I know. His daddy had a stroke back in February. Wes gave up a lot to keep that farm running.”
Jake nodded, absorbing the words. She wasn’t just making small talk—she was drawing a line in the sand. Wes Dalton had people in his corner.
“I’m here to help, not hurt,” Jake said. “That’s the truth.”
Barb studied him a moment longer, then smiled. “Good. Because if you weren’t, you’d have me to deal with.”
“Understood.”
“Dinner’s at six if you want it. Cassie—my partner—makes a mean pot roast on Saturdays. And it’s just us tonight. No other guests.”
“I’d like that. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She’d started down the hall, then paused. “Oh, and after dinner, if you’re looking for something to do, Tucker’s Tavern is the place. Two blocks down, right on the square. You can’t miss it.”
At six sharp, Jake sat at a dining table that could’ve seated twelve but hosted only three.
Barb and Cassie—who was younger than Barb by maybe twenty years, with dark hair pulled into a ponytail—served pot roast with vegetables and gravy that tasted better than anything Jake had eaten in months. Maybe years.
“So,” Cassie said, settling into her chair. “Barb says you’re here to help Wes.”
Jake glanced at Barb, who shrugged unapologetically.
“I can’t make promises,” Jake said carefully. “But I’m going to try.”
“Good.” Cassie passed him the rolls. “He needs it. That farm’s been in his family forever. It’d kill him to lose it.”
“Does he have support? I mean, aside from his father?”
“No,” Barb said. “But the town—we care about Wes. We look out for our own.”
“And he’s stubborn,” Cassie added.
Jake nodded. Nothing new there.
“How bad do things usually get here, I mean, for tree farms in winter?” Jake asked.
Cassie and Barb exchanged a look.
“Depends on the weather,” Barb said. “The ice storm in 2019 nearly destroyed Holiday Pines. They lost more than half of their stock overnight. Trees snapped like matchsticks under the weight of the ice.”
“Henry had his first small stroke two weeks later,” Cassie added quietly. “The doctor said it was stress-related. They barely scraped through that season.”
“Ice storms are a big fear around here,” Barb continued. “Worse than drought, worse than recession. At least those you can see coming. An ice storm hits overnight, and by morning, everything’s destroyed.”
Jake filed that information away, understanding more what pressure Wes must be under.
“What he really needs,” Barb said, setting down her fork, “is a sustainable model. Christmas trees are great, but they’re seasonal. If he could generate income year-round instead of just November and December—”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Jake said. “He’s got land.”
“Plenty. His grandfather used to run cattle before they switched fully to trees.”
Cassie leaned forward. “Barb’s brother-in-law Pedro runs a landscaping company. He had the same problem with seasonal slumps. So, he added tree removal and mulch production. Now, he even does event landscaping for weddings. It keeps his cash flow steady year-round.”
“Different model, but the principle’s the same. Wes would need to figure out what fits not only his land, but his skills.”
Barb nodded. “Pedro would probably talk to him. He’s good people. So’s his husband, Titus.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Titus already tried to help Wes once. He offered to invest in the farm and become a partner. Wes turned him down flat.”
“Why?” Jake asked, even though he knew the answer.
“Pride,” Cassie said. “Wes doesn’t want a handout. He doesn’t want to owe anyone, especially not the town mayor. He’d rather lose the farm than feel like he couldn’t do it himself.”
Of course he would.
“So approaching this the wrong way could backfire,” Jake said.
“Exactly.” Barb met his eyes. “Whatever you propose, it has to feel like his choice. His plan. Not charity.”
Jake nodded slowly. That complicated things. But it also gave him insight into how to handle Wes—whenever they actually sat down to talk.
“Understood,” he said. “And I appreciate the heads-up.”
“Pedro would be willing to talk shop, I’m certain,” Barb said. “Compare notes on what has worked for him. What hasn’t. No pressure, just peer-to-peer. I could set up a meeting if you think it’d help.”
“It might,” Jake said. “Let me feel out where Wes is first. I don’t want to overwhelm him.”
“Smart. But the offer stands whenever you need it.” She stood, collecting plates. “Now, you want dessert? Cassie made peach cobbler.”
“I never turn down peach cobbler.”
Cassie grinned. “Smart man.”
By seven-thirty, Jake was full, warm, and more optimistic than he’d been earlier. He helped clear the table despite Barb’s protests, then grabbed his jacket.
“Heading to Tucker’s?” Cassie asked.
“Thought I’d check it out.”
“Tell Tucker we sent you. He’ll take good care of you.”
“Will do.”
Outside, the air was cold and sharp, biting at his face and hands.
The town square was lit up with white lights strung through the trees, and storefronts glowing warm. A few people wandered the sidewalks, couples mostly, holding hands and window shopping.
It was... nice. Quiet in a way Atlanta never was.
Tucker’s Tavern sat on the corner, a brick building with wide windows and a neon sign that buzzed faintly. Inside, Jake could see people at the bar, hear the indistinct murmur of a crowd, and muffled music from a jukebox.
He pushed the door open.
Warmth hit him first, then the smell—beer and fried food and something sweet, like barbecue sauce.
The place was long and narrow; the bar running nearly the entire length.
Booths lined the opposite wall, with tables down the middle.
Halfway down, a jukebox glowed. In the back, near the restrooms and rear entry, two electronic dartboards lit up the dim space, chirping as darts thumped.
A man behind the bar looked up. Big guy, broad-shouldered and blond, with a friendly face. He was wearing a navy Oxford shirt with Tucker’s Tavern monogrammed on the pocket.
“Welcome,” he called. “Grab a seat anywhere.”
Jake headed to the bar, sliding onto a stool. Up close, the bartender was younger than he’d looked from the door—maybe early thirties, with an easy smile and the kind of build that said he didn’t just serve beer, but could bench-press the keg.
“First time at Tucker’s?” the man asked.
“Yeah. Barb and Cassie from the Hawthorne House sent me.”
The bartender grinned. “I’m sure they did. I’m Barb’s nephew, Tucker.”
“Jake.” He extended a hand. Tucker shook it, firm and friendly.
“What can I get you?”
“What’s good?”
“Everything. But if you want my recommendation, try the wings. Evan—my partner—swears by them.”
Evan was nowhere near hungry, but he was a firm believer in supporting small businesses.
“Wings sound great. And a beer. Whatever you’ve got on tap.”
“Coming right up.”
Tucker moved with practiced efficiency, pulling a pint and calling the order back to the kitchen. He set the beer in front of Jake, then leaned against the bar.
Near the jukebox, an older man fed quarters into the machine, humming along to whatever played next.
“That’s Cal,” Tucker said, following Jake’s gaze. “He’s got a song for every occasion. Sometimes they’re a little too on the nose. Fair warning.”
“Noted.”
“So, what brings you to Spoon?”
Here we go.
“Work,” Jake said. “I’m with Regional First. Handling some accounts in the area.”
Tucker’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in his eyes. “You’re the guy working with Wes.”
Not a question.
“Word sure does travel fast around here.”
“Small town. And Wes is... well, people care about him.” Tucker wiped down the bar, casual. “You gonna help him or hurt him?”
Jake met his gaze. “Help. If he’ll let me.”
Tucker considered that, then nodded. “Good. He’s stubborn as hell, but he’s a good man. He deserves a break.”
“Seems like everyone in this town thinks so.”
“Because it’s true.” Tucker straightened, glancing toward the door as a couple walked in. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
He moved off to greet the new customers, and Jake took a sip of his beer. It was cold and domestic—something he didn’t recognize but tasted far better than the overpriced craft stuff in Atlanta.
The jukebox kicked on. Some ‘90s rock song Jake vaguely recognized. Cal glanced over, caught Jake’s eye, and nodded like they were sharing a secret.
Jake nodded back, perplexed.
The wings arrived, and Jake nibbled, half-focused on his phone, half-aware of the surrounding bar. The couple Tucker had greeted were laughing at a booth. In the back, the dartboards chirped, lights flashing as players racked up points.
It was... comfortable. The kind of place where everyone knew everyone, where a stranger stood out but wasn’t unwelcome.
Jake was finishing his second beer when the door opened again, accompanied by a stark, cold draft.
He glanced that way.