Chapter 10
The next morning, I wake up to somebody knocking on my apartment door.
I stumble out of bed, still wearing my oversized T-shirt I sleep in, and look through the peephole. It’s Wyatt, holding two coffee cups from what I am learning is the only decent coffee place in Copper Creek.
My heart does a complicated little flip.
I open the door, suddenly very aware of my bedhead, my complete lack of makeup, and the fact that my T-shirt says, Ain’t no hood like motherhood. It was free with purchase at Target, and I’ve never actually been a mother, but it is comfortable.
“Hi.”
“Morning.”
He holds out the two coffee cups. “Peace offering for being a jerk last night.”
“You weren’t a jerk.”
“I was a little bit of a jerk.” His mouth quirks into a small smile. “I made assumptions. Got in my head about a few things. Anyway, I brought coffee. Figured you might need it.”
I take the cup, and our fingers brush. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to feel the warmth of his hand and something electric that makes me very grateful I’m holding hot coffee, so I suddenly have an excuse for my pink cheeks.
“Thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know.” He shifts his weight, looking almost nervous, which is not an expression I’ve seen on him before. “But I wanted to. I wanted to tell you I’m also sorry for putting pressure on you about your decision. It’s not fair. I mean, it’s your inheritance, your choice. I just…”
“I know,” I finish for him. “You care about this place. And the people who depend on it. Trust me, I totally get it.”
“Yeah.” He lets out a breath. “I do.”
We stand there in my doorway, me in my ridiculous T-shirt and him in his work boots and flannel shirt, holding our coffee cups and looking at each other like we’re trying to figure out what to do next.
He nods, then looks down at my shirt and smiles. “Nice shirt.”
I look down and remember what I’m wearing and want to die.
“It was free,” I say defensively.
“I’m not judging. It’s very maternal.”
“Yeah. I’m gonna close the door now.”
He laughs. Really laughs. “Drink your coffee. I’ll see you downstairs in an hour.”
“I’ll be there.”
He turns to leave, then pauses and looks back.
“For what it’s worth, Eleanor, I’m actually glad you’re here. Even if it’s temporary. And even if you leave in a few months. I’m glad you got to know this place. Got to know…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence. He just gives me one of those looks that makes my stomach flutter, and then he’s gone.
I close the door and lean against it, holding my coffee, trying to calm my racing heart.
This is bad.
This is very bad.
Because somewhere in the last few weeks, somewhere between learning to pour beer and organizing inventory and listening to Dolly’s stories and watching Wyatt move through the bar like he belongs here, I’ve started to care.
Not just care about the bar.
Not about the business.
But about the place and the people.
And maybe possibly, or actually definitely, about the man who just brought me coffee and looked at me like I might be worth the risk of hoping.
I take a sip of my coffee.
He remembered that I like it with cream and two sugars.
I think about Dolly’s question from yesterday.
Which world do I want to live in?
I’m still not one hundred percent sure of the answer.
But I’m starting to think I know which one feels more like home.
* * *
An hour later, I’ve showered and dressed in jeans and a cotton blouse that feels almost too casual for me. I head downstairs to the bar. My hair is still up in its usual twist, although I’ve left a few strands loose. Baby steps.
Wyatt is already there, moving around the bar, restocking glasses. I watch him for a moment before he notices me.
“Hey,” he says, looking up with a smile. “Feeling more human now?”
“Marginally. The coffee helped.”
“Good. Listen, I was thinking we could go over the supply order for next week, you know, make sure we’re—”
Before he can finish, the front door opens.
A woman in her fifties walks in wearing sensible shoes and carrying a clipboard. She looks far more businesslike than anyone else I’ve seen in this town. She has short gray hair and an expression that suggests she is already unimpressed by what she sees.
My stomach drops.
“We’re not open yet,” I start to say, but she’s already pulling out a badge.
“Gloria Patterson. Health inspector. I’m here for your routine inspection.”
“Routine inspection?” My voice comes out higher than I intended. “But we weren’t scheduled until—”
“Surprise inspection,” she says. “Standard procedure. Are you the owner?”
“I’m Eleanor Whitfield. I inherited the bar from my great-aunt a few weeks ago.”
“I see. Well, Ms. Whitfield, let’s take a look at your operations, shall we?
” I look over at Wyatt, panic rising in my chest. He gives me a small nod that I think is meant to be reassuring, but all I can think is that I’ve only been here a few weeks, I have no idea whether we’re up to code, and what if she shuts us down.
“Ms. Whitfield,” Gloria says, already heading toward the kitchen, “this way, please.”
I follow her on shaky legs, Wyatt close behind me.
The inspection takes about forty-five minutes.
Forty-five minutes of Gloria opening every cabinet, checking every temperature, and examining every surface with the thoroughness of a crime scene investigator.
She runs her finger along the edge of a shelf and studies it.
She peers into the walk-in cooler, frowning at the thermometer.
She opens the storage area and looks up at the water-stained ceiling tile.
With each note she makes on her clipboard, my anxiety ratchets up another level.
“Your cooler is reading forty-two degrees,” she says, tapping the thermometer. “It needs to be at forty or below for food safety.”
“Yeah, it’s been acting up,” Wyatt explains calmly. “We’re scheduling a repair.”
Gloria makes a note. “When?”
I open my mouth to answer and realize I don’t actually know, so I close it again.
Wyatt steps in. “We’re getting quotes this week. Should have someone out before next Monday.”
Another note.
“Let’s see the storage area.”
We move through the kitchen, and with each space Gloria examines, I notice new problems I hadn’t seen before.
The leak in the ceiling. The bucket under the stain.
The dry goods aren’t organized properly because I haven’t had time to implement a real system yet.
The handwashing sink is fine, but the soap dispenser is nearly empty.
By the time we finish, I feel like I failed a test I didn’t even know I was taking.
Gloria flips through her notes, her expression unreadable.
“Overall, you’re not in terrible shape,” she says finally.
“But there are issues that need to be addressed. The cooler temperature is a concern. The roof leak needs to be fixed before it causes mold or structural damage. Your storage organization needs improvement. I’d like to see a clear system for stock rotation and cross-contamination prevention.
And your soap dispensers must be kept full at all times. ”
She tears a sheet from her clipboard and hands it to me.
It’s a list of violations. None serious enough to shut us down immediately, but all of them urgent.
“You have thirty days to correct these issues,” she says. “I’ll return for a follow-up inspection. If things haven’t improved, we’ll discuss potential fines or a temporary closure.”
Temporary closure.
The words hit me like ice water.
“I understand,” I say. “We’ll take care of everything.”
“I’m sure you will,” Gloria says. “Mavis ran a tight ship here for years. I know this is new for you, but this place is important to the community. Don’t let it fall apart.”
“Oh, I won’t.”
After she leaves, I stand in the middle of the bar, clutching the violation report like it’s a death sentence.
Wyatt gently takes it from my hands. “This isn’t bad, Eleanor. We can fix all of this.”
“In thirty days?” I ask. “While also running the bar and dealing with everything else?”
“Yes,” he says easily. “The cooler repair was already on our radar. I can fix the roof this weekend. The organization just takes time and a plan. And soap dispensers are easy.”
I sink onto one of the barstools, suddenly exhausted.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit. “I spent weeks thinking I was getting the hang of things, and then someone shows up with a clipboard, and I realize I’m completely in over my head.”
“You’re not in over your head,” Wyatt says.
He moves behind the bar and starts making coffee. He doesn’t ask if I want any. He already knows.
“You’re just learning,” he continues. “You think Mavis knew how to run a bar when she first bought this place? She was a society woman from Atlanta who’d never poured a beer in her life. Just like you.” He sets a mug in front of me. “She figured it out,” he says gently. “And you will too.”
The comparison to Mavis hits harder than it should. I’ve been reading some journals of hers that I found, learning about her life, but I hadn’t really thought about the fact that she probably started out just as lost as I am now. How long did it take her to figure it out?
And how do I miss a woman I never met?
“From what she told me, a while,” Wyatt says. “She had help. That’s what we do here. We help each other. And before you say you can’t ask for help, I’m going to remind you that you’re not asking. I’m offering. And so is half the town, probably.”
He pulls out his phone and starts texting someone.
“What are you doing?”
“Texting Boone. He’s going to want to know about this.”
“Why would Boone care about the health inspector?”
Wyatt looks at me like I’ve said something especially naive.
“Because this is his bar, too. I mean, not legally, but in every other way that matters. Boone’s been coming here for decades.
Dolly’s worked here a long time. This place is part of the town’s fabric.
When it has a problem, we all have a problem. ”
His phone buzzes almost immediately.