Chapter 17
That evening, the bar fills up like it always does on Friday nights.
Music plays from the jukebox, couples dance around the floor, and families crowd into booths.
The mechanical bull sits in the corner. It’s a permanent fixture now, since it was so successful last month, and there’s a steady stream of brave souls taking their turns getting thrown into the air and onto the mat.
I work behind the bar with Presley, pouring beer and mixing drinks. I’m surprised how natural it’s beginning to feel, how my hands know where everything is without thinking.
“You’re getting pretty good at this,” Presley says during a lull. “Almost as good as Mavis.”
“Well, I had a good teacher.”
“Please. You taught yourself. I just pointed you at the bottles and let you figure it out.” She grins. “But seriously, Eleanor, you’re different than when you first got here. More relaxed, like you actually belong.”
“Do I? Belong?”
She looks around the crowded bar. “Yeah, you do. I mean, you’re still a little fancy, but a good kind of fancy now. The kind that fits.”
Before I can say anything, a commotion near the door draws our attention.
A group of men in expensive suits has just walked in, and they look as out of place as I did a few weeks ago in my pencil skirt and pearls.
They’re looking around with expressions of half curiosity, half disdain, as if they’ve wandered into a zoo.
At the center of the group is Gary Allen.
Our eyes meet across the crowded room. He smiles that smile that I hate.
“Presley,” I say quietly, “can you handle the bar for a minute?”
“Sure. Everything okay?”
“I actually don’t know yet.”
I walk toward the group and keep my expression neutral. Gary is already moving toward me with his hand extended like we’re old friends.
“Ms. Whitfield, lovely to see you again.”
I don’t shake his hand.
“Mr. Allen, I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Oh, I’m just showing some colleagues around town.
They’re also interested in the area’s potential.
” He gestures toward the men behind him.
“This is David Webb, Ronald McAllister, and Richard Patterson. Gentlemen, this is Eleanor Whitfield, owner of The Rusty Spur.” They nod politely, and I nod back.
Nobody smiles. “I have to say,” Gary continues, “this place is really charming. Very authentic. I can see why you’re attached to it. ”
“Can I help you with something, Mr. Allen, or did you just come to admire the décor?”
“Well, we’re just having a drink. Last time I checked, this was a public establishment.” He moves toward the bar, his colleagues following. “Four whiskeys neat. Whatever you’ve got that’s top shelf.”
I want him to leave. I want to throw him out like they do in the movies, with a dramatic exit, the doors swinging, and everybody cheering. But I can’t. He’s right. This is a public establishment. Making a scene would only give him more ammunition.
So I walk back behind the bar and pour the four whiskeys. Presley watches with wide eyes but doesn’t say a word.
“Thank you,” Gary says when I set the glasses down. He raises his glass in a mock toast. “To Copper Creek and its bright future.”
His colleagues echo the toast, and they drink, looking around, taking mental notes.
I stand behind my bar in my honky-tonk, watching them, trying to figure out how to make it all go away.
Wyatt arrives around nine o’clock, as he usually does on Friday nights. He comes in through the back entrance, shrugs off his jacket, and I see the exact moment he spots Gary and his gang at the corner table. His whole body goes rigid.
“What’s he doing here?” he asks as he crosses to me at the bar in three long strides.
“Having drinks and showing his friends around.”
“His friends?”
“Investors, I assume. Or developers. I’m not sure exactly.”
Wyatt’s jaw is tight. “You want me to throw him out?”
“On what grounds? They’re customers. They’re behaving themselves. They’re just…” I look over at the table, watching.
“I don’t like it.”
“Neither do I. But making a scene is what he wants. He’s waiting for us to give him a reason to play the victim.”
Wyatt takes a breath and forces himself to relax. “You’re right. I know you’re right. It’s just…”
“I know.”
He moves behind the bar and starts helping, pouring beers, wiping down the counter, doing the familiar work he doesn’t need to do but that gives him something to focus on besides Gary Allen’s smug face, which he desperately wants to punch.
Around ten, the group finishes their drinks and stand to leave.
Gary makes a point of walking past the bar.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Ms. Whitfield. We’ll have to do this again sometime.”
“Good night, Mr. Allen.”
He pauses, then leans in slightly, lowering his voice so only I can hear.
“You know, this doesn’t have to be adversarial. We could work together, the two of us. You could be part of what’s coming instead of fighting against it.”
“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.” His smile is cold. “Copper Creek is going to change, Eleanor, one way or another. The only question is whether you’re going to change with it or get left behind.”
He walks out, his colleagues trailing behind him.
Wyatt appears next to me. “What did he say?”
“Nothing important.” I turn back to the bar, to the customers, to the music and laughter. “Nothing important at all.”
But I can feel Wyatt watching me. I can see the worry in his eyes, and I know we’re both thinking the same thing.
Gary Allen isn’t going away.
Whatever it is that he’s planning, we’re not going to like it.
* * *
Saturday morning, I arrive at Meredith’s house at nine o’clock with gardening gloves, a new pair of boots, and a determination to learn everything she’s willing to teach me. Wyatt is already there, sitting on the porch with his grandmother, drinking coffee from mismatched mugs.
“You’re early,” he says, standing as I walk up the steps.
“I’m punctual. There’s a difference.”
“Punctual people are early people who pretend they’re not.”
Meredith laughs. “He’s got you there, dear. Come sit and have some coffee before we start.”
We drink coffee on the porch, the three of us watching the morning sun climb over the mountains. Meredith tells stories about her garden, including which plants have been there the longest, which ones she struggled with, and which ones her husband Frank planted before he died.
“The roses were his,” she says, gesturing to the climbing roses on a trellis nearby. “I wanted to rip them out after he passed because it was too painful to look at them, but Wyatt talked me out of it.”
“I told her Grandpa would haunt her if she touched his roses,” Wyatt says.
“He probably would have. That man loved those roses more than he loved me some days.”
“That’s not true.”
“No, it’s not,” she smiles. “But he did love them.”
* * *
We work in the garden for three hours. Meredith directs from her chair, her ankle still healing, while Wyatt and I handle the physical labor.
We weed, water, check for pests, and prune dead growth.
It’s hard work. My back aches, and my hands are sore even through the gloves, but there’s something deeply satisfying about it, about putting your hands in the dirt and watching things grow.
“You’re a natural,” Meredith calls to me as I carefully transplant a tomato seedling into a larger pot.
“I don’t know about that.”
“I do. You’ve got the patience and the gentleness for it. Some people treat plants like they’re in a hurry, rushing through everything, and then wonder why nothing thrives. But you take your time. You pay attention.”
“My mother would be horrified,” I say without thinking. “She thought gardening was beneath us, something for the hired help.”
“No offense to your mother, but that’s ridiculous,” Meredith says bluntly. “Putting your hands in the earth and growing your own food is one of the most human things a person can do. There’s nothing beneath about it.”
I look at the seedling in my hands, at the delicate roots and the promise of what it can become.
“I’m starting to believe that,” I say.
* * *
After we clean up, Meredith insists on making lunch. Wyatt and I, of course, try to help, but she shoos us right out of the kitchen.
“Go sit on the porch. I might be old, but I can still make sandwiches without supervision.”
We sit on the porch swing, the chains creaking softly as we rock back and forth.
“She’s as stubborn as a mule,” I say.
“Family trait.” Wyatt stretches his legs out, crossing his ankles. “Thank you for doing this. She’s been lonely since Grandpa died. She won’t admit it, but she has been.”
“I like spending time with her.”
“She likes you, too. She told me this morning, before you even got here. Said you have ‘good energy’.” He does air quotes with his fingers. “Whatever that means.”
“It means she’s very polite.”
He smiles. “It means she approves, which, trust me, is not something she does easily. She absolutely hated Laney.”
I blink, surprised. “She told me they met, but she didn’t say she hated her.”
“Oh, she wouldn’t. She’s too polite, but I could tell. See, there’s this thing she does with her mouth when she disapproves of someone, like she’s trying not to frown.” He demonstrates, pursing his lips slightly.
I laugh. “Does she do that with me?”
“Never. Not once. From the moment she met you at dinner, it was different. She kept looking at me during the meal, like—” He stops and shakes his head.
“Like what?”
“Like she was waiting for me to figure something out.”
We rock in silence for a moment.
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
“Always.”
“Last night, when Gary Allen was at the bar, you looked like you were ready to throw him through a wall.”
“Because I was.”
“Why?”
He’s quiet for a moment, staring out at the garden.
“Because he represents everything I hate. People who come into a place and try to change it into something it’s not. Who see a community like Copper Creek and think only about what value they can extract from it.”