Chapter 3 #2
A woman at a nearby table leans over to her companion and says in a voice that carries perfectly despite the noise, “Well, bless her heart, she must be from the city.”
I have been in Georgia long enough to know that “bless her heart” is rarely a compliment.
The smart thing to do would be to leave, go back to the little bed-and-breakfast where I spent last night.
It is the only available accommodation in Copper Creek, run by a woman named Mabel who asked me seventeen questions about my marital status over breakfast. Regroup.
Return tomorrow during daylight hours when I can conduct a proper inspection without an audience.
But I am Eleanor Whitfield, and Whitfields do not retreat.
I straighten my spine, lift my chin, and walk into the chaos.
The crowd parts for me like I am Moses approaching the Red Sea, if Moses had been wearing Ferragamo pumps and attracting bewildered stares.
I walk toward the bar, where I can see Wyatt pulling beers from the tap with the easy efficiency of someone who has done it about ten thousand times. I’ve never even touched a beer or a tap.
He sees me coming. Of course he does. Those blue eyes track my progress across the room, and I watch his expression shift from surprise to what appears to be concern.
“Ms. Whitfield.” He sets down the beers he has just poured and leans against the bar, his arms crossed over his chest. The Henley he wears tonight is black, and it does nothing to diminish the breadth of his shoulders.
I must stop noticing such things. Maybe the mountain air is affecting me.
“I didn’t expect to see you here tonight. ”
“I own this place,” I remind him, raising my voice to be heard over the music. “I have every right to be here.”
“Well, I never said you didn’t.” The hint of a smile plays at the corner of his mouth again. “Just figured you’d want to ease into things. Friday nights at the Spur are a lot.”
As if to illustrate his point, someone behind me lets out a whoop that could probably be heard in the next county, followed by very enthusiastic applause as the band on stage launches into a new song.
“I can handle ‘a lot’,” I say, with air quotes and more confidence than I actually feel. “I’d like to observe the operations, see how things run.”
“All right, suit yourself.” Wyatt gestures to an empty stool at the end of the bar. “Have a seat. I’d offer you a drink, but I’m guessing you’re not a Bud Light kind of woman.”
“I don’t drink beer.” I sound snooty. Actually, I sound like my mother.
“Color me shocked,” he says, putting his hand on his chest. He is now smiling, and I cannot tell if I am irritated or something else. “So what’s your poison?”
“I’ll have a glass of Sancerre, if you have it.”
Wyatt raises an eyebrow. He looks at the young woman working the bar beside him, early twenties, auburn hair in a messy braid, wearing a vintage Dolly Parton t-shirt.
“Hey, Presley, we got any fancy French wine?”
The young woman, Presley, apparently, looks at me with curiosity. “We’ve got a Chardonnay that comes in a box. That close enough?”
I open my mouth to decline, but something in their expressions stops me. They are not being mean. Not exactly. They are just testing me, seeing what I am made of.
“That will be fine,” I say. I’ve never drunk wine from a box, but I suppose there’s a first time for everything.
Presley grins, and then her face transforms from pretty to genuinely beautiful. “Coming right up. You must be Mavis’s niece, the one from Atlanta.”
“Great-niece, and yes.”
“I’m Presley Tucker. Harlan’s my uncle.”
She pours wine into a glass that is definitely not a proper wine glass. It is a mason jar, because of course it is, and slides it across the bar to me. I’ve also never drunk anything from a mason jar. Wow, so many firsts tonight.
“Mavis talked about you sometimes. Said you were fancy.”
“I’m not,” I start, and then stop. By every measure that these people would use, I am absolutely fancy. Denying it would make me look foolish. “I guess I am, by some standards.”
“Well, there’s nothing wrong with fancy,” Presley says. “It’s just different, is all. Mavis always said different was good. Kept things interesting.”
Before I can respond, a large hand lands on the bar beside me, and I turn to find myself face to face with the biggest human being I have ever seen in my entire life.
He is easily six and a half feet tall, broad as a barn door, with a shaved head and a full beard, but his eyes are surprisingly gentle.
“You’re the new owner.” It is not a question. It is a statement. And even if I wasn’t the new owner, I would say I was because this man could squish me with his pinky finger.
“I am. Eleanor Whitfield.”
“Boone Davidson.” He puts out his hand that could probably crush my skull like a grape, and I shake it. His grip is carefully controlled. “I handle security. Anything you need, you let me know.”
“Thank you, Boone. I appreciate that.”
He nods once, satisfied with the exchange, and moves away to resume his position near the door. I watch him go, marveling at how somebody so massive can move so quietly.
“Don’t let his size fool you,” Wyatt says. “Boone’s the gentlest soul in this county. Mavis used to say he was proof that God had a sense of humor, because he put the heart of a poet in the body of a linebacker.”
“He writes poetry?”
“Reads it mostly, but yeah, he’s written a few. Won’t show them to anybody, though.” Wyatt pours another round of beers for a customer. “Mavis was the only one he ever let read them.”
There it is again, the shadow that crosses his face whenever he mentions my great aunt, the grief that is still clearly fresh for him.
“You all loved her very much,” I say, as quietly as I can over the music.
Wyatt’s hands are still on the tap, and for a moment, he does not even look at me. When he does, his expression is unreadable.
“She was family, not by blood but by choice. And that means a lot around here.”
“I’m beginning to see that.”
“Are you?” He holds my gaze, and there is a challenge in his eyes. “Because from where I am standing, you’re here to figure out how to get through the next six months with minimum involvement so you can sell this place and go back to your real life.”
The accuracy of his assessment stings a little more than it should.
“I haven’t decided anything yet,” I say, which is technically true. “I’m still assessing.”
“Assessing.” He says the word like it tastes bad. “Right. Well, you assess away, Ms. Whitfield. Just try not to get in anyone’s way.”
He moves down the bar to serve another customer, leaving me on my stool with my mason jar of boxed wine and the feeling that I just failed a test I didn’t know I was taking.
* * *
The next hour is an education.
I sit at my post at the end of the bar, drinking my wine, which is not terrible, and watching The Rusty Spur in action. It is total chaos, but it’s an organized chaos. Everybody seems to know their role, moving around each other like dancers in a choreographed routine.
Wyatt handles the bar with quiet authority, mixing drinks and pouring beers, and somehow managing to have a conversation with every customer who approaches. He remembers their names, asks about their families, and laughs at jokes I cannot hear over the music. The patrons clearly adore him.
Presley works beside him, faster and flashier, spinning bottles and flirting harmlessly. She has a natural charm that draws people in. And I notice she knows the words to every single song the band plays, singing along as she works.
Then there is Dolly.
I notice her about twenty minutes into my observation.
A woman in her sixties with platinum blonde hair teased to impressive heights, rhinestone reading glasses hanging from a beaded chain around her neck, and an energy level that puts people half her age to shame.
She walks through the crowded tables with trays of drinks and plates of food, never spilling a drop, no matter how much chaos is around her.
But what strikes me most is how she interacts with the customers. Every table gets a smile and a touch on the shoulder, a moment of genuine connection. She calls everybody darlin’ and sugar and honey, and it does not sound performative. It sounds like she means it.
At one point, she walks up to an elderly man sitting alone at a corner table, and I watch her crouch down to his level, taking his weathered hand in hers.
They talk for a long moment, and when she stands, she is dabbing at her eyes.
She squeezes his shoulder, says something that makes him laugh, and then moves on to the next table.
“That’s Earl,” Wyatt says, appearing beside me. I didn’t even see him walk up. “His wife passed away last month. They used to come in here on Friday nights and dance the night away. Now, he comes in every Friday because he can’t stand being alone. And Dolly makes sure he doesn’t have to be.”
I look over at Earl, his hunched shoulders and the way he is clutching his beer like a lifeline. And then I look at Dolly, who is already charming another table into ordering dessert.
“She’s really remarkable,” I say.
“She is.” Wyatt’s voice softens. “She’s been working here for so long. Mavis hired her when nobody else would. Single mom with a GED and a deadbeat ex. Gave her a chance when she needed one.”
It’s a theme, I’m realizing. Mavis giving people chances, building her own family out of people who needed one when her own family abandoned her. Collecting weary souls and knitting them together into something beautiful.
“Why are you telling me all this?”
Wyatt meets my eyes. “Because you should know what you’re dealing with. This isn’t just some business. It’s not just numbers on a spreadsheet or a property you need to ‘assess’. This is people’s lives. Their livelihoods. Their home.”
“I understand that.”
“Do you?” He shakes his head. “I’m not trying to be harsh. I just need you to see it. I mean, really see it before you make any decisions.”
Before I can respond, a commotion near the door draws our attention. Two men square off, chests puffed, voices rising above the music. One shoves the other, and suddenly the bar’s happy chaos has an edge of danger.
Wyatt is moving before I can blink, crossing the room in long strides that eat up the distance. I expect him to wade in with his fists. He certainly has the build for it.
But instead, he steps between them, his hands raised, his voice calm. Boone stands on the outskirts, obviously waiting for Wyatt to say the word before stepping in.
I cannot hear what Wyatt is saying over the music, but I can see the effect. The tension in both men’s shoulders eases. One of them actually laughs, shaking his head.
Wyatt claps them both on the back, gestures toward the bar, and just like that, a potential fight dissolves into handshakes and what looks like an offer to buy each other drinks.
“He’s good at that,” Presley says, walking closer. “Wyatt, I mean. Diffusing things. Mavis always said he could talk a tornado into changing direction.”
“And where do you think he learned that?”
“Army, mostly. He did three tours overseas. Came back a bit broken. Mavis helped with that, too.” Presley’s eyes are on Wyatt as he guides the two former combatants over to the bar. “She helped all of us one way or another.”
I watch Wyatt pour shots for the men. Watch them clink glasses and drink. Watch the whole incident fade into nothing. He catches me looking and raises an eyebrow as if to say, see, this is what it takes.
I raise my mason jar of wine in acknowledgment.
His lips twitch, almost a smile, before he turns back to his customers.