Chapter 14
I almost ignore it, but the sender’s name catches my eye.
Gary Allen.
I thought I’d deleted his last email, put it out of my mind, but apparently, he’s not taking my silence as an answer, so I open it.
Ms. Whitfield,
I wanted to follow up on my previous message regarding our interest in The Rusty Spur property. I understand you may need time to consider such a significant decision, so I want to present our formal offer in person.
Our clients are prepared to offer you $3.5 million for the property, with flexible closing terms to accommodate your timeline. This is significantly above the current market evaluation and is a unique opportunity for you.
I’ll be in Copper Creek this Wednesday and would welcome a chance to meet with you. I believe once you see the full scope of what we’re proposing, not just for your property, but the entire Copper Creek community, you’ll understand why this partnership makes sense for everyone.
I plan to be at your establishment on Wednesday at 2 p.m. and look forward to our conversation.
Best regards,
Gary Allen
I read it three times.
$3.5 million.
I paid off the last of my mother’s medical bills six months ago and sold everything I could to keep the studio afloat. My credit cards are maxed out, and my savings account currently has $1,247.
And last week, without telling anyone, I closed the studio. Didn’t renew the lease. Hired a company to remove my personal belongings and put them in storage.
Why? Because I have decided that even if I don’t stay in Copper Creek long-term, I know now that I don’t want to teach etiquette again. That much I have learned about myself.
Still, three and a half million dollars would solve every single financial problem I have. It would let me start over, give me options I haven’t had in years, and probably never would have.
I close my laptop and lean back in the chair, staring at the wood-paneled walls covered with photos of people who loved this place.
Wednesday at 2 p.m.
That’s in two days.
* * *
I don’t tell anyone about the email. Not on Monday night when Wyatt and I close up the bar together and he walks me to the stairs, his hand lingering on the small of my back.
Not on Tuesday when Dolly asks me how the date went and I just smile like an idiot and say, It was perfect.
Not on Tuesday night when Wyatt texts me, thinking about you, and I stare at my phone for five full minutes before texting him back, thinking about you, too.
We have a conversation entirely in emojis that makes me laugh until my face hurts.
I don’t tell anyone because saying it out loud would make it real, and I don’t know what to do with it all yet.
Wednesday arrives too fast.
At 1:55 p.m., a black Mercedes pulls into The Rusty Spur’s parking lot.
It’s so out of place among the pickup trucks and sensible sedans that people actually stop and stare.
A man gets out, 50-ish, wearing an expensive suit, perfectly styled silver hair, and the kind of confident posture that comes from never having been told no.
He surveys the building with an expression of someone mentally calculating property values.
I watch from the office window as he approaches the front door.
I’ve changed three times, settled on dark jeans and a white blouse, professional but not trying too hard. Not the pencil skirt and pearls version of Eleanor, but not the paint-stained work clothes version either. I land somewhere in between.
The bell over the door chimes, and I hear Presley’s cheerful voice.
“Hey there, welcome to The Rusty Spur. What can I get ya?”
“I’m here to see Eleanor Whitfield. I have an appointment.”
* * *
Gary Allen is everything I expected and worse.
He’s charming in that practiced way that wealthy people are charming, with all their big white teeth and firm handshakes and compliments that feel calculated rather than genuine.
He orders a beer he never drinks and spreads papers across the table like he owns the place.
“Ms. Whitfield, thank you for taking the time to meet with me.” He gestures to the seat across from him. “I promise this will be worth your while.”
I sit, keeping my expression neutral. “You mentioned an offer.”
“Direct. I appreciate that.”
He slides a folder across the table. “Three and a half million dollars for the property, the building, and the land. We’d give you sixty days to vacate, though, of course, we’d be flexible on timing if needed in your situation.”
“My situation?”
“The inheritance stipulation. The requirement.” He leans back, completely at ease.
“We’ve done our research, Ms. Whitfield.
We know you inherited the property with some conditions attached.
We also know you had a successful business in Atlanta that unfortunately had to close, and that can’t be an easy transition for you. ”
The way he says it, sympathetic but with an edge, makes something cold slide down my spine. He’s done his homework. Probably knows exactly how much debt I’m carrying and exactly how desperate I should be.
“Well, I’m managing,” I say coolly.
“Oh, I’m sure you are, but managing isn’t thriving, is it?” He taps the folder with one of his well-manicured fingers. “This is life-changing money, Ms. Whitfield. The kind of money that gives you options, the freedom to start over on your own terms.”
I don’t open the folder. I don’t look at the number printed on the page, because if I look at it, if I actually see it written out with all those zeros, I might find it impossible to say no.
“And what do you want to do with the property?” I ask.
“Transform it.” His eyes light up with the kind of enthusiasm typically reserved for a kid in a candy store.
“The Copper Creek area is on the verge of significant growth. Mountain tourism is booming. People are looking for the authentic experience combined with modern luxury. We envision a boutique resort, upscale accommodations, fine dining, spa facilities, event spaces, and this property would be the cornerstone.”
“And what happens to The Rusty Spur?”
“Well, it would be incorporated into the vision, reimagined as an upscale restaurant and event venue. We would probably keep the name, of course, maintain local flavor, but elevate the experience.”
Everything he’s saying sounds reasonable, like progress. Sounds like exactly what somebody in my position should want to hear.
So why does it feel like he’s describing the death of something instead of its evolution?
“This isn’t just about you, Ms. Whitfield.” He leans forward. “This is about Copper Creek, about bringing jobs and economic growth to a community that desperately needs it, about putting this town on the map.”
“Copper Creek seems to be doing just fine without being on a map.”
“Well, for now.” His expression shifts. He’s still friendly, but there’s an edge now. “But small towns like this don’t survive without growth, without investment. In ten years, fifteen years, places like Copper Creek will be a ghost town unless someone does something to save them.”
“You mean by buying local businesses and then turning them into luxury resorts?”
“By giving them a future.” He sits back. Now he’s very pointed. “Ms. Whitfield, I’m offering you three and a half million dollars. That’s not just generous, it’s extraordinary. Most properties like this sell for a million, maybe a million five. I’m giving you more than double market value.”
“Yeah, and why is that?”
The question catches him off guard. “Excuse me?”
“Why are you offering me so much? I mean, if the property’s only worth a million five, why pay more than double?”
He recovers quickly and smooths back into his professional warmth mode. “Because we believe in the project. Because your property is key to making that work. And because we’re prepared to make it worth your while to say yes.”
“And if I say no?”
Something flickers across his face. It’s gone too fast to read. “Then we’ll be disappointed, but we’ll respect your decision. Of course.”
He doesn’t sound like he’ll respect my decision at all.
“I need time to think about it.”
“Okay. But I do need an answer by Friday. We have other properties we’re considering and other opportunities. I certainly can’t hold this offer open indefinitely.”
“Forty-eight hours?”
“Less, actually, since it’s already Wednesday afternoon.”
He stands, extending his hand. I shake it automatically, years of etiquette training kicking in even as every instinct tells me to run.
“I think you’ll find this is the right decision, Ms. Whitfield. For you and for Copper Creek.”
He picks up his untouched beer and sets it on the bar with a crisp twenty-dollar bill. “Think about it. I mean, really think about it. Three and a half million dollars. Freedom. Options. A fresh start.”
He walks out, and the bell over the door chimes behind him.
I sit at the table, staring at the folder he left, and my hands are shaking.
* * *
“Who was that?”
I look up and find Wyatt standing behind the bar, wiping down glasses as usual. His expression is neutral, but there’s something behind his beautiful blue eyes.
“That was a developer.” The words come out more defensive than I intended. “Gary Allen, from Ashby and Associates.”
“And what did he want?”
“He wants to buy the bar.”
Wyatt’s hands stop moving. “What?”
“He made me an offer, a formal offer for the property.”
“How much?”
I shouldn’t tell him, but the number is so big, so impossible, that it just pops out anyway. “Three and a half million.”
The glass in Wyatt’s hand hits the top of the bar harder than necessary.
“And what did you tell him?”
“I told him I needed time to think about it.”
“To think about it.” He’s not even looking at me now, just staring down at the glass. “So you’re actually considering this? You’ve only been here a few weeks, and you’re already looking for the exit door?”
“Well, now that’s not fair, is it?”