Chapter 18
Three weeks pass.
Three weeks of gardening with Meredith every Saturday.
Three weeks of running the bar.
Three weeks of dates with Wyatt, dinners at his cabin, evenings on the back deck, long walks through town where we hold hands like teenagers and talk about everything and nothing.
Three weeks of falling deeper into a life I never thought I’d want.
It’s a Tuesday morning when the email arrives.
I’m in the office, going through invoices, when my phone buzzes. I almost ignore it, probably spam or a newsletter I forgot to unsubscribe from, but something makes me look. The sender’s name stops me cold.
Genevieve Ashford, Institut de Raffinement
I stare at the screen for a long moment, my heart pounding.
Genevieve Ashford. I know that name. Everyone in the etiquette world knows that name.
She runs the Institut de Raffinement in Lausanne, Switzerland, the most prestigious finishing school in Europe.
Royalty sends their children there. CEOs.
Diplomats. The kind of people my mother spent her whole career trying to impress.
I met Genevieve once at a conference in New York five years ago. We spoke for maybe ten minutes, and I gave her my card.
Why is she emailing me now?
I open it.
Dear Ms. Whitfield,
I hope this message finds you well. We met briefly at the International Etiquette Conference in 2019, and I’ve followed your career with interest since then.
I was sorry to hear about the closing of your mother’s studio.
Vivian Whitfield was a legend in our field, and I know her passing left large shoes to fill.
I imagine the past year has been challenging.
I’m writing because an unexpected opportunity has arisen at the Institut. Our director of American programs has accepted a position elsewhere. Effective immediately, we find ourselves in need of someone with your background and expertise.
The position involves overseeing our programs for American students and families, teaching advanced courses in etiquette and protocol, and representing the Institute at international events.
The compensation package is substantial, $200,000 USD annually, plus housing in Lausanne and comprehensive benefits. The start date would be November 1st.
I realize this is rather sudden, and you may have commitments that make relocation impossible, but I wanted to extend the offer before looking elsewhere. Your mother’s training, combined with your own experience, makes you very qualified for this role.
If you’re interested in discussing further, please reply at your earliest convenience. I’d be happy to arrange a video call to answer any questions.
With warm regards,
Genevieve Ashford
Director, Institut de Raffinement
I read the email three times. Then I close my laptop and sit still in Mavis’s chair, staring at the wall of photographs.
I don’t even see any of them.
$200,000 a year.
Housing in Switzerland.
The most prestigious etiquette position in the world. Everything my mother ever wanted for me, just delivered to my inbox on a random Tuesday morning. The question is, do I want it?
My brain is in knots. I thought I knew what I wanted now. Copper Creek. The Rusty Spur. Wyatt.
So why does this email feel even slightly tempting? After all, I left the etiquette world behind, didn’t I?
* * *
By Thursday, the secret is eating me alive. I’ve read Genevieve’s email probably fifty times and drafted responses over and over.
Yes.
No.
Maybe.
Let me think about it.
And I’ve deleted every single one. I’ve Googled the Institut and looked at photos of the campus, the students, and the beautiful rooms where I would be teaching.
I’ve imagined myself there, in Switzerland, in that life.
I’ve imagined myself here, in Copper Creek, in this life.
Both of them feel real. Both of them feel possible. Neither feels like the clear answer.
Thursday night, Wyatt comes over for dinner. I make pasta, something simple, because I just can’t focus enough to make anything complicated. We eat at my tiny table while the sun sets over the mountains.
“You’re sure quiet tonight,” he says.
“Oh, am I?”
“You barely said ten words since I got here. You keep looking at your phone like you’re waiting for something.”
I set my fork down. “Sorry. I’m just distracted.”
“By what?”
I let the question hang in the air because I don’t know what to say. This is my chance. I could tell him right now. I should tell him, but the words just won’t come.
“Oh, work stuff,” I say instead. “Nothing important.”
He studies me for a long moment. His blue eyes are searching for answers. I can tell he doesn’t believe me. Wyatt has always been able to read me better than I would like.
“Okay,” he says finally. “But if you want to talk about it…”
“I know. I will. When I’m ready.”
We finish dinner, do the dishes, and sit on the sofa to watch the last light fade from the sky. But something has shifted between us. A distance that wasn’t there before. And I know it’s all my fault.
* * *
Friday morning, I wake up to another email.
Ms. Whitfield,
I wanted to follow up on my previous message. I know this is a big decision, but I must be transparent. We’re on a very tight timeline. If I don’t hear from you by the end of next week, I’m going to need to extend the offer to other candidates. I hope to hear from you soon.
Best,
Genevieve
End of next week. Ten days. Ten days to decide whether to stay or go. Whether to choose the life I’ve been building for the last few months or the life I was raised for.
I close my laptop and put my head in my hands.
* * *
Saturday at Meredith’s garden, I’m distracted and clumsy. I pull up a seedling that wasn’t a weed. I overwater the tomatoes, and I nearly trip over the garden hose twice.
“Okay,” Meredith says finally, setting down her pruning shears. “Out with it.”
“Out with what?”
“Whatever’s got you wound tighter than a two-dollar watch. You’ve been somewhere else all morning.”
“I’m fine.”
“Eleanor.” Her voice is firm in the way that reminds me she spent decades managing classrooms of children. “I may be old, but I’m not blind. Something is definitely bothering you.”
I sit down on the garden bench, my hands still dirty and my heart heavy. “I got a job offer.”
Meredith goes still. “A job offer? What do you mean? What kind of job offer?”
“A good one. A really good one. In Switzerland, teaching at the most prestigious finishing school in Europe.” I look down at my dirty hands. “It’s everything my mother ever wanted for me. Everything I was trained for and spent my life learning. But…”
“But it would mean leaving,” she says softly.
I nod. “Leaving here. Leaving everything I’ve…” I stop, unable to finish.
“Leaving Wyatt,” she says quietly.
“Leaving everyone.”
She’s silent for a moment. Her expression is unreadable.
“Does he know?”
“No. I haven’t told anyone. I don’t know how to tell anyone. I don’t even know what I want to do.”
“Well, when do you have to decide?”
“Ten days. Well, less, actually, now.”
Meredith nods slowly and picks up her pruning shears. She examines a rose bush, but I can tell she’s not really looking at it.
“Can I tell you something?” she says.
“Of course.”
“When Frank asked me to marry him, I had a choice to make. I was twenty-three years old with a teaching degree and a job offer in Atlanta. Good money, good school, everything I thought I wanted.” She snips a dead branch and sets it aside.
“Frank was a mountain boy with no college degree who wanted to stay in Copper Creek and build furniture. On paper, it made no sense.”
“What did you do?”
“Well, I chose him. Obviously, I chose this life. And there were times early on, especially, when I wondered if I had made a mistake. When I missed the city, the opportunities, the life I might have had.”
“So do you regret it?”
She turns and looks at me. “Not for one single second. Because I learned something, Eleanor. The life that looks good on paper isn’t always the life that makes you happy. And the life that makes you happy doesn’t always make any sense to other people.”
“So you think I should stay?”
“Oh, I think you should make your own choice. Not the choice your mother would have made, not the choice Wyatt wants you to make, not the choice that looks best on paper, but your choice.” She reaches over and takes my dirty hand in hers.
“But I’ll tell you this. Whatever you decide, you need to tell Wyatt.
He deserves to know. Keeping this secret is only going to hurt both of you. ”
She’s right. I know she’s right.
But telling Wyatt makes it real. It means having a conversation I’m just not ready to have. It means facing the possibility that whatever I decide, I’m going to lose something precious.
So I don’t tell him.
Not on Saturday when he picks me up for our date. Not on Sunday when we have lunch at Dixie’s Diner with Dolly and Presley. Not on Monday when he texts me good morning like he does every morning, and I type back a response that feels like a lie.
I keep the secret, and I feel it growing between us like a wall.
Tuesday night, I’m alone in my apartment staring at my laptop screen. Genevieve’s email is open. My cursor hovers over the reply button.
What do I even say?
Thank you for the offer. I’m flattered, but I’ve fallen in love with a honky-tonk bar and a mountain town and a man with blue eyes who carves animals out of wood.
Thank you for the offer. I’m flattered, but I’m finally figuring out who I am when I’m not performing for anyone, and I’m afraid to leave. I’m afraid that if I leave, I’ll lose her again.
Thank you for the offer. I’m flattered, but…
But what?
I don’t know. That’s the problem. I don’t know.
My phone buzzes.
Wyatt: You awake?
Me: Yeah. I can’t sleep.
Wyatt: Me neither. Want company?