Buddy’s is what one might expect of a small-town bar and grill. Red-leathered booths and dim lighting. In the back, a pool table surrounded by a group of guys who, judging from their rowdy behavior, have been here since lunch. Against the far wall, a banquet table, draped in a dingy white cloth, is lined with chafing dishes containing today’s happy hour specials. A heavy wooden bar with shelves displaying hundreds of liquor bottles occupies the opposite wall.
At five o’clock, aside from the pool players, we’re the only other people here. The three of us claim stools at the end of the bar near the window, and Cecily demands a round of tequila shots from the bartender. Pete is his name—shaved head, goatee, and an impressive set of biceps bulging from beneath his tight tee. Placing three shot glasses in front of us, he fills them with tequila and slides a bowl of lemon slices with a saltshaker across the bar.
“One path ends and another begins.” Cecily holds her shot glass out to us. “To my dream job,” she says and kicks back the tequila with no salt or lemon.
Katherine follows her lead, wiping her mouth on her bare arm. “This day has been full of surprises. I woke up this morning, wishing I was back in Savannah, and now I have two new friends and a job that may turn out to be my dream job as well.”
I raise my glass. “On my first day in town, a wise man encouraged me to dream big. And that, girlfriends, is our new motto. We’ve been given a golden opportunity. In order to succeed, we will need to reach for the stars. To our dream team,” I say and gulp down the tequila.
“To our dream team,” Cecily and Katherine say in unison.
I toss my new credit card down on the bar. “Drinks on me.”
We order another round of shots and three white wines. We bombard Katherine with questions about her life, and by the time our glasses are empty, we know her history.
Patrons begin trickling in, and before long, Buddy’s is rocking. Someone cranks up the volume on the country music jukebox, the pool players send us another round of tequila shots, and we continue to order refills of wine. By the time we get around to standing in line for food, happy hour has ended, and there’s not a morsel left.
When Katherine steps outside to call her husband, Cecily and I find ourselves alone at the bar. “How are things with Jack?” she asks.
“Professional.” I find this hilarious for some reason and nearly roll off my stool laughing. “No, seriously.” I say righting myself and sopping up my tears with a napkin. “When I see Jack, which isn’t very often, our conversation is strictly business. Come to think of it, despite the loud construction noises, things have been quiet around the inn. I haven’t seen Brian Powers either. He’s the attorney I told you about. I thought he’d be dropping by every day to check on progress. Suffice it to say, I’m looking forward to having female company around the farm.”
Cecily narrows her eyes. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about where I’m going to work. I need to be near a functioning kitchen. I can work from my apartment, but I’d rather be close to you so we can brainstorm ideas.”
I sit back on the barstool and cross my legs. “Well, let me think. There’s the cottage, but we might get in each other’s way. There’s also a kitchen in the carriage house. I have no idea if the appliances even work. Why don’t you come over tomorrow, and we’ll check it out.”
Her chin drops to her chest. “Sorry. I can’t. I’m going with Lyle to Charlottesville to watch the UVA lacrosse team in the semifinal round of the playoffs.”
“That sounds like fun,” I say, managing to hide my disappointment. “The kitchen will wait until Monday.”
Cecily stares into her wineglass. “Monday is Memorial Day. Lyle is taking me rafting on the river.” She looks up again. “But I’ll be there bright and early on Tuesday.”
“No worries. I totally forgot about Monday being a holiday.”
My festive mood tanks at the prospect of another lonely weekend ahead. I survey the other customers in the crowded restaurant. Everyone appears to be coupled up. All the booths are occupied with foursomes. Four gay guys are seated at the table in the window. Even the men and women at the bar down from us are paired up. The guys at the pool table in the back are the only ones flying solo, and they are definitely not my type. I remind myself that I didn’t come to Hope Springs to find a man. I came here to find myself.
To rub salt in my wound, Katherine returns with a man whom she introduces as her husband. Dean is handsome, despite his receding hairline, and genuinely excited about his wife’s new job. Sitting down beside me, he orders a Devil’s Backbone craft beer. “Tell me more about your renovation project at the inn. My new associates in the admissions department are talking about it. As you might imagine, having a five-star property so close to the college is a magnet for our prospective parents. Any chance it’ll reopen in time for fall football weekends?”
This brings a smile to my face. “That’s our goal,” I say and give him a quick overview of our plans.
I notice Cecily’s gaze shift to the door, and her face lights up. She hops off her stool and hurries over to the guy dressed in Jefferson College lacrosse swag. She gives him a hug and brings Lyle over to us. Dean is thrilled to meet a fellow college staffer, and the two guys launch into a discussion about sports. While it’s probably my imagination, Katherine and Cecily suddenly have much to talk about that doesn’t include me. I am the obvious fifth wheel, and when Cecily suggests we move to a table, I seize the opportunity to make my escape.
When Cecily begs me not to go, I say, “I need to rest up. I have a long to-do list for the weekend.”
I’m more intoxicated than I realized, and I have trouble walking in a straight line on my way back to the inn. My eyes are glued to the sidewalk, and I don’t see Jack locking the front door until I trip over the curb and stumble into him.
He catches me. “Easy, Stella. Have you been drinking?”
“I may have had a teensy bit,” I say with slurred words. “We were celebrating. I finally found a new landscaper.” I let out a hiccup. “Sorry. I don’t usually drink so much. I should go to bed.”
“But it’s not even seven o’clock. Have you eaten dinner?”
My alcohol-riddled brain jumps to the conclusion that he’s suggesting a date. “You should go home to your wife.”
He follows my gaze to his left ring finger. “I didn’t mean like on a date or anything,” he says, shoving his left hand in his pocket. “I was merely recommending you get some food in your stomach. We finished demolition today, and we’ll start rebuilding on Monday. We’re a few days behind where I’d like to be. With time of the essence, I hope you don’t mind if we work on a holiday.”
“That’s fine.” To my horror, another hiccup escapes my mouth.
“This project is a priority for me, Stella,” he says in an irritated tone.
“As it should be, Jack.” Bringing myself to my full height, I speak slowly so as not to garble my words. “Are you insinuating it’s not a priority for me because I had drinks on a Friday afternoon with my coworkers?”
Shaking his head, he turns to leave. “Sleep it off, Stella.”
Mortified, I take his advice. I go straight to my cottage, place one of Billy’s early albums on the turntable, and crash fully clothed on the sofa.
The sound of sirens jerks me from a deep slumber a few minutes after midnight. When I pry my eyes open, the living room is filled with blue flashing lights.
“What in the world?” Rolling off the sofa to my feet, I hurry outside to see several patrol cars parked haphazardly around the entrance to the barn. I take off jogging up the narrow road, the pounding in my head intensifying with every stride.
I count six policemen gathered around the entrance to the barn, and when I peer over their shoulders, I expect to see a dead body. But it’s only Martin, my new night security man, squared off against Bernard. If they start throwing punches, Bernard won’t stand a chance.
I recognize one of the officers from the day Bernard held a gun on me. Tapping him on the shoulder, I say, “What’s going on?”
“Bernard claims he stopped by”—the officer uses air quotes—“to get some of the things he left in the barn.”
I force my way through the policemen. I’m still half drunk, and the alcohol in my system gives me fake courage. “You have no business here, Bernard. I want you to leave.”
Bernard puffs out his chest. “Well, now. If it ain’t the little missy. I ain’t leaving till I get my stuff.”
Missy again? “If you’re referring to the pile of junk you left behind, I had it hauled off. If you want it back, you’ll have to check the city dump.” Turning to leave, as I brush past the policemen, I say, “Get this man off my property.”
My bravery retreats on the walk back to the cottage. I lock all the doors and turn on the outside lights. I’m only slightly relieved when Martin stops by to tell me the police have arrested Bernard for trespassing and public drunkenness. “You don’t need to worry, Miss Boor. He’ll be spending the night in jail.”
“But will he come back tomorrow night after he’s released?”
“I can’t guarantee he won’t,” Martin says. “I recommend beefing up security for the time being.”
Goose bumps crawl across my flesh, and I wrap my arms around myself. “Can you take care of that for me, Martin?”
“Yes, ma’am. I know some retired security guys looking for work.”
“Hire however many you think we need. I admit I’m a little creeped out. Can you stay nearby tonight?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll park up at the barn.”
After Martin leaves, too wired to sleep, I stay up until well past three finishing Where the Crawdads Sing. I feel an ache in my heart that it’s over, as though mourning the loss of a friend. Who knew it was possible to be so profoundly affected by fictional characters?
First thing on Saturday morning, I return the book to the library and pay my late fine. Mrs. Mitchell scolds me for not returning the book on time, but when I tell her what an inspiration Kya is to me, she helps me pick out another book. When We Were Yours—the story of two orphan sisters separated as children.