She narrows her eyes at him. “It better be, now that you got my hopes up.”
Ruben Sanders answers on the second ring. She introduces herself and explains her situation. “Is the apartment still available?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He sounds like a Southern gentleman. “When would you like to see it?”
“I can be there in twenty minutes?”
He chuckles. “You’re an eager one. Let’s make it thirty.”
She ends the call and sets her phone on the bar. “How old is that guy?”
“Old. He’s super nice, though, and cool in an old-fashioned kinda way. He’s the most senior partner at his law firm, which takes up the whole first floor of the building.”
Presley gets to her feet. “I need to run up to my room before I meet Mr. Sanders. Do you mind if I borrow your raincoat again? I promise to bring it back this afternoon.”
“Take it,” he says, flicking his wrist at her. “You’ll need it. Park on Marshall Street if you can find a spot. You’ll be closer to the entrance to the stairs.”
She takes note of his suggestion, but when she arrives at the building, all the parking spaces on the street are taken. She parks in the back lot beside Everett’s Ford pickup. In the dim light of a rainy day, she sees how old and worn out it is. Noticing his Georgia tag, she makes a mental reminder to ask if he’s from Atlanta. And if he is, whether he knows any of her many college friends from there.
Ruben Sanders, wearing a Barbour coat and an Orvis fedora, is waiting for her in the hall outside the corner unit. He reminds her of her late grandfather with a slight build and jolly looking face.
As he’s unlocking the door, he talks about his grandson, Jackson, who is on the football team at Jefferson College. “My daughter insists my wife and I go to the game in this nasty weather, even though Jackson probably won’t see any playing time. Between you and me, I’d rather be at home in front of the fire watching Alabama beat the tar outta Mississippi State on the television.” He chuckles, nudging Presley with his elbow.
Presley’s face lights up. “I went to Bama. Roll tide!”
He punches the air. “Roll tide, roll! I didn’t go to Alabama, but I’m originally from Mobile.”
“The apartment is over a thousand square feet. I haven’t been able to find a tenant. Most people want two bedrooms in an apartment this size.” He opens the door and motions her inside ahead of him. “Make yourself at home.”
Presley wanders through the empty rooms. The apartment is scrumptious, like Everett’s but on a larger scale. The enormous bedroom includes a walk-in closet and the spotless bathroom shines with white subway tile and a shower stall. Shelves line the walls in the kitchen, and the base cabinets are black with fake marble tops. There’s a gas stove, dishwasher, and stainless side-by-side refrigerator. In the living room, the windows are floor-to-ceiling, two on Main Street and another pair looking out in the direction of the inn. She can’t see much through the fog, but on a clear day, she’ll have a marvelous view of the mountains.
Ruben joins her at the window. “I’ve owned this building for decades. As Everett probably told you, my law practice occupies the first floor. But I only recently converted the upstairs into apartments. If you lease it, you’ll be the first to live here.”
“How much is the rent?” she asks, even though it doesn’t matter. She’ll take the apartment at any cost. She’s never had her own place. Something about the space feels right. Like home.
When Ruben tells her the amount, she asks him if she can move in right away. The rent is a fraction of what an apartment of this caliber would cost in Nashville. He presents a lease, she signs it, and writes him a check to cover the security deposit and first month’s rent. He gives her the keys and they walk to the door together.
“Thank you, Mr. Sanders. I promise I’ll be an ideal tenant.”
“I believe you will, Miss Ingram. If you need anything, do not hesitate to call.”
After he leaves, she roams from room to room, imagining a bed here and a sofa over there. Presley has some furniture in storage from previous apartments, most of which is junk and not worth the effort to move. She tries to envision the apartment outfitted with the somber furnishings from her mother’s house. Once she sells the house, she’ll bring back a few of the more valuable accent pieces, but she’s going for a more youthful and contemporary vibe for her new home. At least she’ll have no trouble outfitting the kitchen. Her mother fancied herself a gourmet chef, but she rarely cooked.
On her way back to the inn, Presley makes a detour past 237 Hillside Drive. The minivan is parked in the driveway and dim lights burn from within. How does a single mother and her teenage daughters spend a rainy day together? Are they playing board games or in the kitchen baking cupcakes? Is Rita reading a book in front of a fire while the girls listen to music and FaceTime with their friends in their respective rooms?
As she drives away, Presley has a gut feeling she’s making the right decision in moving here, that given time she will come to know her biological mother and half sisters.
Back at the inn, after retrieving her laptop from her room, she stops by Billy’s Bar to return Everett’s raincoat. But Everett is too busy to talk, and she leaves the raincoat folded at the end of the bar.
The lunch crowd swarms Jameson’s. She adds her name to the list, and she’s rewarded for her thirty-minute wait with a table by the window. She orders a crab cake sandwich, and while she eats, she explores websites of popular furniture stores. Reid and Tarten, a nationwide chain
