Whiskey and Country

I sang so loud I had to soothe the itchiness in my throat with a sip of water once it was over. And for the first time, the lyrics had an all-new meaning. They spoke of resilience.

With my phone in hand, I looked at the address displayed on the screen twice. Yeah, that was it. Beaver Line. Squeezed between Falcon Avenue and Steep Valley Crescent.

For someone from the city like me, those street names made no sense.

It felt like I’d landed in another dimension. Another universe. Green Mountain, Tennessee, was everything it promised to be. Green. And lodged in mountains. Miles and miles of lush landscapes.

Sure, I looked it up, but deep down, I bore hopes there’d be some city vibes. So I’d feel more at home.

I should’ve known better. Green Mountain. The name said it all.

I sighed, straightened my shoulders, and turned left.

Tuck’s uncle had found me a place to stay. A friend of his had left town after her husband passed away a while back, and she had decided to put her property on the market. It required a lot of fixing up, so Tucker told me I could live there rent-free in exchange for work around the house to make it ready to sell. Awesome deal. Nothing like keeping my mind occupied and my hands busy in a new town until I made some friends.

Parked in front of a two-story farmhouse, way too big for one person and which had seen better days, I studied the place. The banister needed restoration and the front lawn, mowing. A good clean-up to the gutters was required, plants now growing in them, and the siding called for a fresh coat of white paint.

I exited the truck and rounded it, staring at the house before me. A cracked window on the second floor. A broken stair leading to the front door. Most planks of the wrap-around porch had to be replaced. From here, this place looked like a serious case of a safety hazard.

But I had no doubt that back in the days, it had been a beautiful house. It had the sturdy-bone look. And so much potential. Plus, it sat on a big piece of land. Something my hometown missed.

Would the inside match the outside, or had the owners put more love into its maintenance? I hoped so. Because it’d be sad to see a house like this turn to ruin.

I walked around the property. The land was flat—about the size of a football field—with huge mature trees lining each side and a green lawn needing some loving care. A garage, also requiring major restoration, stood right behind the house. I could picture a barn in its place. All white. Like the main house. With matching black shutters.

I pivoted on my heels, studying the back porch, noting every critical repair in my head, already making calculations in my mind about material costs and work hours required to give the place its grandeur back.

With my hands shoved in my pockets, I stood still, the fresh mountain air flooding my lungs as I watched the valley in the distance. That view. I bet the sunrises were to die for from here. It sewed together another lost fragment of my heart.

“Wow. Bro, I’m convinced you sent me here on purpose. Great job.”

For a reason out of my understanding, right now, I felt as if I had always been meant to end up not only in Green Mountain but exactly here. Where I stood.

Like I belonged.

This house appealed to me. More than only for the work it required.

As if I already knew every corner of it. Inside out.

Like returning home after being away for so long.

The breeze brushed my face, its crispness addictive. With my eyes closed, I engraved this new episode of my journey into my memory.

“Thanks, Tuck. For this chance. And Derek, for making it happen.”

With purpose in my steps, I made it back to my vehicle when a deep green pickup truck halted beside me, and a man in his sixties with white hair and a salt-and-pepper beard climbed out.

“Howdy. You must be Nick,” he greeted, getting closer.

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ve gotten all man over the years. Last time I saw you, Tucker and you were about”—placing his palm down at his hip level, pretending to measure a child—“that tall.”

I chuckled. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. Tucker couldn’t stop bragging—I miss that bratty kid. He claimed you were Chicago’s best and that I’d be a fool to not hire you.” Uncle Mike held out his hand to shake mine.

I mirrored his smile. “Tuck says a lot of things.”

Uncle Mike let out a loud belly laugh. “Yeah.” His eyes leveled with mine, and his playfulness vanished. “So? Tell me. Are you Chicago’s best?”

I firmed my back. “I’m quite competent at my job, sir. Ran a few big condo building projects back home. I know what I’m doing. Tucker’s right. You’d be a fool not to hire me,” I said with half a smile, trying not to sound too presumptuous. I knew my worth and what I would bring to the project.

The man nodded. “I like that. Confidence. And being able to tell things the way they are. We’ll get along just fine, you and I.” He nodded some more.

“Thanks for the chance, sir.”

Uncle Mike flicked his hand. “Call me Mike. Don’t go all sir on me, son. We’re practically family.” His eyes drifted to the house, standing there, waiting for another opportunity to shine. To show its own value. “Jeanine Rutherford, the owner, moved out of town to stay with her son and his family two years ago. She hasn’t been back home since. Gosh, she loved this house. Many good times here.” He sighed as old memories danced in his dark irises. “She agreed to let you live here for free if you helped her fix this place up. Give the grand lady its youth back. All it requires is a few hours of your time every week to get it back in shape to put it on the market by the end of the year. She wanted to welcome you herself but couldn’t. Her daughter-in-law came yesterday to clean the place up, and she stocked up the refrigerator. You’ll have everything you need until you’re settled in. Jeanine is paying for all the expenses; all you’ll provide is the labor force.”

“That’s pretty generous of Mrs. Jeanine,” I said, wondering what I did to earn so much trust from all these people I knew nothing about. “I can still pay a rent—”

Mike stopped me with a raised hand. “Nah. She’s grateful to have someone taking care of her home. Don’t worry about it. Anyway, we’ll meet on Friday to sign your contract and go over your employment. Everything you need to get going is in the garage. The key is hung by the door.” The man fished something from his pocket. A business card. And handed it to me. “Here. Call my assistant first thing tomorrow morning, and she’ll schedule an appointment. See you around, son.”

As fast as he came, Mike left, the engine roaring and his tires leaving a cloud of dust behind.

With hesitant steps, I climbed the four steps leading to the front door. The planks cracked under my weight. I’d make this my priority.

With a straight back and puffed chest, I opened the door, wondering how bad it’d be inside, and scanned around. I blinked. And my heart raced in my chest. Most of the knots coiling my stomach slackened. It looked amazing. Nothing like my apartment in Chicago, but once again, it felt like home. Yeah, I could get used to this.

The kitchen cabinets were a soft shade of cream. The high ceiling was made of wooden planks, a light shade of brown. The windows were huge and offered the best view of the mountains and valley. A gray-stoned open masonry fireplace with a large wooden beam mantle, surrounded by a set of matching gray couches, appeared majestic in the living room.

It reminded me of cozy winter nights when I was a child, playing board games and sipping hot chocolate.

How could this place appeal so much to me? As if it had been built from my dreams. The ones I’d never stopped to think about.

As if I’d been here before.