By the time I finally set my guitar aside, the sun had gone down, leaving only a sliver of yellow at the horizon. While I began packing up, a few people from the crowd approached the stage, offering the usual compliments and questions, but I kept the conversation brief and made a beeline for Morgan and her friends.
As soon as I was close, I could see the delight in Morgan’s expression. She was wearing white shorts and a yellow blouse with a wide scoop neck that showed off her sun-kissed skin.
“Cute,” she said. “I assume you were directing that song at me and my friends? Because of what I mentioned they were drinking at the pool?”
“It seemed fitting,” I agreed. The dim lighting at the bar cast her fine-boned face in moody shadow. “How was your day? What did you end up doing?”
“Not much. We slept in late, rehearsed for an hour and a half, and hung out by the pool. I think I got too much sun, though. My skin feels hot.”
“What did you rehearse?”
“Our new dance routines. There are three songs, which is long for us. We’re at the point where we know all our moves, but it takes a lot of repetition to make sure we’re perfectly in sync.”
“When will you film it?”
“This Saturday at the beach. Right behind the Don.”
“You’ll have to let me know what time so I can be there.”
“We’ll see,” she chirped. “What are you doing now? Do you have plans?”
“I was thinking of getting something to eat.”
“Would you like to come with us? We’re going to Shrimpys Blues.”
“Would your friends care?”
“It was their idea,” she said with a grin. “Why do you think we were waiting for you?”
I loaded my truck while they called for an Uber in the parking lot. I figured I’d just follow their car, but Morgan jogged toward me while calling to her friends over her shoulder, “We’ll meet you there!
“Assuming you don’t mind, of course,” she said as she reached me.
“Not at all.”
I helped her into the truck, then got in on the other side. The Uber had already arrived, and her friends were squeezing into the back seat of the generic silver midsize sedan. As soon as it edged into traffic, I pulled out behind it.
“I have another question about your farm,” she said.
“Seriously?”
“I find it interesting.”
“What’s your question?”
“If your chickens aren’t in cages, why don’t they run away? And how do you even find the eggs? Wouldn’t they be all over the pasture? Like an Easter egg hunt?”
“We have fencing around the pastures, but chickens are social creatures, so they like staying near one another. Plus, they like the shade, which is also where their food and water is. As for the eggs, they’re trained to use nesting boxes, which deposit the eggs in a drawer so we can collect them.”
“You train your chickens?”
“You have to. When a new batch of chickens comes in, I stay with them, and whenever a chicken squats to lay an egg, I scoop it up and put it into the nesting box. Chickens generally prefer to lay their eggs in dark and quiet places, so once they’re in the box, they think, Oh, this is nice, and they begin using it regularly after that.”
“That is so cool.”
“I guess. It’s just part of the job.”
“Do you do other farming things? Like…do you drive a tractor, too?”
“Of course. And I have to know how to repair them, too. I also have to do a lot of carpentry, plumbing, and even electrical work.”
Her expression brightened. “Look at you. You’re like a man’s man. It must be nice to know that if there’s ever a zombie apocalypse, you’ll be one of the survivors.”
I laughed. “I can’t say that I’ve ever thought about it that way.”
“It makes my life seem boring by comparison.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“What’s your sister like? I mean, I know she’s an artist and you live together, but how would you describe her? In three words?”
I leaned back against the headrest, not sure how much I wanted to tell her, so I went with the basics. “Smart,” I began. “Talented. Generous.” Though I could have added that she was also a survivor, I didn’t. Instead, I went on, explaining how Paige had mostly raised me, which was a big part of the reason we were so close.
“And your aunt?” she pressed.
“Tough. Hardworking. Honest. It wasn’t easy for her after my uncle died, but once we started making changes at the farm, she became her old self again. The farm is pretty much her whole life now, but she loves it. Lately she’s been trying to talk me into expanding into grass-fed organic beef, even though we’ve never raised cattle and I don’t know a thing about it.”
“That might be a good idea. People love having healthy options when they shop.”
“Yeah, but there’s a lot more to it. Having enough pastureland, for instance, or finding a good processor and arranging transportation, or choosing the right breeding lines, and finding customers, along with a zillion other things. It might be more hassle than it’s worth.”
Ahead of me, the silver midsize began to slow before pulling into the parking lot of the restaurant. When it came to a stop, I veered around it and found a spot.
Inside, the hostess led us to a booth in the back corner of the restaurant. As soon as we took our seats and after a few gushy compliments on my show, the interrogation began. Like Morgan, her friends couldn’t believe I was a farmer, and they expressed the same curiosity that Morgan had about my daily activities. They also grilled me about my childhood, my family, and my years in the band. Between drinks and our meals, I managed to glean a few details about them, as well. Stacy had been raised in Indianapolis, had a boyfriend named Steve, and wanted to be a pediatrician; Holly was from a small town in Kentucky and had grown up playing practically every sport available. Maria hailed from Pittsburgh, had a boyfriend, as well, and nurtured a dream of working on Dancing with the Stars. “Realistically, though, I’ll probably end up working at a dance studio and maybe open my own one day. Unless my mom lets me choreograph with her.”
“Will she?”
“She says I still have a lot to learn.” She rolled her eyes. “She’s kind of a hard-ass that way.”
Unlike Morgan, Maria had no compunction about showing me their TikTok page. She queued up a video of the four of them dancing and handed me her phone. When it concluded, she pulled up a second video, and then another.
“I think he gets it,” Morgan interrupted, trying to reach for the phone.
“Just a few more,” Maria protested, waving her off. I could see why they were popular; their performances featured K-pop–level choreography and were sexy in a fun but not over-the-top way. I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting, but I was definitely impressed.
The interrogation turned my way again after that; like Morgan, they were mainly interested in the chickens and tomatoes but frowned at the fact that the farm grew tobacco. And, as I’d done for Morgan, I told them about my rebellion and the band years and how I’d actually become a farmer in the first place. Morgan was clearly resigned to her friends’ scrutiny of me; from time to time our eyes met and she seemed to be silently apologizing.
They refused to let me pay; instead, we all added money to the center of the table, enough to allow for a generous tip. I found myself thinking that each was as impressive, in her own way, as Morgan. Without exception, they were confident, ambitious, and self-possessed.
When we left the restaurant, Morgan and I trailed behind the others. Studying her in the doorway’s muted pools of light, I had the feeling that if I ended up ever seeing her again, I was going to be in trouble.
“I like your friends,” I remarked. “Thanks for letting me tag along.”
“Thanks for being such a good sport,” she said, giving my arm a quick squeeze.
“What’s on your agenda tomorrow?”
“Nothing definite. I’m sure we’ll rehearse in the morning, and we’ll probably spend part of the day at the pool, but Holly also mentioned that she might want to go shopping or visit the Dalí.” Then, as if suddenly realizing who she was talking to, she went on. “It’s a museum in St. Petersburg devoted to the works of Salvador Dalí. He’s a surrealist painter.”
“My sister mentioned something about it,” I said.
She must have heard something in my tone. “You’re not interested?”
“I don’t know enough about art to be either interested or uninterested.”
She laughed that rumbling, deep laugh again. “At least you cop to it. How about you?”
“I haven’t decided. I’ll probably go for a run, but after that, who knows?”
“Will you write another song?”
“If something comes to me.”
“I wish that happened to me. That songs just came to me. I have to struggle with it.”
“I’d love to hear anything you’ve written. Especially now that I’ve seen you dance.”
“Yeah,” she said, “about that. Maria’s really proud of our routines.”