Forcing those thoughts away, I found my mind lingering over a song that I’d been noodling with for the last couple of months. The rhythm—so far—had promise, but I’d been struggling with the lyrics. As memories of Morgan intruded, however, I began to try new phrases and verses, and as I adjusted the opening measures, I felt something click, like the first tumbler falling in a combination lock.
I don’t know how it works for anyone else, but songwriting is a mysterious process. Sometimes a song comes so quickly, I’m a bit shocked; other times—like with this one—the final product eludes me for weeks or months. Sometimes it never feels right at all, but I’ll find myself using bits and pieces in an entirely new song. With any song, however, there’s always a germ of inspiration, that very first idea. It can be a phrase or a snatch of melody I can’t shake, and once I have that, I begin to build. It’s sort of like I’m making my way through a dark, cluttered attic, where my goal is to find the light switch on the far side of the room. As I try new things, sometimes I bump into unseen obstacles and have to retrace my steps, or—if I’m lucky—I’ll take a step forward that just feels right. I can’t tell you why it feels right—it’s instinctual, I guess. After that, I try to find the next right thing, and then the next, until I finally reach that light switch, and the song is finished. I know I’m not explaining it that well, but since I don’t really understand it, I’m not sure it’s possible to put into words. The only thing I know with any certainty is that when I’m creating, I generally lose all track of time.
Which is exactly what happened. I had fallen into one of those creative zones when I realized the song was getting closer. The lyrics were about meeting someone who surprises you, and though I didn’t consider it polished by any means, it was definitely a workable first draft.
By then it was half past ten, and I wasn’t tired in the slightest. Remembering Morgan’s invitation, I dressed in one of the two decent button-up shirts I’d brought to Florida, ditched the flip-flops for a pair of Vans, and—force of habit—grabbed my guitar, as well.
The drive to St. Petersburg took about twenty minutes, and with the help of my phone, locating MacDinton’s was easy. Parking was a bit more of a challenge, but I got lucky after circling the block twice and ended up finding a spot a short stroll away. Even from a distance, it was easy to tell that MacDinton’s was a popular watering hole. Outside, knots of people stood around smoking, and I could hear the music blasting long before I reached the doors.
Inside, people were jammed shoulder to shoulder, holding pints of Guinness, shots of Irish whiskey, and long-stemmed cocktail glasses. It was pretty much standing room only, and it was all I could do not to get spilled on by whomever I was squeezing past. Despite the close quarters, people had to shout to hear one another over the music.
I eventually spotted Morgan and her friends at a table near the back. They were surrounded by several guys, whom I guessed to be in their late twenties or early thirties. They were young professional types, wearing designer-label shirts and jeans and clunky watches. As I approached, I could see them calculating which girl was going home with which guy. I suspected they wouldn’t be thrilled by my appearance. Right on cue, when I was a few feet away, two of them spotted my approach and began to puff up like the roosters strutting around on my farm.
One of Morgan’s friends must have noticed, because she squinted up at them, then tracked their stares to me. Eyes widening, she leaned toward Morgan. Morgan listened intently before suddenly turning to me with a wide smile.
She immediately jumped up and elbowed her way past a pair of guys, hustling toward me. That was enough to silence the entire group for an instant, but I didn’t care, as all I could see was Morgan.
Gone was the beachy look that I’d seen earlier; instead, her long wavy hair was fashionably styled, and she wore just enough makeup to accent her high cheekbones. Her eyes were framed by a touch of black liner and long, mascaraed lashes; she wore a dark, luscious red lipstick that emphasized her full mouth. Her white sleeveless top was paired with a short black skirt and soft black suede boots that reached just above her knees. Her friends, I noticed, were equally stylish and groomed.
Hey there, she mouthed, waving when she was close. Even though she was almost shouting, I could barely hear her. “I wasn’t sure you were going to come. When did you get here?”
“Just now. How about you?”
“About an hour ago.” She put her hand on my arm, sending a warm tingle up my shoulder. “C’mere. I want to introduce you to my friends.”
Back at the table, she introduced me to Stacy, Holly, and Maria. As I waved a greeting to them one by one, none of them bothered to hide their curiosity and scrutiny, making me wonder what Morgan had said about me. When Morgan pulled me down to the seat next to hers, the two guys closest grudgingly made room. One of them, shouting extra loud to be heard, announced that the last time he was at MacDinton’s, a huge fight broke out near the bar, and he was one of the people who’d broken it up.
I smiled, thinking he might as well have said Did I mention I’m the strong, heroic type? But I said nothing. The girls didn’t seem impressed, either; three of them leaned toward one another, ignoring him, while Morgan motioned to me with her finger, prompting me to lean closer.
“What did you do after leaving the beach?” she shouted into my ear.
“I had dinner, took a shower. Wrote a song. Then I came here.”
Her face lit up. “You wrote a song?”
“More like worked on a song that’s been stuck in my head for a while. I finished, but I’m not sure it’s fully cooked yet.”
“Is that normal for you? To write one so fast?”
“Sometimes.”
“Will you play it at the show tomorrow?”
“It’s nowhere near ready for that.”
“Any specific inspiration?” she asked.
I smiled. “It’s hard to say exactly. Surprises in life, meeting you…”
“Meeting me?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I’m not always sure where exactly they come from.”
She searched my face. “I want to hear it.”
“Sure. Just let me know when.”
“How about now?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Now? You want to leave? What about your friends?”
She swiveled in her seat, glancing toward them; Stacy, Holly, and Maria were engrossed in conversation, ignoring the guys who were still fighting to remain of interest. Turning back to me, Morgan waved a hand. “They’ll be fine. How did you get here? Did you Uber?”
“I have a truck,” I said, surprised again at how quickly Morgan seemed to take control of the situation.
“Then let’s go,” she said. Standing, she swung her bag from the back of her seat, then leaned toward her friends. “I’ll see you all back at the hotel, okay? We’re going to take off.”
I watched their eyes flicker between us, startled. One of the guys crossed his arms, clearly disgusted.
“You’re leaving?” Maria said.
“Don’t go!” Holly pleaded.
“C’mon. Stay with us!” Stacy urged.
By the way their eyes raked over me, I guessed they were concerned about Morgan leaving with a relative stranger.
But Morgan was already circling the table and leaning in to hug her friends one by one. “I’ll text you guys,” she said. “I’ll be fine.” Turning to me, she asked, “Ready?”
With her leading the way, we squeezed through the bar to the exit. As soon as we stepped outside, the cacophony dropped off, leaving my ears ringing.
“Which way to your truck?”
“Just around the corner.”
After a few steps, she shot me a sidelong look.
“My friends obviously think I’m crazy for doing this.”
“I noticed that.”
“But I was kind of tired of that place, anyway. It was too noisy, and those guys at the table were a little too into themselves.”
“Even so, do you think leaving with me is a good idea?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You don’t really know me.”
She tossed a length of hair over her shoulder without breaking step. “You’re a farmer from North Carolina. You grow tobacco, heirloom tomatoes, and raise organic cage-free eggs, and in your spare time you write music. You’re here for another week and a half and you’ll be playing at Bobby T’s tomorrow, so pretty much everyone knows exactly where you’re going to be if you try anything funny. And, besides, I have Mace in my bag.”
“Seriously?”
“Like you implied, a girl can’t be too careful. I grew up in Chicago, remember? My parents made me promise to be cautious whenever I went out at night.”
“Your parents sound like very smart people.”
“They are,” she agreed.
By then we’d reached the truck, and I uttered a silent thanks that I’d wiped down the dusty seats before my trip. Keeping a truck clean on a working farm was an impossibility. As I unlocked it and started the ignition, she surveyed the interior.
“You brought your guitar with you? Like you knew I was going to ask?”
“Let’s go with that,” I said. “Where to?”
“Let’s go back to the Don. We can sit on the sand behind the hotel, where we hung out earlier.”