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Yeah, I know. My career path sometimes strikes even me as unlikely, especially since I’d spent years of my life begrudging pretty much everything associated with the farm. Over time, I’ve come to accept the notion that we don’t always get to choose our paths in life; sometimes, they choose us.
I’m also glad I’ve been able to help my aunt. Paige is proud of me, and I should know, since we see a lot of each other these days. Her marriage came to a terrible end—pretty much the worst imaginable—and she moved back to the farm six years ago. For a while we all lived in the house like the old days, but it didn’t take long to realize sharing a room with my sister—as adults—wasn’t something that either Paige or I wanted to do. In the end, I built my aunt a smaller, more manageable house across the road, at the far corner of the property. Now my sister and I live together, which might sound strange to some people, but I enjoy it, since she’s still my best friend in the world. She does her stained-glass thing in the barn, I farm, and we eat together a few times a week. She’s become a fairly decent cook, and when we take our seats at the table, I’m sometimes reminded of all the dinners we had growing up.
In other words, my life is pretty good these days, but here’s the thing: When I tell people I’m a farmer, most of them tilt their heads and look at me kind of funny. More often than not, they have no idea what to say next. If I tell people that my family owns a farm, however, they brighten and smile and start asking questions. Why the difference, I’m not exactly sure, but it’s happened a few times since I arrived in Florida. Sometimes after a show, people will come up to me and start a conversation, and once they realize that I’m a nobody in music, the subject eventually shifts to what I do for a living. Depending on whether I want the conversation to continue, I’ve learned to either say that I’m a farmer or that I own a farm.
Despite our success over the last few years, the stress of the farm can be wearying. Daily decisions often have longer-term consequences, and every choice is linked to another. Do I bring the tractor in for repairs, so I have more time to focus on customers, or do I repair it myself, to save the thousand dollars? Do I expand the offering of heirloom tomatoes, or specialize in just a few and find more outlets? Mother Nature, too, is capricious, and while you can make a decision that seems correct at the time, sometimes bad things happen anyway. Will the heaters function properly so the chickens will be warm enough in the rare times it snows? Will the hurricane pass us by, or will the wind and rain ruin the crops? Every day, I’m in charge of growing and raising healthy crops and chickens, and every day, something comes up that adds to the challenge. While things are constantly growing, other things are always decaying, and striving for that perfect balance sometimes feels like a nearly impossible task. I could work twenty-four hours a day and still never say to myself, That’s it. There’s nothing more to be done.
I mention all this only to explain why this three-week trip to Florida is the first real break I’ve had in seven years. Paige, my aunt, and the general manager insisted that I go. Before coming here, I’d never taken so much as a single week off, and I can count on one hand the number of weekends I forced myself to get away from it all. Thoughts of the farm intrude regularly; in the first week, I must have called my aunt ten times to check in on how things were going. She finally forbade me to call anymore. Between her and the general manager, they could handle it, she said, so in the last three days I haven’t called at all, even when the urge has felt almost overwhelming. Nor have I called Paige. She received a fairly substantial order right before I left, and I already knew she wouldn’t answer when in furious work mode, all of which means that, in addition to vacation, I’m alone with my thoughts for the first time in what seems like forever.
I’m pretty sure my girlfriend, Michelle, would have liked this relaxed and healthy, nonworking version of me. Or, rather, my ex-girlfriend. Michelle always complained that I focused on the needs of the farm more than my own life. I’d known her since high school—barely, since she was dating one of the football players and was two years older than me—but she’d always been friendly when we passed each other in the hallways, even though she was the prettiest girl in school. She vanished from my life for a few years before we ran into each other again, at a party after she graduated from college. She’d become a nurse and had taken a job at Vidant Medical Center, but she moved back in with her parents in the hopes of saving enough money for a down payment on a condominium in Greenville. That initial conversation led to a first date, then a second one, and for the two years we dated, I considered myself lucky. She was smart and responsible and had a good sense of humor, but she worked nights and I worked constantly, leaving us with little time to spend with each other. I want to believe that we could have worked past that, but I eventually realized that while I liked her, I didn’t love her. I’m pretty sure she felt the same about me, and once she finally bought her condo, seeing each other became all but impossible. There was no messy breakup, no anger or fighting or name-calling; rather, we both started texting or calling less, until it reached a point where we hadn’t so much as touched base in a couple of weeks. Even though we hadn’t formally ended things, both of us knew it was over. A few months later she met someone else, and about a year ago I saw on her Instagram page that she’d just gotten engaged. To make things easier, I stopped following her on social media, deleted her contact from my phone, and I haven’t heard from her since.
I’ve found myself thinking about her more than usual down here, perhaps because couples seem to be everywhere. They’re at my shows, they’re holding hands as they walk the beach, they’re sitting across from each other at dinner while gazing into each other’s eyes. There are families here, too, of course, but not as many as I thought there would be. I don’t know the Florida school schedule, but I figure the kids must still be in their classrooms.
I did, however, notice a group of youngish women yesterday, a few hours before my show. It was early afternoon, and I was walking near the water’s edge after lunch. It was hot and sunny, with enough humidity to make the air feel sticky, so I’d removed my shirt, using it to wipe the sweat from my face. As I neared the Don CeSar, a gray object surfaced and disappeared in the water just beyond the small breakers, followed quickly by another. It took me a few seconds to recognize that it was a pod of dolphins languidly moving parallel to the shoreline. I stopped to watch, as I’d never seen one in the wild before. I was following their progress when I heard the girls approach and stop a few yards away.
The four of them were chattering loudly, and I did a double take when I noticed how startlingly attractive they all were. They looked ready for a photo shoot, with colorful swimwear and perfect teeth that flashed when they laughed, making me think all of them had spent plenty of time at the orthodontist as teenagers. I suspected they were younger than me by a few years, probably college students on break.
As I turned my attention back to the dolphins, one of the women gasped and pointed; from the corner of my eye, I saw the rest of them stare in the same direction. Though I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, they weren’t exactly quiet.
“Is that a shark?” one of them asked.
“It’s probably a dolphin,” another answered.
“But I see a fin.”
“Dolphins have dorsal fins, too….”
I smiled inwardly, thinking that maybe I hadn’t missed much by not going to college. Predictably, they started posing for selfies, trying to capture the dolphins in the background. After a while they began making the kinds of silly faces common on social media: the kissy face, the ecstatic we’re-having-such-a-great-time group shot, and the serious pretend-I’m-a-supermodel look, which Michelle used to refer to as the dead-fish expression. Recalling it made me snort under my breath.
One of the girls must have heard me, because she suddenly glanced in my direction. I pointedly avoided eye contact, focusing on the dolphins as they drifted by. When they eventually turned toward deeper water, I figured it was time for me to head back. I veered around the women—three of whom were still taking and examining their selfies—but the same one who’d glanced toward me caught and held my gaze.
“Nice tats,” she offered when I was close, and I’ll admit her comment caught me off guard. She wasn’t exactly flirting, but she seemed slightly amused. For a moment I debated whether to stop and introduce myself, but that feeling lasted only a second. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize she was out of my league, so I flashed a quick smile and moved past.
When she arched an eyebrow at my lack of response, I had the feeling that she’d known exactly what I was thinking. She returned her attention to her friends, and I kept walking, fighting the urge to turn around. The more I tried not to look, the harder it became; finally, I allowed myself another quick peek.
Apparently, the girl had been waiting for me to do just that. She still wore the same expression of amusement, and when she offered a knowing smile, I turned and kept going, feeling a flush creep up my neck that had nothing to do with the sun.
Sitting here in my beach chair, I’ll admit that my thoughts have drifted back to my encounter with the girl. I wasn’t exactly looking for her or her friends, but I wasn’t opposed to the idea, either, which is why I’d hauled my chair and cooler all the way down the beach in the first place. So far no luck, but I reminded myself that I’d had a pretty good day no matter what happened. In the morning, I’d gone for a run on the beach, then inhaled some fish tacos at a lunch spot called the Toasted Monkey. After that, with nothing pressing on my agenda, I eventually ended up here. I suppose I could have done something more productive than practically beg for skin cancer. Ray had mentioned there was some good kayaking at Fort De Soto Park, and before I left home, Paige had reminded me to check out the Dalí, a local museum dedicated to the works of Salvador Dalí. I guess she’d visited Tripadvisor or whatever, and I told her I’d add it to my itinerary, although sipping a cold beer and doing my best impression of a certified man of leisure felt far more compelling, at least to my way of thinking.
With the sun finally beginning to drift lower in the sky, I lifted the lid to the cooler and pulled out my second—and likely last—beer of the day. I figured I’d sip on it for a while, maybe even stay long enough to enjoy the sunset, then make my way to Sandbar Bill’s, a cool place up the beach that happened to serve the best cheeseburgers around. As to what I would do after that, I wasn’t quite sure. I supposed I could do some barhopping in downtown St. Petersburg, but because it was Saturday night, it would probably be crowded, and I wasn’t sure I was in the mood for that. Which left what? Work on a song? Watch some Netflix, like Paige and I sometimes did? Read one of the books I’d brought with me but hadn’t yet started? I figured I’d play it by ear.
I twisted off the cap, surprised that the beach was still as crowded as when I’d arrived. Hotel guests from the Don CeSar reclined in lounge chairs shaded by umbrellas; along the beach, dozens of visitors lay on colorful towels. At the water’s edge, some little kids were building a sandcastle; a woman was walking a dog whose tongue lolled almost to his paws. The music from the pool area continued behind me, making me wince at the occasional off-key note.
As it happened, I neither heard nor saw her approach. All I knew was that someone was suddenly hovering above me, casting a shadow over my face. When I squinted, I recognized the girl from the beach yesterday, smiling down at me, her long dark hair framing my field of vision.
“Hi,” she said without a trace of self-consciousness. “Didn’t I see you playing at Bobby T’s last night?”
I guess I should explain something else: Even though I’ve mentioned that I’d hoped to run into the dark-haired beauty at the beach, I didn’t have a plan after that. I’m not nervous when it comes to meeting women, though I am out of practice. Back home, aside from when I play the occasional gig for friends, I seldom go out. My excuse is usually that I’m too tired, but really, if you’ve lived in the same small town your entire life, doing pretty much anything on a Friday or Saturday night feels a bit like the movie Groundhog Day. You go to exactly the same places and see exactly the same people and do exactly the same things, and how often can someone experience the endless déjà vu without finally asking themselves, Why am I even here?
The point is, I was a little rusty at making conversation with beautiful strangers and found myself gaping up at the girl wordlessly.
“Hello? Anyone home?” she asked into the silence. “Or have you already killed off the contents of that cooler, which means I should probably walk away right now?”
There was no mistaking the playfulness in her tone, but I barely registered her teasing as I took in the sight of her wearing a white half shirt along with faded jeans shorts that exposed part of a tantalizing purple bikini. She looked like she might be part Asian, and her thick, wavy hair was windblown in a messy-casual kind of way, as if she’d spent the day outdoors, just like me. I lifted my bottle of beer slightly.
“This is only my second of the day,” I said, finding my voice, “but whether you walk away is up to you. And, yes, you may have heard me at Bobby T’s last night, depending on what time you were there.”
“You were also the guy with the tattoos on the beach yesterday, right? Who eavesdropped on me and my friends?”
