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“This one’s going out to those here to have a great time at the beach or pool,” I called out with a special smile for Morgan, before launching into “Margaritaville.” The crowd whooped and began to sing along. Before long I saw Morgan and her friends join in, which ended the show on a high note for me.
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.”
