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“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?”
