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Now, though, as she stared at the weapons that could have killed her son, she wasn’t quite sure what to do. She had to hide all of it or, better yet, get rid of it. But that was easier said than done. You don’t just toss a gun into the bushes, after all, but she couldn’t imagine keeping them anywhere in the house, either.
I have to bury them, she thought.
She tried to remember if she’d seen a shovel. She hadn’t, but she assumed there might be one in the barn. The idea of going there frightened her, though. Not only had the owner told her the barn was definitely off-limits, but if there were guns and drugs in the house, who knew what else might be stored out there? Just what kind of place was this?
She didn’t know; all she knew for sure was that the guns had to go before Tommie got home. Rising to her feet, Beverly stumbled down the stairs. Once out the door, she veered in the direction of the barn. As she continued to collect herself, sunlight hammered down, thickening the air to the point that it seemed to absorb all sound. She heard no crickets or birdsong; even the leaves in the trees were still. The barn stood in shadow, as though daring her to proceed, daring her to learn the truth of why it was off-limits.
As she approached, she wondered whether she’d even be able to get inside. For all she knew, the door might be chained shut with one of those indestructible locks, or, despite its appearance, it might have some sort of security system that included…
Cameras.
The word brought with it a sudden need for caution, and she halted while scenes from the last few days tumbled through her mind.
An owner taking cash for rent without asking too many questions…Drugs and guns in a house where the previous tenant had left in a hurry…A man with a truck appearing at her door…Men in the fields surrounding her house who seemed to take a more-than-casual interest in watching her…
All she knew for sure was that she didn’t want to learn what the owner might be up to and that it was time for her and Tommie to move on. There was something terribly wrong with this situation, and she should have recognized it earlier. She should have known the whole thing was too good to be true. Though she didn’t have enough money to leave, she’d somehow figure it out, even if she had to hold up one of those cardboard signs begging for money on the side of the road. It wasn’t safe here, not any longer, and at the very least going somewhere new would make it more difficult for Gary to find her.
She turned, backtracking to the house, relieved by her decision. Nonetheless, she didn’t want the guns in her house for a single minute longer. Knowing she still had to bury them, she went to the kitchen, eyeing the chaos. In the open drawer near the stove, she’d seen a large metal spoon—the kind used for stirring a pot of stew—and she retrieved it. It might take a while, but as long as she could find soft earth, it should work.
Outside near the house, she began to search for a spot where the ground wasn’t too hard or dry. She couldn’t dig near the big trees, because the roots probably sucked up all the water, but as she was thinking about it, she suddenly remembered the creek. The ground there should be softer, right?
She quickly headed in that direction, but on the off chance that Tommie would want to hunt for tadpoles again, she ventured a ways beyond the spot they frequented. Dropping to her knees, she tested the earth, relieved to find that it yielded easily, in small but regular scoops. She worked methodically, making sure the hole was long and deep enough to bury both of the guns and the ammunition. She didn’t know how deep they needed to be, because she didn’t know anything about the creek. Did it widen after big rainstorms? Did the whole area become a pond during a hurricane?
She supposed it didn’t matter. She and Tommie would be long gone before anything like that happened.
But she was running out of time. Tommie would be home soon, and she needed to get this done. She hurried back toward the house, only to freeze mid-stride. For a long moment, she couldn’t even breathe.
The pickup truck from the day before was in her driveway again.
That night I didn’t fall asleep for hours. I told myself that I couldn’t have fallen in love, that real love required time and a multitude of shared experiences. Yet my feelings for Morgan grew stronger by the minute, even as I struggled to understand how something like that could even be possible.
Paige, I thought, could probably help me make sense of it. Even though it was late, I called her cellphone, but again there was no answer. I suspected she would tell me that I was suffering from a wild infatuation, not love. Maybe there was some truth in that, but when I thought about my previous relationship with Michelle, I realized that I’d never experienced the overwhelming emotions I’d felt with Morgan, even at the beginning of our relationship. With Michelle, there’d never been a time when I felt the need to make sense of what was happening between us. Nor had the world ever faded away when we’d kissed.
Assuming what I was feeling was real, I also wondered where our relationship might lead and whether anything would come of it. My logical side reminded me that we’d be going our separate ways in just a few days, and what was going to happen after that? I didn’t know; all I knew for sure was that I wanted more than anything to spend as much time with her as possible.
After finally drifting off in the early hours of the morning, I slept in for the first time since I’d arrived in Florida, waking to a morning sky that seemed almost ominous. Already, the heat and humidity were oppressive—the kind that promised thunderstorms later—and sure enough, a check of the weather on my phone confirmed it, right when I was supposed to be performing. A quick text exchange with Ray let me know that I should plan to come in anyway. They’d be monitoring the weather, he assured me, and would call the show when they needed to.
I went through my normal morning routine, even though nothing else was normal at all. My thoughts were dominated by Morgan; when I ran past the Don, I couldn’t help but look for her; when I stopped to do pull-ups on some scaffolding near the beach, I conjured the smoothness of her skin. After my shower, I swung by the grocery store and pictured Morgan rehearsing in the conference room or screaming with delight as she rode the roller coasters at Busch Gardens. Putting some chicken breasts in my shopping basket, I wondered what she had told her friends about the day we’d spent together, or if she’d said anything about it at all. Mainly, though, I tried to figure out whether she felt the same about me as I did about her.
That’s the part I couldn’t work out. I knew there was mutual attraction, but did her feelings for me run as deep as mine for her? Or was I simply a way to pass the time, a fling to add spice to her vacation before her real life began? Morgan was, in many ways, still a mystery to me, and the more I tried to figure her out, the more elusive understanding seemed. Uncertain what the evening would bring, I bought two candles, matches, a bottle of wine, and chocolate-covered strawberries, even though I knew she might want to go out instead.
Back at the condo, I put everything away and took a few minutes to straighten up the rooms. With nothing left to do and Morgan on my mind, I reached for my guitar.
I plucked out the melody of the song that I’d played for Morgan on the beach the other night, still nagged by the knowledge that it wasn’t quite right. The lyrics needed more dimension, a specificity that I hadn’t quite nailed.
Crossing out bits and pieces of what I’d already written, I thought about the way Morgan made me feel—not only the emotions she inspired but also how differently I saw myself through her eyes. There had only been a handful of times in the past when a song almost seemed to write itself, but that’s what I started to experience. New lyrics felt effortlessly resonant, anchored now with details plucked from our day together. Meanwhile, I ramped up the driving energy of the chorus, already envisioning a multilayered recording that would give it the sound of a gospel choir.
A glance at the clock warned me that I was almost running late. I didn’t have time to scribble the new lyrics into my notebook, but I already knew it wasn’t necessary. I tossed on a clean T-shirt, hurriedly collected what I needed for Bobby T’s, and scrambled down the steps. Overhead, clouds were rolling and twisting as though gathering energy before exploding. I made it with only five minutes to spare, noting that the crowd was less than half the size of my previous show, though every seat was still taken. I didn’t expect to see Morgan in the crowd but nonetheless felt a jolt of disappointment at her absence.
I played my show, filling the extra hour mostly with requests, while the clouds continued to grow even darker. Halfway through, the breeze picked up and started to blow steadily. For the first time since I’d been performing at Bobby T’s, some people began to rise from their seats and head for the exits. I didn’t blame them—in the distance I could see dark thunderheads forming on the horizon, and as they approached, I expected Ray to cut the show short at any moment.
Shafts of sunlight occasionally broke through the roiling clouds, creating prisms of color and a glorious sunset. Beyond the audience, the beach had emptied, and as more people continued to leave, I wondered whether Morgan would even show up. Nonetheless, just as the last rays of sun were vanishing, Morgan finally arrived. She’d come in from the beach and was dressed in a flattering yellow sundress; over her shoulder was the Gucci tote I recognized from the day before. Backlit by the shifting light, she appeared like an otherworldly vision. She offered a small wave, and I instinctively found myself launching into the song that I’d been working on, the one I suddenly knew I never would have finished without meeting her.
Even from a distance, I could see delighted recognition on her face as the first notes filled the room. Though I typically sang to the audience as a whole, I couldn’t help focusing most of my attention on her, especially as I sang the new lyrics. When the song ended, the audience was quiet before suddenly exploding into a longer-than-usual wave of applause, interrupted only by a bright long streak of lightning that split the sky over the water. Seconds later, a deep growl of thunder rolled down the beach like a slow-moving tumbleweed.
The applause died out as most of the remaining crowd rose from their seats. I could already see Ray walking toward me and making a slashing gesture below his chin. I immediately set my guitar aside as Ray stepped up to the microphone, announcing that the show was finished. By then I was wending my way toward Morgan.
“You made it,” I said, unable to hide my delight. People streamed past us onto the beach with an eye on the sky; others hustled in the opposite direction, toward the parking lot. “I wasn’t sure you would.”
