Dreamland(11)

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.”

“Sounds good.”

As I turned onto the road, I caught sight of her texting. Unlike me, she used both hands, like a miniature typist. I was more of a single-finger texter. “Letting your friends know where we’re going?”

“Of course,” she responded. “And your license plate,” she added. “I took a picture before I got in.” When she finished, she lowered the phone. “Oh, by the way, I googled heirloom tomatoes after talking to you today. I didn’t realize there were so many different kinds. How do you know which ones to grow?”

“Research, like anything else. There’s a guy in Raleigh who is kind of the world expert on heirlooms, so we met with him to find out what types grow best in our area and what flavors to expect. We spoke to other farmers who grew them, to learn the ins and outs, and then met with potential customers like supermarkets and chefs and hotels. In the end, we started with three varieties, and we’ve added two more.”

“By we, do you mean you and your parents, or your brother…?”

“My aunt,” I said. I wondered how much to tell her, before finally deciding to just come out with it. “She’s kind of like my mom. My mom died when I was little and I never knew my dad, so my aunt and uncle raised my sister and me. Then my uncle ended up passing away, too.”

“Oh my God!” Morgan’s shock was evident. “That’s terrible!”

“It was hard,” I admitted. “Thank you. So, anyway, my aunt and I run the farm. Not alone, mind you. We have a general manager and a lot of employees.”

“Where does your sister live now?”

“Paige lives at the farm, too—actually, we still live in the house we grew up in—but she’s an artist.” I told Morgan about the Tiffany-replica lamps. From the visor in my truck, I pulled out a photo of Paige holding one of her lamps, which I had printed from my phone. When I handed it to Morgan, our fingers brushed.

“Wow! It’s so pretty!” She tilted her head, studying the photo. “She’s pretty, too.”

“There’s always a wait list for her lamps,” I went on, with a trace of pride. “As you can imagine, the lamps take a long time to make.”

“Is she older or younger than you?”

“Six years older. She’s thirty-one.”

“She looks younger.”

“Thanks. I think. But how about you? Tell me about you.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything.” I shrugged. “How would you describe your childhood? What are your parents like? Do you have brothers and sisters? What’s it like to grow up in Chicago, especially considering you have to carry Mace when you go out?”

She burst out laughing. “Lincoln Park is very safe. It’s kind of a fancy area. Big houses, big yards, big leafy trees. Ridiculous decorations for Halloween and Christmas. I camped out in the backyard for a slumber party once, though my dad did stay on the porch all night. It wasn’t until I was older that my mom and dad bought the Mace, and it had more to do with me going off to college and to frat parties or whatever.”

“Did you go to a lot of frat parties?”

“A few,” she continued, “but I was pretty busy most of the time. I did go to a formal, which was fun, even though I didn’t really like the guy all that much. But, okay, about me: In a lot of ways, it was a typical childhood, I guess. School and some after-school activities, like most people…” When she trailed off, I thought I detected a hint of reticence.