Dreamland(29)

She was safe, she decided, because she’d been careful. She was safe because she’d thought of everything, because she’d known exactly how Gary would conduct his search. And yet she could still feel the anxiety, inching upward inside her like bubbles rising through water, and when the realization suddenly came to her, it felt as though Gary himself had punched her in the stomach.

Cameras, she thought.

Oh God.

What if the bus stations had cameras?





In the morning, I went for a run beneath a cloudless Florida sky. The air was thick with humidity, and by the time I hit the beach, I had to strip off my shirt and use it as a makeshift bandanna to keep the sweat from pouring into my eyes.

I ran in the hard-packed sand near the water’s edge, passing by Bobby T’s and a string of motels and hotels, including the Don, before turning around and making my way back to my place. I wrung out my shirt, shorts, and socks before hopping in the shower to cool off. Afterward, all clothes went into the washer, and only after two cups of coffee did I feel ready to start the day.

Picking up my guitar, I spent the next couple of hours tweaking the song I’d sung for Morgan, thinking again that it was close but not exactly right and feeling that there was something special there, if only I could find it. As I continued to tinker, however, my thoughts kept returning to the question of whether I would ever see Morgan again.

I had lunch, went for a walk on the beach, then continued trying different variations on the song until it was time for me to leave for Bobby T’s. Because it was Sunday, I didn’t expect much of a crowd, but when I got there, every table was already filled. Scanning the audience, I noted that Morgan and her friends weren’t there, and I did my best to ignore a pang of disappointment.

I played the first set—a mix of crowd favorites and my own songs—then rolled into the next set, and then the third, before I started taking requests. By the halfway point in the show, the crowd had grown. It wasn’t quite the size of the Friday-night crowd, but there were a number of people standing, and more people continued to wander in from the beach.

With fifteen minutes to go, Morgan and her friends showed up. Somehow, despite the size of the crowd, they were able to find seats. I caught Morgan’s eye, and she gave a little wave. When I had a single song left to play, I cleared my throat.

“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?”