field. Already he could feel the futility in arguing.
She looked around them, as though enemies might be hiding in the brush. ‘I can’t see you anymore,’ she said. ‘It’s for both our good.’ He grabbed her wrist, but she was already in motion, already running away before even taking a step. ‘I love you, but I have to go.’
She broke free, and he watched her run, the copper hair he loved so much streaming out behind her like a wild mare’s mane. He would let her run; she wouldn’t go far, he was sure of it.
Carson couldn’t commit to any of the wedding bands on display in the Philipsburg jewelry shop. Each silky platinum or diamond-encrusted gold band looked good, but he couldn’t quite see himself wearing any of them. Too plain, too elaborate, too gaudy, too wide, too narrow; Val and the salesman, whose English was approximately as good as Carson’s Dutch, frowned at him as he pondered.
He pushed the navy blue velvet tray away. ‘You know, our flight’s in ninety minutes … There’s this nice store in Ocala; why don’t we look there when we get in? I guess I’m just not in the mood for this right now.’
‘But the prices are so much better here,’ Val said.
Carson smirked. ‘You can afford the difference. Come on.’ He stood.
‘Okay, fine.’ But she didn’t look fine. She looked disappointed. ‘If you’re sure none of these work.’
She must have an attachment to one, one that he was supposed to also prefer, that maybe she’d been trying to signal him about and he hadn’t caught on. Well, he was still tired, still hung over; every night here was a party and his middle-aged body was feeling the effects.
Wherever Val went, she collected friends. Young, energetic friends, most of whom surfed. He swam pretty well, thanks to years of racing Meg across the lake, but didn’t surf worth a damn, so what he did most during these parties was observe and drink. Oh, people were intrigued with him, sure, but once they’d declared their love of his music and admiration for his ability to create it, they had little else to say. The conversations, when they lasted, usually turned to Val and her career, a subject of common interest.
Val. No one was more charismatic. He often joked that she’d been given an extra dose of personality, maybe the one his bass player Ron seemed to be missing. She was good to everyone around her, and he hated that he’d missed whatever signal she was trying to send about the wedding bands. So he sat down and took another look.
He supposed she wanted him to choose something in platinum, to match her engagement ring and the band she’d wear with it. When they discussed a ring for him, they agreed his didn’t need to match – that it was most important for it to suit him personally, the way hers was such a perfect match for her. The truth was, he’d made such a ‘perfect’ selection simply because when he described Val to the Tiffany clerk, the woman proclaimed he needed the Schlumberger ring – a very large, round diamond encircled by smaller diamonds and, as a modification, some exceptional aquamarines, set only in platinum – and he went along with it.
Glancing at Val’s ring, he pointed to the band that looked like the closest complement, a wide polished band with an inset sweep of nine small diamonds. ‘How about this one?’
She nodded eagerly. ‘You should try it on.’
He did, and she grinned, and when he gave the consent she’d been hoping for, she kicked him out of the shop to make the purchase, insisting that it was bad luck for him to know the price.
He waited on the sidewalk outside, glad to have satisfied her. That was the more important thing. He could wear the ring, flashy as it was. He’d get used to it. A man could get used to just about anything if he set his mind to it. He’d gotten used to being angry at Meg, gotten used to being without her after all their years growing up together. He’d gotten used to feeling incomplete and had even turned that feeling, and the associated ones, into an incredibly lucrative career. He’d gotten used to living on the road for huge chunks of time, to the sharp smell of sweat and exhaustion that filled his tour bus after a concert, to relying on Gene to tell him where to be and when and for how long. He’d gotten used to the idea of never finding a woman worth marrying.
And while he wasn’t so young and romantic as to believe that Val was his soul mate, the one woman he was meant to be with, the woman he’d waited his whole life for, etcetera, he thought they made a pretty good couple. She kept him distracted and entertained. She was sweet and affectionate, and fun in bed. She was beautiful, in a tomboyish way. And she loved him. It was enough; it had to be.
That evening, Carson and his father, James, walked the fence line of the McKay citrus farm, checking for rotted posts. James, a sturdy, upright sixty-five-year-old with still-dark hair, was gradually replacing the old wooden posts with steel in the steady, conservative manner with which he did everything. The McKays’ was one of the fortunate Ocala-area farms that by luck of diligent grove management and the two small, warm lakes within their groves, lost only a few trees when the freeze of ’89 put so many growers out of business. If it had gone otherwise – if the groves were lost and had to be replanted, as so many had – Carson never would’ve left to pursue his music. Instead, he’d have stayed to replant, rebuild the business. It was funny how things turned out, how you couldn’t predict where luck would land or which kind it would be when it did.
Post-checking was only an excuse, he knew, for his dad to get him alone. As an only child, he’d forged a strong, close bond with both his parents, one that had helped see him through what they all referred to as ‘those years’, and which told him, now, that something other than fence posts was on his dad’s mind. But he knew not to rush the matter, and so he ambled along at his dad’s side through the calf-high grass, appreciating the peace layered all around him: rosy sky, soft breeze stirring the nearby lemon-tree leaves, a trio of horses gamboling across the way on pasture land that had until recently belonged to Spencer and Anna Powell.
‘I see the new people have things up and running over there,’ he said, pointing toward the horses.
His dad stopped walking and looked that way. ‘They do. Kind of strange to see the place active again, after so long.’
‘How long has it been?’
‘What? Since there were thoroughbreds over there?’
‘Yeah,’ Carson nodded. He couldn’t remember, having lived away from here for more than fifteen years, now.
‘Oh, maybe a decade, maybe more. Around the time Julianne married that Canadian fella and moved up to Quebec.’
Carson recalled hearing about it. Meg’s youngest sister, only seventeen at the time, got pregnant just before her senior year and married the father, a college student from Quebec who’d been visiting relatives for the summer. He got the news by phone while he was touring with his first band and wondered, then, how different things might’ve gone for him if he’d accidentally gotten Meg pregnant. She would’ve had to stick with him and try to make a life together, would’ve seen that there was nothing to fear about being so much in love – if that was her real reason for breaking up.
He never did quite buy that excuse, though. He figured she’d fallen for Hamilton, was seduced by the money and just didn’t want to admit it. And that morning before her wedding, all she wanted was a fling for old time’s sake. One last toss with the guy she’d thought was such a good lover but wasn’t worth marrying – he didn’t have money, after all, didn’t have what looked like a life of luxury ahead of him, not then. He’d been nothing but a shit-kicker, a grower’s kid who intended to be a grower himself. He couldn’t compete with Brian Hamilton, couldn’t give her the life she apparently wanted.
‘Carson?’
‘Oh, sorry, just lost in thought.’ Well, whatever, he thought; water under the bridge.
His dad went on, ‘After the youngest left, Spencer sold off the last of his stock and stuck to just boarding. I never did know why.’
‘Maybe he just