Finding Focus Read online

  The feeling of adventure slowly creeps through my veins. It’s a feeling I haven’t had in a long time. The irony of finding adventure in a place like French Settlement, Louisiana doesn’t escape me, but I find myself really looking forward to exploring.

  After I unpack and feel somewhat settled, it’s almost four o’clock in the afternoon, which gives me plenty of time to find my way out to the Landry Plantation for my five o’clock meeting with Annie Landry.

  I haven’t seen this many different shades of green in years. The window to my car is down, and as I drive farther into the country, I’m flooded with memories from my childhood—tall oaks, shaded dirt roads, and the quietness that comes from being miles from a city. The sights, sounds, and even the smells take me back to a time when life was much simpler, easy . . . fun.

  Not one to wallow, especially right before meeting a client, I clear my throat and push the memories down, focusing on the road ahead of me. As I get closer to my destination, the landscape changes to a narrow two-lane road with thick mossy trees on either side, the foliage only breaking occasionally for a sizeable house or two and the bright blue sky.

  Spotting a modest sign boasting Landry Plantation ~ Established 1932, I slam on my brakes. The trees lining the long driveway are some of the tallest I’ve ever seen. They curve and bend while the limbs sway in the gentle breeze, creating an archway over the road leading all the way up to the house.

  The Landry Plantation is everything you’d imagine a plantation to be. It’s substantial, statuesque, and looks as though it could tell a million stories better than any history book. The term “house” does not do this place justice. It’s only two stories, but there are windows as far as you can see.

  Lilac bushes in full bloom line each side of the stairs leading up to the front door. The grand wrap-around porch is lined with white wicker chairs and small tables, perfect for sitting and having conversation—the picture of southern hospitality. This house has great curb appeal.

  Well, if it were near a main road . . . and had a curb.

  I can definitely understand why Southern Style would want to do a piece on this place. It’s hard to believe the magazine hasn’t done one before. I can practically hear my camera calling my name; the photographic possibilities are endless.

  “Just wait ‘til you see out back. Ms. Annie has quite the green thumb. If you think the front is pretty, you’re gonna love the gardens.”

  I let out a yelp and quickly turn around, clutching my chest. “Who’s there?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I didn’t mean to startle you.” A young guy with muddy brown hair and tanned skin walks up to me, holding his hands up in surrender. “My name is Travis. I work here, I promise.”

  I look him over, noting his t-shirt and jeans covered in soil and a dirty shovel in his hands. His friendly smile makes me relax, so I introduce myself.

  “Hi, I’m Sheridan Reed. I’m supposed to be meeting with Mrs. Landry about a magazine article I’m doing on the plantation.”

  “Oh, yeah! Ms. Annie will be thrilled you’re here. She’s been talking non-stop about meeting you all week.”

  “That’s sweet. I’m excited about meeting her and getting to work on the article. This place really is gorgeous.” I take another look around, shielding my eyes from the sun.

  “Sure is,” he says, joining me in my appreciation. “Let me walk you in and introduce you.” He motions toward the front steps.

  “I appreciate that. Thanks.”

  I shoot Travis a genuine smile, feeling at ease in his presence.

  “How long have you worked for the Landrys?” I ask as we walk up to the front doors.

  “Oh, for about five years. I’ve known them all my life, though. My mama and Mrs. Annie have been friends since they were knee high to a grasshopper,” he says, smiling back at me.

  He stomps the dirt off his boots on the welcome mat before walking in the front door without knocking.

  As we step into the foyer, a very loud, somewhat angry voice comes from another room close by. It sounds as though the woman is speaking in another language. Now, this is more like home.

  “What do you mean you only have a sixty-five pound pig for me? I have a hundred people comin’ over next weekend for Micah’s birthday, including your family, Owen Miller, so you know damn well we’re gonna need a ninety pounder at least! What kind of cochon de lait do you think I’m gonna have? Certainly not a half-assed one, I assure you!”

  My eyes grow wide as I take in the beautiful woman screaming nonsense into the phone while Travis just shakes his head and laughs.

  The woman continues. “Mmm-hmm. Yes, well, I guess we'll just have to have two pigs to roast to make sure we have enough.” She pauses. “Yes, Owen, two sixty-five pound pigs should be fine. Be sure to tell your daddy I said thank you for finding another pig for us on such short notice.” She rolls her eyes even though the man on the other end of the line can’t see her. I giggle at her sarcasm.

  Hanging up with a huff, she turns to Travis. “I swear, that Miller family gives me the choux rouge!”

  I give Travis a confused look, not understanding what just came out of this woman’s mouth. “Oh, um, Mrs. Annie is just a little upset right now.”

  “Travis LeBlanc, I am not ‘a little upset’. I’m pissed off!” The fiery Cajun woman finally turns completely around to find me standing in the doorway.

  “Oh, good Lord! Where are my manners? I’m usually not so rude. Please, forgive me.”

  Travis tries to stifle a laugh, but the woman hears him and swats at his arm. “Shut up, Travis. I mean, I’m not usually so rude when I have guests all the way from New York in my house.” She smiles sweetly as she makes her way around the center island to greet me. “I try to wait until I know them a little better before I let them see me get too fired up.” She laughs, pulling me into a hug tighter than I thought possible from such a tiny woman.

  “You must be Ms. Reed. My name is Anne-Marie Landry, and I’m simply thrilled you’re here!” she exclaims, her eyes lighting up like I hung the moon or something.

  After I recover from her bone-crushing hug, I formally introduce myself.

  “Hello, Mrs. Landry. I’m Sheridan Reed, but you can call me Dani.”

  “Well, in that case, you need to call me Annie. My husband’s mama was Mrs. Landry, and she’s been dead for ten years now! Travis, would you please fetch Dani’s things and bring them inside?”

  Wait. What?

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Landry . . . I mean, Annie, I have a room at the motel in town. My things are already there.”

  “Wilbur Young’s place? Mercy, that man squeezes a quarter so tight the eagle screams. Why on earth are you stayin’ at that dump? We have plenty of room here,” she says earnestly. I know I can’t accept her hospitality, but damn if I don’t want to. Staying inside this magnificent home would be a dream.

  “That’s a very generous offer, but I can’t accept. I really do appreciate it, though.”

  Annie places her hands on her hips while the pout on her mouth shows just how unhappy she is with my refusal. I assume no one tells Annie Landry no and she’s trying to go easy on me. I can already tell working with her is going to be interesting, to say the least.

  “Well, fine, but if you change your mind, just say the word and we’ll get you set up here lickety-split.”

  Her sweet southern drawl and interesting choice of vernacular makes me nostalgic. After thanking Mrs. Landry for her invitation and making plans to be back out here early tomorrow morning, she walks me to the porch and I take one more look at the house before hopping in my car.

  On my drive back to the motel, I can’t stop the grin that covers my face. Taking pictures of the Landry Plantation is going to be an amazing experience. I can feel it. However, I also feel the pressure. If I do a good job on this, it could lead to other jobs—something I desperately need and want. I want to prove to myself, and even to Graham, that I can do this.

  With the thought of Graham
comes the memory of what he said to me the day I was fired.

  “How could you get fired, Dani? All you do is take pictures and write a few captions. How hard can that be? Do you have any idea how this makes me look?”

  Second to dating him for so long, working for the same magazine was the biggest mistake of my life. Graham never supported me, and he never encouraged or defended me. He’d always say he was harder on me than other employees so I’d “toughen up” and grow the “backbone” needed to succeed in the publishing world. He’d know best, of course.

  When I pull back into the gravel lot at the motel, I force myself to put the self-loathing on the backburner for a while. I park in front of my room that faces the parking lot. Right next to me is a large obnoxious truck taking up more than its fair share of the parking lot. Rolling my eyes at the stereotypical southern-boy display, I quickly grab my purse and walk to my room.

  I’ve seen Varsity Blues. I know what guys who drive big souped-up pick-up trucks are like.

  Just as I’m about to unlock my door, I hear a banging sound, followed by a loud crash. I freeze and hold my breath, trying hard to hear what else is going on in the room next to mine. Someone may need help. My eyes sweep the area around me. Not seeing anyone else outside, I relax enough to unlock my door and push it open.

  As I step inside my room, two more loud bangs shake the wall I share with the room next door and then the bangs morph into steady thumping. The moans that follow confirm two things: someone’s getting busy and they’re getting busy right next door.

  Awesome.

  Relieved someone’s life isn’t in danger and a tad bit embarrassed I’m hearing an obviously passionate couple have sex, I enter my room and slam the door, hoping they’ll hear it and realize they’re not alone.

  As the minutes pass, it becomes obvious my door-slam didn’t faze the amorous duo. I grab the remote, turn on the TV, and tick the volume up to ear splitting, but thumps, grunts, and passionate screams are all I hear.

  I fall back onto the bed and let out a snort. As irritating as it is to be an unwilling third party to their fuck fest, I’m also incredibly jealous. No one has ever made those kinds of sounds leave my mouth, not even my trusty battery-powered toy. Disappointment flows through me, officially putting an end to the mild arousal I was beginning to feel.

  Assuming they’ll be finished soon, I give up on watching TV and decide to get some work done instead. My shoulders slump as I realize my bag containing both of my notebooks, my camera, and my earbuds are still in my rental car. I slap myself in the forehead a few times before accepting the fact that I have to go outside again. I won’t be able to sleep until I make notes for tomorrow’s shoot. Plus, there’s no way I’m leaving my camera outside; I don’t care if this town is smaller than Mayberry. I don’t bother putting my bra back on or slipping on my shoes. I just grab my keys and walk out the door.

  “Yes, Micah! That’s it! Fuck me bowlegged!”

  Well, I’ve never heard that one before.

  The woman keeps screaming his name while the guy continues to screw her into the sheetrock until, after one last bang; I hear them both sigh in relief, signaling the end of their sexy times.

  Fucking finally!

  Figuring I have no reason to rush, I stroll to my car, looking at the mostly-empty parking lot. Even though the majority of the rooms here are empty, it’s just my luck to get the one right next to the horny humpers. It makes me wonder if this Micah is a soldier about to go on a tour of duty, or maybe he just got home. I guess it’s possible that they could be on their honeymoon. My mind continues to wander, brewing up possibilities of a newly released prisoner or a politician having an illicit affair, when I hear a man’s voice call out behind me. “See ya later, Val.”

  The sound of him shutting the door to the room causes me to panic a little and I hit my head on the roof of the car. Turning around I see the guy leaning against the outside of the motel while he pulls a boot onto his foot.

  Micah, I presume.

  He twists the cap off a water bottle and I shake my head, willing myself to keep moving, but the sight of his disheveled hair and defined abs peeking through his unbuttoned white button-down keep me in place.

  My mouth goes dry as my eyes continue to linger, honing in on his toned stomach and the way his jeans sit low on his hips.

  Even though we’re a few feet apart and the sun is beginning to set, his light blue eyes are noticeable and full of mischief. I always thought when people said someone’s eyes twinkle, they were full of shit, but his do. And the way the edges of his eyes crinkle when he smirks makes my insides twist.

  His eyes stay on mine for a moment before traveling down my body and back up, lingering on my breasts, no doubt due to the fact my nipples are trying to break through the cotton of my tank top. I know I should be offended by him so blatantly ogling me after just having sex with someone else, but I can’t help but be mesmerized by this man.

  Finally, he puts the bottle of water up to his mouth, downing its contents in one long drink. A few drips trickle down his chin and he swipes them away. Giving me a wink, he simply says, “Hey,” before grinning and strutting off toward the pimped-out truck parked next to my car. Of course it would be his. I’d say he was overcompensating for something, but I’m pretty sure Val would disagree.

  Before I close the door to my room, I watch Micah roll down his window. He cranks his radio up and slaps the side of his truck as he peels out of the parking lot. I can’t help but shake my head and giggle at his display, but at the same time, I wish I could live like that: free and full of life.

  Sheridan

  WHEN THE ANTIQUATED ALARM CLOCK beeps uncontrollably, I fumble around until I’m able to slap the top of it. For a brief second, I’m disoriented. The cinder block I’m sleeping on is not my bed, but it takes a moment for me to register where I am.

  Keeping one eye closed, I glance around the room. A sliver of light shines through the thick curtains, and the clock reads 6:00 A.M. Wanting to get an early start on the day, I roll out of bed, forcing myself to get up. I shuffle toward the bathroom for a quick shower and get dressed. Since the plan is to make headway on the property, getting a nice overview of the land and exterior, I throw on a light t-shirt and slather on deodorant and sunscreen.

  After I grab my camera bag and make sure I have everything I need for the day, I head out the door and pause. The morning sun is breathtaking. The way the rays paint the sky pink, orange, and blue reminds me once again of my life in Mississippi. Seeing the sunrise in the morning always gives me an extra burst of energy. The thought that this is a new day and it’s mine to take gives me renewed ambition.

  But first, coffee.

  “Good mornin’,” the chipper girl behind the counter sings, her high ponytail swinging as she moves.

  “Good morning,” I mumble, making a beeline to the coffee pot in the corner. Conversations do not happen this early without coffee.

  “Sleep good?” she asks, watching me grab a Styrofoam cup off the counter.

  I pour myself a cup and add in two packets of creamer. “Uh, it was okay.” I want to tell her it sucked—that their beds suck—but I turn and give her a smile. When I look back down at my coffee, it’s still black. Okay, maybe not black, but it’s definitely not the creamy tan I was going for. Opening three more packets of creamer, I pour them in and pray to God this doesn’t taste like road tar.

  “So, where ya headed this mornin’?”

  “Oh, I’m going to the Landry Plantation. Have you heard of it?”

  She laughs, exactly the same way she laughed at me yesterday for referring to this quaint establishment as a hotel.

  “I’m guessing that’s a yes?”

  “Oh, honey,” she starts, waving her hand toward me, “everyone knows the Landrys.”

  “Well, they seem like lovely people.”

  “So, you’ve met them?” she asks, quirking an eyebrow at me. “All of them?”

  “I met Mrs. Landry yeste
rday. Oh, and Travis, although I guess he’s not related, but he was really nice. He was working in the flower beds while I was there.”

  “Just wait,” she says, her smile turning big and wide. I think her cheeks might even blush a bit. “Maybe you’ll have the pleasure of meeting the rest of the clan today.”

  I nod, taking a step toward the door, needing to get going if I’m going to make it to the house before seven.

  “Valerie,” an older man says as he walks from the room behind the counter.

  Valerie?

  “Hey, Dad. This is Dani Reed from New York City,” she says, nodding in my direction.

  Hold the phone. Like, Val Valerie?

  “Good mornin’, Ms. Reed. I hope your stay has been good so far.”

  “Yes, it’s been good.” I nod, a hand glued to the door handle and the other holding on to my coffee.

  Like . . . that Val? The Val who got fucked into next week? That Val? How many Vals are there in French Settlement?

  “Well, you be sure to let us know if we can get you anything.” He smiles and his eyes crinkle. “Val, me and your mama gotta run into Red Stick today, so you’ll have to hold down the fort.”

  Yeah, she’ll hold down the fort . . . with her back pressed to the door. I almost laugh out loud before I catch myself.

  “I’ve got it covered, Daddy,” she says, offering up a cheek for him to kiss. “No worries.”

  “Have a good day, Ms. Reed.” He nods in my direction, and I wave with my coffee cup. His face is kind, and he has really pretty gray hair. It’s the perfect color of light gray and combed just so. His hair says, “I have a business meeting”, but his overalls and plaid shirt say, “Where’s my tractor”.

  “Well,” I sigh, realizing I’ve spent a lot longer here than I’d intended, “I’ve gotta run.”