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Garrett
Iwake up the next morning with a stiff back. I throw a pod from the box I picked up on the way home into the coffee machine that’s propped on top of the mini fridge and splash some water on my face.
Taking my mug, I walk over to the large A-frame window that overlooks the water and watch as the sun rises over the mountain.
It’s been a minute since I was up in time to see the sunrise. My brothers and I used to eat breakfast out on the back porch before catching the school bus just so we could see it. We got that from our mother. The woman has always had a thing for sunrises and sunsets. She says they are the Lord’s way of telling us good morning every day and wishing us a good night. The hours in between are his gift to us, reminding us to go out every day and make the best of the time and fill it with goodness, hard work, and memories.
I finish my coffee and sit and stare aimlessly at my notepad.
Nothing.
The writer’s block that has been haunting me lately is strong. I toss the pad across the room onto the futon and decide to get dressed and go down and play with the boat for a while.
When I get down to my dock, I find my speedboat on the lift with a cover over it, and parked in the lift beside it is one of Weston’s old fishing boats with the key in the ignition.
I board the ratty thing and take a seat in the captain’s chair. It reminds me of my grandpa’s boat that he would take us out on when we were kids.
I turn the key, and the motor makes a sputtering sound before it kicks off. I try again. Another stall. So, I climb out and hit the button to bring the boat out of the water and go in search of my toolbox in the storage closet.
I spend the better part of the day tinkering with the old boat’s engine. I get lost in the nuts and the bolts and the grease, and before I realize it, the sun is falling low in the sky.
I hear footsteps and then a low whistle.
“Not bad, superstar. If that singing thing doesn’t work out for you, you can always come back and be my boat mechanic,” Weston says as he approaches.
I look up from my work and toss the greasy towel at his head, but in truth, it’s nice to be reminded that there is more to me than just my skills with a guitar. I like working with my hands and fiddling with engines. When I was young, I always had my nose under the hood of a tractor, mower, dirt bike, or ATV. I’d soup up our engines and make the Tuttle brothers unbeatable on any track.
“Maybe I should,” I agree.
“What?”
“Maybe I should stay and be a boat mechanic,” I clarify.
“Yeah, right. I was joking.”
I pick the towel up from where it landed on the concrete and wipe my hands. “I’m not. I didn’t realize how much I missed home until I was forced to come back. I could see myself happy, working with machines and sitting at Mom’s dinner table on Sundays.”
He laughs. “That’s just crazy talk,” he insists.
“Maybe. Maybe not. I think this last year of travel broke me. I’m frazzled, and I haven’t been able to write new music for the album. It’s like I’ve lost my mojo.”
Weston chuckles. “You should probably take a break now and then. Come home to see us more often than once every seven years. But giving up your career to come back permanently? No way. You’ve had stars in your eyes for as long as I can remember. From the first time you picked up a guitar, you’ve dreamed of big lights, big cities, new places, and adoring crowds. Heading shows that would whip an audience into a frenzy and make beautiful women drop their panties for you. You’d have been miserable if you stayed in Balsam Ridge, and you’d be miserable if you were to come back.”
“No more miserable than I am at the moment,” I admit.
He shakes his head. “This is just a blip for you. The chatter will settle down. You’ll release a new album. Some other celebrity or reality star will do some dumbass thing, and all the headlines will be about them. Everyone will forget all about your drama. You’ll tour the world, and all will be forgiven,” he says as he takes a seat on the dock.
“You think so, huh?”
“Dude, I know so. It’s the way of the world. Today, everyone is bitching about inflation. Tomorrow, some rock star will overdose, and all of a sudden, people will forget about the price of gas. Then, a hurricane will hit the coast of Florida, and people will forget about the overdose. Everything is about the headline. The news that sells. At the moment, you sell, but something more scandalous will come along and knock you off the top. Wait and see,” he says.
I sure hope so.
“In the meantime, how about I take you on a tour of the farm? We are harvesting and doing some cold-pressing today. You can see the process from start to finish. I’ll even let you sample the good stuff,” he offers.
“Sure. Hop in, and I’ll drive us over,” I say as I point to the boat.
“You really got her running?” he asks.
I flip the switch to lower the boat back into the water, step onto it, and turn the key. The motor guns to life.
“Yep.”
“Damn, I was kidding about you being a mechanic, but if you ever lose your voice or something and can’t sing anymore, you’re hired.”
“Where did you get this old boat from anyway?” I ask.
“It was Pastor Humphries’s. He tore down the old barn where it was stored to build a fellowship center and didn’t have anywhere to keep it. Since the slip next to yours was empty, I told him he could keep it here at no charge.”
“Generous of you,” I muse.
