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I shake my head. “Not yet. I figure they want to make me sweat a bit.”
“So, you still don’t know how long you’re in town for?”
“Nope, but honestly, I’m not in a hurry anymore. I think I needed this break and time with you guys. I’ve been doing some thinking about the future too.”
“What about it?” Langford asks.
“I’m considering buying some land here in Balsam Ridge. Building a homestead. Maybe have a dozen kids who can fight over it when I’m dead and gone,” I say.
“Shit, I knew this day would come. It’s time to have the talk about the birds and the bees, little brother. You see, it takes an egg and a swimmer to make a baby,” Langford teases.
“Shut up, asshole. I’m well versed in how babies are made.”
“Well, just sayin’, to have a dozen little Garretts running around, you’re going to need a female or two to actively participate,” he informs.
“I’m sure I can find a willing female or two,” I tell him.
“I’m sure you can. I’ve never had so many females milling around the hemp farm and down on the river. I saw a boat the other day, weighed down with a dozen girls with binoculars,” Weston adds.
I shrug. “Tourists.”
For the most part, people in Balsam Ridge treat me like any other resident. They watched me grow up, taught me in school, coached my Little League teams, and fed me my entire life. They don’t look at me and see a famous musician. They see the scrawny kid who was always up to some kind of mischief. However, once word gets out that I’m spending time in town, fans pop up, and the local motels get flooded with folks hoping to run into me at the diner or catch a glimpse of me fishing on my boat. It’s inevitable.
“Sure, gaggles of females packed on a fishing boat with binoculars are always tourists. They were probably bird-watching or something,” Langford quips.
Morris leans back and wrinkles his nose. “I don’t get it. You aren’t any prettier than I am. In fact, I believe I’m a tad bit better-looking than you. Your nose is still crooked from that baseball you took to the face back in junior high.”
“It’s the money,” Weston says.
“No, it’s the talent. Women are attracted to talent, and the sultry voice doesn’t hurt,” Taeli interjects.
Morris’s eyes go to her. “Really?”
She nods. “Plus, country songs pull at the heartstrings. Every girl listening can put herself into the song. Like Garrett is singing directly to her about her joy, pain, or struggle. She feels the emotions the person in the lyrics is experiencing about first love or a wild night with a stranger. It only makes sense that she falls for the man singing to her soul a little bit.”
Morris looks back at me. “Is that what you do?”
I shrug. “That’s what music does. It elicits an emotional response from the listener. The lyrics are powerful. They can tear you apart and break down your defenses, or they can soothe the pain and heal you.”
“Maybe I should have paid more attention in band class,” he grumbles.
Pop and Graham finish up with the meat, and Mom and Leona place dishes of roasted potatoes, corn on the cob, green bean casserole, and fresh biscuits around the table.
Pop says grace, and we dig in.
“Back to the land, are you seriously considering buying here? Because if you are, I have several acres for sale on the back side of Misty Mountain you might be interested in. It’s a good spot—quiet and private with gorgeous views,” Langford offers.
“I’m dead serious,” I answer.
“I can take you to have a look at it tomorrow if you want,” he offers.
“Sounds good,” I agree.
I look over to see my mother smiling down at her plate. I know she is excited at the thought of me spending more time here in Balsam Ridge. It’s inexcusable that I’ve let so much time go by without stopping in. I realize that she and Pop won’t be around forever, and I’m going to regret all the time I didn’t spend with them if I don’t do something to change it.
I slide my gaze to Pop, and he, too, is focusing on his plate, but instead of a smile, he has a look of contemplation on his face. He’s been cold since I arrived home, avoiding me at every turn. I know he’s upset with me, and I need to man up and get him alone, so we can talk it out.
I feel like a kid who cut up in school and was sent home with a note from my teacher. I know he’s mad, and I have to face the music.
