Chapter 2 – Sheridan
Once I board the plane, I relax back into my seat and settle in for the flight. Surprisingly, it’s peaceful—almost too quiet. There’s not one baby crying or one coughing passenger. So, I lean back, pull out my book, and try to enjoy the flight, but that only lasts so long. I shut my book after staring at the same page for twenty minutes. Everything seems to be cascading down all at once and my mind won’t shut up. Thoughts about losing my job, Graham, the way he dismisses me so easily, the way it all makes me feel, crowd in, tearing away any excitement for this trip I was feeling.
My thoughts inevitably drift back to last week when my boss called me into his office. Just thinking of it makes the disappointment fresh. I can’t say I’ve never failed at anything, but I sure as hell have never been fired. I felt like I had let everyone down, including Graham.
Was I devastated? Yes. Surprised? Not really.
I’d lost my creative mojo, my muse…my desire to do just about anything, months ago. I guess I should’ve been surprised I wasn’t fired sooner. Everything I’d put out lately had been shit. I knew it. My boss knew it. Graham certainly knew it—he wouldn’t let me forget it. He’s always so worried my performance will reflect on him. Heaven forbid his pristine reputation be tarnished.
Graham has always held himself at a higher standard than everyone else. He was born into this industry. With his dad being a well-known newspaper editor in New York, he really has nothing to fear. His name alone could get him a job practically anywhere. There was a time when Graham’s work ethic appealed to me. He’s always been so take-charge. In the past, that quality made me feel safe, but in the last year or so, his motivated attitude morphed into controlling and pretentious.
I bet he didn’t even fight for me. He’d said it was out of his control, but I’ve heard him use that excuse before when someone was fired or an account he wasn’t in favor of was dropped. It’s his politically correct way of saying he couldn’t care less.
It’s not like I wasn’t trying; I was trying harder than I ever had in my entire life. I knew my job was at stake and unlike Graham and most of my friends, I don’t have anyone to fall back on—no family to catch me if I fall face first. But taking pictures of the local social scene in New York just wasn’t doing it for me anymore. It seemed like the harder I tried, the worse I did. And more than that, there was no challenge. It was too easy. Add in the disappointment in my relationship with Graham and the fact that my best friend moved to Birmingham, Alabama almost four months ago, and you have my very own recipe for disaster.
Damn, can you have a mid-life crisis at twenty-five?
I’ve always been one to keep my shit together. Ambitious to the core, I went above and beyond to ensure my work was done to the best of my ability, my friends were happy, and my boyfriend was taken care of. Somewhere along the way, though, I started losing my footing, and now that everything seems to be crumbling, I’m not sure how to get it back. It’s like my compass is broken and I can’t seem to find direction.
Once Piper left, I didn’t have her there to distract me from how bored I was with my job or the fact that I’m not in love with Graham anymore. Actually, this might be the first time I’ve even admitted that to myself. I don’t know when it happened, and I don’t know how to feel about it, but my heart hurts. Maybe for what once was, or maybe because I’ve been defined by his presence for so long, I’m not sure who I am without him. Whatever the reason, it hurts.
Thirty-thousand feet in the air and halfway to Baton Rouge, I begin to wonder how the hell I’m going to pull this off. This could be the most epic of my failures yet. Disappointing Piper would be the straw that breaks this camel’s back. But the fact that she has enough trust and faith in me to offer me this job in the first place helps a little with my lack of confidence. I mean, if she’s willing to put her neck on the line for me, I’m willing to put forth the hard work and effort to show her how much I appreciate this fresh start. Besides, what have I got to lose?
A week taking pictures of the Landry Plantation, along with the family who owns it, and the small community surrounding it, sounds amazing. Add in the opportunity to eat some delicious Cajun food, hang out with Piper, and refuel my desire to be a photojournalist, and you have a happy Dani Reed.
Thinking of being in the south, getting out of the city, is enough to put me in a better mood. I’ve always wanted to travel, immerse myself in a new location, and tell its story through my lens. With that thought, I can’t stop the excited smile that covers my face—stupid boyfriends and pink slips be damned.
The airport in Baton Rouge is surprisingly busy, even for a Friday, and I’m thankful I thought ahead and reserved a car online last night. Once my luggage and equipment are loaded into the rental and I set the GPS to my destination, I pull onto the highway, heading toward I-10.
Even with the typical road construction and idiot drivers, I don’t mind the drive through Baton Rouge. It’s amazing what a little change in scenery can do for your mood. When I take Exit 166 leading me from the hustle and bustle of the city into the quiet comfort of country life, I relax back into the seat and enjoy the view.
The nearest hotel to French Settlement is over twenty minutes away in a neighboring town, so I settle for a quaint, locally owned, roadside motel. If I’m going to get a good grasp on who these people are and portray them in the most honest light while writing the article, I figure I need to have a first-hand experience, so Willow Oak Motel it is.
I pull into the gravel drive, humored that my rental is the only car in the parking lot. From first sight, I would assume they’re closed, but the man on the phone last night assured me a room would be available and I wouldn’t need a reservation.
When I walk through the glass door, the old bell above it chimes. A pretty blonde about my age with tall, big hair and a bright smile, greets me in a thick southern twang. “What can I do for ya?” Her face lights up and her eyes sparkle when she looks at me. For a moment, I’m afraid I’ve stepped into an episode of The Twilight Zone. The wood paneling on the walls has to be from the seventies, and the decrepit green sofa obviously came with it. Actually, the entire room must have been a packaged deal. I focus back on the woman, trying not to let my overactive imagination run wild with cliché horror movie scenarios.
“You must be the girl from New York City,” she says with a slow drawl, when I don’t respond.
Funny, I’m pretty sure I spoke with a man last night.
“Um…yeah, Dani Reed. I spoke to a gentleman last night about a room.”
“My daddy told me to be watching for you. Said you were worried we wouldn’t have a vacancy for you,” she explains with a giggle.
“Well, you never know when a hotel will be booked. I like to be prepared.”
The girl throws her head back and laughs like I just told the funniest joke ever. I furrow my brows in confusion, obviously not getting the joke. As she continues to hoot and holler, lost in her own hysterics, my expression morphs to incredulous. I just want my room.
“Honey, make no mistake, this is a mo-tel, not a hotel, and the only time it’s ever full is on prom night.” She winks. “You’re adorable, though. The guys here are just gonna go crazy over you.”
“Any room you have available will be fine, I’m sure. And I’m only here for business. Besides, I have a boyfriend back home.”
Why did I just say that?
She ignores my room request again. “But,” she says, drawing out the word, “have you ever been with a southern boy?” She leans over the counter, positioning herself closer to me as her voice drops an octave. I shake my head in answer, slightly shocked by her forwardness. She shakes her head in return, pity in her eyes. “Girl, you are missing out! Especially the crazy Cajun guys we have around here,” she continues as she walks to the wall behind the counter and peruses a row of keys. “They’re very…passionate, I guess you could say.” She winks at me over her shoulder and her knowing smile tells me she has personal experience in this matter—probably a lot of it.
“Uh, well, thanks?” I say, but it comes out more of a question than a statement. I’m not sure what I’m thanking her for, but I don’t know how else to respond to her or her claims to the ways of the south. I’ll just have to take her word for it. “So, um, I’m guessing I’m the third door down?” I ask, looking at the number on the extra-large key she hands me. A real, honest-to-goodness key. I didn’t even know hotels—motels, rather—still had these.
“Yes, ma’am. Third door down. And if there is anything we can get you to make your stay more comfortable, please let us know!”
Her chipper voice carries through the open door as I make my way back out to my rental car to retrieve my belongings.
When I turn the key and step into the room, I’m relieved to find it’s not as creepy as I thought it might be. It’s sparsely decorated, but after a thorough inspection, it seems clean enough. The most important thing is it’s quiet, just like the rest of the town. Actually, I’m not even sure you would consider this place a town. I think I counted one stop light and a handful of stop signs. There’s a neon sign lit up down the street that looked like an eating establishment and a gas station across the street from the motel, but other than that, I hadn’t seen much industry or retail on the drive in.
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, growing up as the only son of one of New York City’s most powerful newspaper editors.
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.
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 one of them just being released from prison or a politician having an illicit affair.
I straighten and lock the door before kicking it shut with my foot. As I turn to head back to my room, a man leaning against the door of the room next to mine startles me.
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 through his white button-down keep me in place.
My mouth goes dry as my eyes continue to linger, honing in on his button-fly jeans practically sliding down his ass.
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 the entire bottle 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 yells out a celebratory, “Whoo,” while slapping 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.
You can read Finding Focus, along with the rest of the series, on Amazon and Kindle Unlimited.