Finding Focus (2 page)

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—
mo
tels, 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.”