Hurricane Season

by Lauren K. Denton

  “Come here.” He pulled her to him.

  “What?” she asked, but she already knew. His eyes always gave him away.

  “Seeing you out here earlier this morning, all I wanted to do was this, but we had those extra little eyes around.” His lips met hers. A little salty, but warm and familiar. His hand went to the small of her back, pulling her hips toward his.

  “Ty.” She looked over his shoulder. Walker was just outside the barn, his fingers dancing across the screen of his iPhone. He was oblivious to anything except the message he was typing, but Carlos and the others could return any minute.

  “Don’t worry about them. They’ll be out back until Roger gets here.” He kissed her again, the prickles around his mouth bothering her, but only a little bit. “Right about now, I’m pretty glad we decided to put that couch in the office.”

  She pulled back and opened her eyes. “You aren’t serious.” One corner of his mouth pulled up. She thumped him on his chest. “You’re crazy. No way.”

  “I’ll be quick.” His cheeks reddened when she smiled. “We can be fast. Discreet.” He raised his eyebrows.

  Betsy bit her lip. “I don’t think so. I’d rather not shock the cows.” She looked over his shoulder again. “Or Walker.”

  Ty kept his gaze on her, his mouth and eyes caught somewhere between hope and disappointment. Finally, he looked down at his boots, scuffed one on the ground. “Definitely wouldn’t want to shock anyone. Maybe . . .” He took a breath.

  “What?” She pulled close to him again, her stomach twisting into a tight ball of desire and embarrassment.

  He shook his head, then kissed her cheek. “Nothing. I’ll see you later.”

  Etta bounded into the barn and twined between Betsy’s legs. Betsy reached down and scratched her head, then turned toward the door, Etta in step next to her.

  “Betsy?” Ty called.

  She turned to face him.

  “Thanks for the lunch,” he said after only the briefest hesitation.

  Betsy had fallen in love with Ty’s neck first. The back of it, to be specific. Then his forearms—thick, strong, blond hair fuzzing freckled skin. She didn’t even know his name at first. He was just a guy—an ag student, she later learned—feeding cows in a field she jogged past. That was back when she jogged for exercise, and even then it was really just a chance to hang out with friends and hope they’d pass the football team on its way to practice.

  Farmers weren’t her thing—the only ones she knew of in Birmingham were at the Pepper Place Farmer’s Market on Saturday mornings—but then she saw him, his arm outstretched, feeding an enormous bull from the palm of his hand. The skin on the back of his neck was tan and soft-looking. As her friend babbled about her date the night before, Betsy had to fight the urge to hop the fence and lay her cheek against that soft skin.

  They passed the field, but she turned around for one last look. His calm, confident stance, the way his hat sat on his blond hair, the way his jeans sat on his hips. She imagined a life with him before they’d even said hello. They married a year and a half later, the summer after they graduated, and spent the next two years working hard on the farm.

  The days were long, sweaty, and demanding—getting the fields ready for their first full harvest in two years, organizing the cattle, meeting the farmhands who’d worked for his grandfather, and deciding who else they needed to bring on. Betsy put her marketing degree to work and got Franklin Dairy on social media, joined various dairy associations in the Southeast, and began talks with stores and markets across the area. She quickly fell in love with the farm and the ways they could contribute to the life of the community and the region as a whole.

  But the physical work was unending—hammering, hoeing, seeding, herding, feeding. She worked as hard as Ty did and used muscles she didn’t know she had. Occasionally she wondered what in the world she’d gotten herself into, but then he’d cross the barn to kiss her, his lips salty and sweet. He’d catch her eye from across the room and her legs would melt. He’d find her hand under the table at a dairy association meeting and she’d remember why she chose him and this life. Their life.

  At the end of each day, they collapsed in bed, exhausted but happy. Happy with the farm, with each other, with the years that lay ahead and all the life that would fill those years. Back then, she wouldn’t have been so shocked by what Ty had suggested in the barn. The thought of making love there, especially with the other guys so close at hand, made her cheeks burn now, but back then, she might have been the one to suggest it.

  Betsy tiptoed up the back steps and eased open the door, but her stealth was unnecessary. Addie was sleeping hard, her mouth open slightly, her cheeks pink in the afternoon heat. Betsy reached up and pulled the chain to turn on the ceiling fan. When the breeze lifted strands of Addie’s hair, Betsy slipped into the house, pressing the door almost closed behind her. Upstairs, Walsh was still asleep as well. Betsy had no idea how long they were supposed to nap. Just one of the many things she hadn’t thought to ask Jenna before she left.

  She entered the coolness of her own bedroom, the fan still spinning, the bed still unmade. Instead of tidying up as she normally would have, she kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bed, arms and legs starfished out to the sides. Then she reached up and pulled Ty’s pillow to her, hugged it close.

  Would things ever go back to how they used to be, back when she had no problem letting go? Ty would tighten his grip on her hips, his mouth an inch away from her own, and her legs would turn to water, bone and sinew dissolving to nothingness. The air between them crackled with anticipation and desire. It used to be so easy to let herself go—like drifting into the Gulf, the warm, languid water covering her skin and holding her tight.

  But that was before—before the poking and prodding, before all that captivating mystery and spontaneity and optimism was reduced to circled numbers on a calendar and biweekly dates with a nurse practitioner in pink polka-dot scrubs. Back when things between them were fun and easy, fresh and new.

  Somehow Ty had been able to move past it all, compartmentalizing the facets of his life into neat pockets with clearly defined boundaries. Betsy, however, was stuck somewhere in the in-between, twisted and twirled into a messy, tangled knot she didn’t quite recognize. A close match, but not the real thing. And if this Betsy didn’t work the way God and nature intended, how was she supposed to offer herself up for pure pleasure or even accept the offer? It seemed too bold. Too easy after such an upheaval.

  Dr. Fields, however, seemed to think that part wouldn’t, or shouldn’t, be an issue.

  “Spontaneous pregnancy can happen,” he’d said. “So you two need to keep at it. Try to enjoy yourselves.”

  Those were his parting words, tossed out like a consolation prize as they stood to leave his office. Just before that, they had listened as he rattled off all the things that could be wrong since he’d yet to find a single thing that was definitely wrong. The usual course of action—intrauterine insemination, two words Ty could barely make his mouth say—hadn’t worked for them, even though they’d tried the relatively easy process three times. The doctor had suggested four, but three negatives seemed like enough.

  “So there’s . . . Is there anything else we can try?” Ty had asked.

  Betsy lifted her eyes. Ty hadn’t been eager about visiting the fertility specialist in the first place, so she was surprised he’d ask about more treatment.

  “Oh, there’s always something,” the doctor said. “I think IVF would be an appropriate course of action for you.”

  “Would it work?”

  The doctor paused. “There’s always a chance.”

  It was the pause that did it for Betsy.

  For Ty, it was the money.

  The cows gave them a nice life, a fine life, but they wouldn’t pay for something like IVF. The financial advisor at the clinic went over payment plans with them, ways they could finance the procedure and the drugs, not to mention the various tests, scans, an
d other related steps that went along with the deal. All told, they would be out of pocket way more than they could imagine spending. They had insurance, but it laughed in the face of voluntary fertility treatment.

  Yes, it was an investment in their future children—as the advisor had repeated—but what kind of future would they have if they mortgaged their house, barn, and cows to give them life? What would they have left to raise those children with, other than their wits and love?

  Ty had shaken his head, his mind made up. Betsy knew they’d talk about it that night in bed, the lights off, legs together. He’d hear her out, let her cry, maybe shed a tear of his own at the thought of saying good-bye to such a longing. But facts were facts. That kind of treatment was out of the question. Time to move on.

  That’s when the doctor had mentioned natural pregnancy. “You could also try praying,” he’d said, a helpful afterthought.

  That was five months ago, in early January, a particularly raw way to start the new year. The doctor’s words echoed in her brain at all hours—“anything is possible”—but she just didn’t see any way through that vast, gaping hole between what she wanted and their actual reality: unexplained infertility. Plain old infertility she could have dealt with—diagnose the problem, fix it. It was the unexplained part that was so hard to swallow. Nothing was actually wrong with them? All his parts worked and so did hers, but they weren’t working together? How was that possible?

  Weeks of going round and round like this in her head made her feel like a children’s carousel she couldn’t stop, so on a dreary day in March with spring just around the corner, she stuck her leg out and stopped the spinning. She wrapped her grandmother’s yellow crocheted baby booties in tissue paper and hid them in her closet. Threw away the marked-up calendar from the previous year. Shoved her book of fanciful flowers to the back of the dresser drawer in the room that was to have been the nursery. Moving on was the only choice she had, so she did.

  She always thought she’d be done having kids by the time she was thirty. She thought by now she’d be happily absorbed in the living and raising part. And here she was, approaching her thirtieth birthday with two little girls sleeping in her empty room—they just weren’t hers.

  sixteen

  Jenna

  Jenna stood in the middle of a rickety bridge that stretched over a bayou ringed with needlerush, cattails, and huge, knobby cypress knees poking out of the water. A patch of lily pads covered one side of the water, and on one, a frog sat in the bright sunshine. With elbows perched on the railing, her eye fixed to the viewfinder, she tried to get a shot of him before he jumped away, but the harsh light washed everything out.

  She’d been at Halcyon for seven days. Casey and Gregory had both explained that the solitude and quiet—and the lack of real structure—were meant to encourage deep focus and hard work. They were right. The lack of structure—not to mention the absence of the photography mentor—meant Jenna could go days without seeing anyone if she wanted. She ate meals in the dining hall, of course, but she’d managed to miss the nightly workshops with no repercussions.

  However, the solitude also meant no one knew she’d yet to produce anything of worth. She was surrounded by beauty she’d never seen before—murky swamps, bright-yellow croaking frogs, palm trees with lime-green fruit, towering pines, and scrubby oaks covered in Spanish moss—yet every time she tried to capture that beauty, it came out flat. Like she was trying too hard.

  It was nice to have no one checking up on her, tapping her on the shoulder and asking to see her work, but somewhere around the middle of the week, she’d started to panic. For once, she’d had an incredible opportunity dropped in her lap and now it was sliding through her fingers. No way did she want to go home with nothing to show for her time here. She hadn’t left her kids for that.

  Behind her, something moved in the trees on the other side of the bridge. She peered into the shadows, but the glare made the shade appear deeper. It was all tree trunks and leaves until she noticed one trunk was moving toward her. Not a trunk. A man.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you,” he called. It was Gregory, this time without the leather jacket, which would have been ridiculous in this heat, but still in the beat-up jeans. Camera around his neck, tripod under his arm.

  “I’m just glad you’re not an alligator.”

  “An alligator?”

  “Yeah.” Jenna shaded her eyes as Gregory approached. “Don’t they have those in Florida?”

  “True, but you’re more likely to see a fox or an armadillo. I’ve seen a couple of gators around here, but they don’t seem to be too interested in humans.”

  “Good to know.”

  “How’s it going?” Was that a smirk on his face? Yes. It was small but it was there.

  “Awesome.” She held up her camera. “I think these are going to be great.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Good, that’s good. Think you’ll be ready for the workshop tonight?”

  Jenna exhaled, blowing air out in a rush. Now he was doing his job? “I don’t know. I’m not much for public displays of embarrassment.”

  “What’s so embarrassing? We’re all here to learn, right? To connect to our passion?”

  She tried to hold it back but she couldn’t. Her eyes rolled almost involuntarily.

  Instead of the glare she expected, Gregory laughed. “I know what you mean. It can get a little repetitive. And annoying.”

  He stepped up to the railing and propped his elbows on the edge. A cloud floated in front of the sun, relieving the brightness of the light for a moment.

  “So do you have other jobs going on other than here at Halcyon?” She leaned back against the railing and shot a glance at him. His eyes were on the water. “I assume you’re not just hanging out at the beach all day.” Heat crept up her cheeks and she closed her eyes for a second. Since the very first night at the dining hall, something about his swagger brought out a defense mechanism in her. She needed to be more careful. She didn’t know this man well enough to be sarcastic.

  “I’m not sunbathing, that’s for sure. I’m a working photographer. Magazines, journals, some textbooks. I go where the job takes me. Which is why I’ve been a little absent these last few days.” He cut his eyes to her. “I’ve been told I’m not always the most attentive mentor.” If she expected an apology—which she halfway did—she didn’t get it. “Anyway, right now I’m working on something I’m hoping National Geographic will pick up. It’s on forgotten places in Florida. Unseen angles and views. This mentor gig at Halcyon is perfect because I needed to be down here anyway. Kill two birds, you know?”

  “What kind of forgotten places? This preserve doesn’t seem too forgotten to me. It’s crawling with artists.”

  He nodded. “You’re partly right. But the cool thing about places like this is that you can be in a populated area, but two or three hundred yards away is a little slice of swamp that’s true wilderness. Untouched. In fact . . .” He pointed to their right, in the deeper woods behind the creek. “That’s where I’m headed. I found something last week on the rare occasion I didn’t have my camera on me. You can come with me, if you want. I’ll show you what I’m talking about.”

  At the end of the bridge, they stepped off the wood onto a sand and dirt path just wide enough for one person. The shade deepened the farther they walked into the trees.

  “This is like another world,” Jenna said. Limbs stretched overhead, making a canopy that dimmed the light. All around them were sounds and stirrings of unseen animals and birds. “Not like the Deep South I know, that’s for sure.”

  “Geographically, we’re in the Deep South, but that’s about it. It almost feels prehistoric, doesn’t it? Like maybe this was how it looked billions of years ago. Dark and wet. Strange noises. Creatures around every bend.”

  “Okay, you’re creeping me out a little bit.”

  Gregory laughed. “Sorry. I get a little excited when I’m in places like this. That’s why I love my job. The
world is my office.”

  As they walked he pointed out various trees and plants. Black gum and coastal plain willows. Pond and bald cypresses. Leggy banyans. And the birds: egrets and night herons. White pelicans and roseate spoonbills. Even a mangrove cuckoo, which apparently was a rare find. He seemed to know a little about everything.

  “This cypress here—judging by its size, it’s at least a couple hundred years old. The forest has probably looked just like this for all those years. No real change other than everything getting bigger and fuller.”

  She thought of that proud cypress, growing year after year toward the sunlight, unconcerned with the pace of anything around it.

  “Okay, we’re close. Look here.” He guided her off the trail to the left, into a dense thicket of tall grass and hanging vines.

  From somewhere came the sound of running water. With the sun behind clouds and the thick trees overhead, everything was dim, blues and greens fading into each other, until the tangle of foliage opened into a hidden cove of clear water surrounded by boulders. Water trickled down the face of the rocks, creating a waterfall ten feet high that splashed into the pool below. A thin creek—narrow enough to step over—ran away from the pool, winding off through the trees.

  “It’s not Niagara, but it’s a rare find in Florida.” Gregory set his tripod and camera down on a bed of dry leaves. “Not much elevation change anywhere, but there’s just enough here to create this little pocket of water.”

  “Where does it come from?” Jenna knelt and peered into the water. It was so clear, she could see straight to the bottom. It tapered from the shallow edges to deeper waters in the center. “Everything else around here is murky and still. I’ve yet to come across water that’s moving. Nothing like this creek.”

  “Singer Creek, to be exact. Legend says an Indian woman who stayed behind when her people were run out would sit here and sing to her lost children. She was known as ‘the singer.’ I guess someone thought it had a nice ring to it, and they named the creek and the preserve after her.”