Chapter 3 #2
And what is it about hay bales? Rolling green acreage dotted with compressed bundles of dried grass always brings a contented sigh.
There’s something about farm life. It’s as if the sight alone transports me to a calmer time and place.
Ha. But that’s as far as it goes. This girl isn’t cut out for mucking stalls and tilling the land.
As the road winds, I continue to explore.
The most tantalizing signs so far are for destinations where I can relax with a book.
Enjoying something spicy at the Drunken Taco or a glass of wine at Summer Crush Vineyard & Winery.
Tapping my fingernail against my lower lip, I ponder.
What would it be like to have the freedom to venture wherever I wanted?
Would I go to exotic destinations like Bali or the Maldives?
Stroll the Champs-élysées? Heck, I’d probably be as excited to cross the country attending small town festivals or kitschy tourist spots like the World’s Largest Ball of Twine.
I snort at how unsophisticated I am. But I’m okay with it. And to think I was worried I’d be bored to death driving such a long way. Yet the allure of what lies beyond each exit has my mind racing. What fantastical surprises there might be to discover. My heart clenches.
If only I had a partner I could explore the world with.
I swiftly shake that thought from my head and refocus on the world out of my window.
“Jiminy Christmas, there are a lot of golf courses in this state,” I mutter, driving by another meticulously landscaped expanse sprinkled with sand traps and golf carts.
There’s one back home, but I’ve never had a reason to visit that resort.
Do they really get that many players in this area to warrant one on every corner like a drug store?
After transferring to the highway for part of my journey, I again get lost in the road signs.
The bright red marker for Dirty Nelly’s causes my imagination to trip over itself, picturing a saloon from an old western with boot-wearing old coots and women dressed in colorful petticoats and low-cut bodices trimmed in lace.
These ridiculous images are cut short when I take in a black billboard with a cartoon beaver.
“My overbite is sexy!” I can’t suppress a laugh. What on earth?
As I continue north, I find myself looking forward to the next red cap-wearing beaver. And they don’t disappoint.
“You can hold it. Only 137 miles to Buc-ee’s.” I cackle.
“Top two reasons to stop at Buc-ee’s: #1 and #2.” Oh my god.
“Ice. Beer. Jerky. All 3 food groups!” I shake my head.
“Our aim is to have clean restrooms. Your aim will help.” Ha ha.
I discover I’m actually slowing down in anticipation of reading each one. What is this place? “Risk it for the brisket.”
Hmm. Should I? I have to admit these signs are beyond persuasive.
When the approaching Buc-ee’s signage says, “Next Stop.” I drum my fingers on the steering wheel in contemplation.
I need gas anyway. I shrug. My eyes land on the dashboard.
Okay, so it’s half full. I bite my lip to stifle a grin.
Let’s be honest, my curiosity is killing me over what could be this phenomenal about a gas station.
Pulling off of the exit, I follow the clearly marked, almost redundant directions.
But as the gas station comes into view, my mouth falls open.
It looks like something from another planet.
There are probably thirty pumps lined up in front of this mammoth building.
It dwarfs the closest Walmart to Candy Cane Key by a landslide.
Yet despite all of the pumps, I still have to idle in place and wait.
Who was the marketing genius who invented this place?
Stepping out of my car, I make a mental note of the pump number before heading inside to pay for my gas. This is one area in my life where I’d love to have a credit card. There’s nothing worse than having to run in and out to pre-pay when fueling up in the rain.
As I make my way to the front doors, my nerves cause my body to actually quake.
I take a calming inhale and slowly release my breath as I pull my hoodie up over my head.
When will I ever get past this overwhelming fear?
That someone will spot me in a crowded place and finally finish me off.
It’s just a stop at a freaking gas station, Char.
Just pull your big girl panties up, pay for your gas, and live a little. Jeez.
How low has my life gotten that visiting a gas station is considered living a little?
Giving myself a mental facepalm, I push through my nerves and walk inside the overpopulated mega station. My eyes spring wide, my mouth nearly hitting the floor as I attempt to take it all in. Good lord, it’s like the theme park of gas stations.
The sensory overload is causing my anxiety to claw beneath my skin.
The place is humming with idle chatter, laughing patrons, and overzealous employees offering to help in any way they can.
Cheese and rice, this is unreal. I’m used to salty Joe’s place, where you can’t help questioning whether the building has been condemned, only to wait for Joe to finish taking a leak or reading his paper before he’ll ring up your purchase.
After what feels like an hour, I finally reach the back of the incredibly long line so I can prepay for my gas.
This looks like something you’d expect to find in an amusement park gift shop.
Not a gas station. There are rows of T-shirts and bathing suits as well as stuffed animals and baseball caps, all emblazoned with the iconic beaver logo.
Behind them are wall racks of every flavor of beef or turkey jerky you can imagine.
Oh my god. Do they make their own fudge here?
A throat clears behind me. I glance over my shoulder to find a very attractive man in his late thirties or early forties. His hair is cut short, and he’s sporting one of the expensive polos many of the tourists in Candy Cane Key wear. One corner of his mouth tilts up when I meet his eyes. “Hello.”
I know it’s rude, but all I can do is nod before wordlessly turning away, completely flustered by his unexpected greeting. It’s then that I discover I’ve been distracted by everything this shopping emporium has to offer and didn’t realize the line had moved.
Get a grip, Char. He was only trying to gently ease you forward.
Keeping a closer watch in front of me, I look back over the other shoulder to discover there’s an entire grocery store and deli.
The unmistakable aroma of barbecue causes my mouth to water, but there’s no way I’m getting out of this line after I’ve already waited this long.
Just pay for your gas and get your ass back in the car.
Thirty minutes later, I’m back on the road. Minus the food, darn it. Hopefully, I’ll find a good place to stop soon.
I peer out of my windshield in awe as I pass through the historic section of St. Augustine.
The combination of old and new along the water’s edge has me enthralled.
There’s an electricity to the place. Couples stroll hand in hand as they window shop.
Fathers give rides atop their shoulders to their littles enroute to dinner or some fun adventure.
“Holy biscuits, they have a Medieval Torture Museum.” I gasp.
Suddenly, my heart squeezes. The longing to live a life unbridled by fear is causing me to blink back tears.
I need to let these temptations go. This is a fun excursion.
I’m getting to venture paths unknown. “Focus on all you have to be grateful for,” I practically chant.
You’ve got more going for you than you ever imagined.
It’s a far cry from when you arrived in Candy Cane Key, an overwhelmed, beaten-down teenager.
Deciding to continue my journey along the winding road that brings the coastline into view, I bypass the highway signs and revel in the glorious scenery as I approach Amelia Island. It may take me a bit longer to get to Sycamore Mountain, but who knows when I’ll ever have this chance again.
Signs for a campground come into view. I chew on the inside of my cheek, curious if this could be one way to travel while staying off the radar. My brows furrow. Then again, in many of the books I’ve read, things don’t usually end well for single women staying in a campground.
As I exit Florida, it feels as if I’ve entered another dimension.
Iconic trees of dangling Spanish moss line each side of the roadway.
If safety wasn’t an issue, I’d enjoy getting lost in the beauty of my surroundings.
Parking my car, finding an isolated spot to lie in the tall grass, and staring up at an endless sky.
I consider the different seasons, lost on a place like Candy Cane Key.
What would it look like to lie under a blanket of stars, the moon casting a glow over a riot of red, burned orange, brown, and green leaves during the fall months?
What are you doing? You’re only torturing yourself.
Nightfall starts to descend, and I contemplate my choices for a place to stay.
Sure, I’m not swimming in cash. But I do fairly well for myself on a fixed budget.
There’s more than enough money on hand if I decide to splurge.
However, as I don’t use plastic to avoid a paper trail, it limits my options.
My gut tells me that a Four Seasons will probably not allow me to stay without some form of credit to guarantee incidentals.
Hell, I’m not sure if a VISA gift card works for stuff like that.
No sense getting myself into hot water if it doesn’t.
A large sign glows in the distance. The Amelia Island Ritz Carlton.
If only. My curiosity gets the best of me, and I head in that direction, knowing full well there’s no way I’ll be able to stay at a place like this.
Will it only thrust the knife a little deeper to walk around and see how the other half lives?
I slow down, observing the boutique shops and restaurants tucked within the landscape.
There are BMWs, Audis, Mercedes, and Range Rovers filling the spaces.
“Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.” Maybe I can just stop by the gift shop.
Parking the car, I bite my lip as I grab my bag and exit my vehicle.
Everything about this place screams opulence.
Ascending the stairs, I smile at the older gentleman and young boy in rocking chairs enjoying an ice cream cone.
The door swings open, and I’m met with a scent I can’t quite wrap my head around.
It’s very pleasant, with almost a hint of vanilla and lavender.
My eyes ping-pong about the place. There are handmade soaps and candles to the left, picture frames and hand-sewn dish towels in the center, and a glass case to the right containing bakery items. Coming closer, I peruse decadent treats like fudge, brownies and pastries, as well as gourmet candied apples.
Something tells me the fudge at Buck-ee’s was probably more to my price point than this place.
I make my way to the left, trying to identify the enchanting scent. I need to have this piped into my salon. There’s something about it that just smells expensive. Ha. A lot of good that would do in Candy Cane Key. They’re happy with peppermint and cinnamon sticks.
As I run my fingers along the soaps, the texture bumpy from dried flowers and seeds within them, I lift several to my nose, close my eyes and inhale, enjoying the luxurious fragrance.
I can’t help but imagine the tranquility of sinking into a hot bath, steam rising from its depths, wrapping me in a warm hug of jasmine, lilac, and warm vanilla.
“Well, hello there.”
I jump at the sound of a male voice, my eyes snapping up to spot a familiar face. My spine stiffens, and the hairs on my neck immediately stand up on end at finding the man who stood behind me at Buck-ee’s earlier.
“Hi.” My mind races at the shock of his presence. I’m too overcome to force any additional words out.
The corner of his mouth tilts up. “Are you following me?”
My brows nearly hit my hairline. “No,” I blurt. My entire body is now on red alert. I try to inhale a calming breath and slowly release it through my nose without making it any more obvious that I’m on edge. With his next words, it’s clear I’ve missed the mark.
The almost arrogantly attractive man takes a step back, throwing his palms up in the air in mock surrender. This is a feat in itself, given his ostentatious wristwatch probably weighs fifty pounds. “It was a joke. Sorry.”
I shake my head vigorously, familiar apprehension causing my voice to quiver. “I’m sorry.”
His cold-eyed smirk holds a note of mockery.
Maybe it’s simply my experience with rich men that has me on the razor’s edge of a breakdown.
The ones who feel their bank account entitles them to do and say anything.
He peers down at me as if he’s come upon a skittish bunny caught in a trap.
“Don’t be silly. I probably need to be more considerate of approaching a woman who’s alone,” he says smoothly, no expression on his smug face.
My hackles rise even further. Icy fear sends a chill through my veins.
His apology does anything but reassure me.
I nervously seek out the least obstructed path to the front door before looking back at him.
I’m sure I must look as if I’m running from the police.
Get it together before he starts an internet search for crimes in the area.
Or worse, detains you, alerting the store owner you seem shifty.
This is crazy, Char. Your nerves are getting the best of you.
Chill out. You saw the road we were on. He likely stopped at the same gas station you did on his way to this fancy hotel.
I mean, look at him. Unlike you, he fits right in here.
Yet, regardless of this fact, I blurt, “I have to go.” Spinning on my heel, I rush for the door as if the fire alarm is going off.
Smooth, Char. Real smooth. No sketchy behavior worthy of attracting unwanted attention here.