Finding Focus Read Free

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.”
    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