"She's a vegetarian," Dad says. "She's in heaven with all these vegetables around."
I poke Dad with my elbow to let him know he's overselling me.
"Oh, yeah?" Rhett says. "So am I. I'm trying to go vegan, actually. You've got to try the peaches and watermelon we've got right now. They're amazing. And I'll hook you up with some vegetables, too. Come down to our table." He points to the other end of the pavilion. "We've got some great stuff this week."
Dad forces Rhett to take a sample of goat cheese before he lets him leave. Then we wave goodbye, and he heads off to his precious produce stand.
"Rhett wants to have his own farm someday," Dad says. "He's got direction. I like that in a young man."
"Dad, stop," I warn him. "I'm only here for a couple days. You want me to find a boyfriend who lives hundreds of miles away?"
Our conversation is cut short by our first customers of the day. We have a steady stream of people for the first hour, some coming by for cheese tasting and others interested in the eggs. The returning customers have nothing but praise for our chickens. Dad is in his element. He's always been at ease with people, knowing what to say and how long to keep the conversation going. He's just as friendly to the people who only come by for a sample as he is to those who spend twenty dollars on eggs and cheese.
After an hour or so, I need to use the restroom; afterwards, I stop by the Blue Sage Farm table. Rhett keeps his word and hooks me up with the best of what they're selling, but I insist on paying for everything I get. I'm excited about making a salad for dinner—butter lettuce, arugula, cucumbers, radishes, tomatoes and red pepper. I'll top it off with Joyful Goat's soft cheese and a sprinkle of nuts. Even I can't ruin a salad.
Rhett mentions again that I should come by Ricky's on Saturday night. He describes it as an old-school bar and grill, kind of honky tonk, but mostly in an eccentric, self-aware way. I'm not exactly sure what this description means, but I tell him that I'll probably be there. The bottom line is that I have nothing better to do, and Dad is right. If I stay home every night, I will go crazy. Even though the slow pace of life down here is refreshing, I'm used to living in a city where there's a rush of energy and humanity the minute you walk out your door. Dad and Renata have been heading upstairs to bed—where I like to imagine they go to sleep immediately—at about eight thirty. It's understandable, since they get up at dawn, but it makes for some pretty dull evenings at the farm.
I'm tired of sitting behind the Joyful Goat table long before it's time for us to pack up and leave at two o'clock. Dad, on the other hand, seems invigorated by this gig.
"It's not hard for you to live out at the farm?" I ask him on the ride home. "You're such an extrovert. You were loving it at the farmer's market today, interacting with all those people."
Dad takes a moment to think about it and says, "You seem to forget that I've lived alone for a long time. Even though I was in a big city, it was only me in my apartment. It's so nice waking up with someone every day. I forgot how much I liked that."
"That make sense," I say, guilt welling up inside me.
I didn't spend enough time with him when he lived in New York. Maybe if I'd been around more, not so absorbed in my own job and relationships, he wouldn't have been lonely and looking for a change.
"Dad, I understand wanting to be with someone," I say carefully, knowing this is the moment I came here for, and I can't screw it up. "And I was serious when I said I like Renata. I really like her. I just don't understand why you feel the need to change everything in your life. Do you really want to spend your retirement milking goats, dealing with hoof rot and shilling eggs on a folding table?"
The last sentence of what I've said comes out harsher than I intended, but I'm fired up. I need to shake Dad out of this dream world.
He glances over at me, his eyebrows drawn close together. "What are you getting at, Andie? I feel like there's something you want to say, so go ahead and tell me."
Finding the right words has never felt more crucial, like if I say the wrong thing our relationship is going to be damaged permanently. I'm not used to feeling this way. Dad and I have always been able to talk about anything, even hard stuff like how he couldn't stand my high school boyfriend or how I became depressed my junior year of college. Those issues revolved around me and my choices and feelings though. This is the first time I've questioned one of Dad's important life decisions, and it's throwing our dynamic into a tailspin.
"People who have worked as hard as you have are taking river cruises and learning Spanish and volunteering at the museum of art." I take a deep breath and say, "I guess I'm asking if this is really how you want to spend your golden years? Because it looks like an awful lot of work to me."
Dad's silence makes me nervous. We drive up and down a hill and around a bend in the road before he responds.
"First of all, I kind of resent the term 'golden years.' I'm only fifty-five! And this might not be how I imagined spending my retirement, but that's because I never dreamed Renata and I would be together again." Just the mention of her name puts a goofy look on his face. "And I'm enjoying the goat farm adventure. This business is something we can build together, and we've got lots of plans for it. We can run the farm for ten or fifteen years and then retire and take river cruises or whatever."
"It's that easy for you? You can just leave your job, your friends, and me, no problem. It's all about Renata, and you don't miss a single thing about your old life? You can walk away from it all?"
Dad slows the pickup to a stop as a flock of geese waddle across the road, and he turns to face me.
"Honey, I'm not walking away from anything. I'm going toward something." He gestures forward with his hands. "What kind of role model would I be for you if I gave in to fear and didn't make a change like this? Did you know I had an opportunity to spend a year teaching in Europe?"
I cross my arms over my chest. "What are you talking about?"
"I applied to a teacher exchange program that would have taken us to Spain for a year when you were in high school. I got accepted, but then I chickened out. I told myself it would be too difficult, changing your school for a year, getting permission from my principal, subletting our apartment. So I turned it down, and I always regretted it. But it wasn't that logistical stuff that held me back. It was fear, plain and simple."
The geese are safely across the road now, and Dad resumes driving.
"Why didn't you ever tell me about this?"
I imagine myself as an American teenager in Salamanca, sitting on a plaza, drinking espresso and smoking cigarettes while my friends and I discuss Nietzsche and Foucault.
"I guess I didn't want you to be upset with me for chickening out."
