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speed they’d accumulated on the way down, and then they could
see the farm. Cars lined the road leading to the large grassy green
opening and there were at least two dozen tents on the empty field
around the main farmhouse. The main house was a large, expanded
building with nine bedrooms and at least five other rooms people
could sleep in. If that was so full that people needed tents, then
there was more to the Gathering than he expected, much more.
    A few people picking things from the trunks
of their cars turned to see him and Miranda ride by, and they
greeted them with smiles. An old Wrought iron gate, large enough
for two lanes, marked the boundary of fenced in land. He rode
towards the barn, where there were at least a dozen people he
didn’t recognize moving in and out of the building.
    That barn hadn’t been used for livestock for
decades, but they did keep feed and a workshop there. When Bernie
and he were teens their dads spent a weekend building them a modest
stage with enough space for a band of five or six at the back. It
was years before Max saw the wisdom in that. They knew there would
be partying as the two boys approached twenty, and giving them a
good place to do it close to home kept them within reach, and it
worked. The other barn was further down the road that was for
livestock and farm business. Past that, down a well-travelled
gravel road there were cabins and the lake, a major source of
income for the Webb farm. The cabins were normally booked for most
of the year, even through winter. Scott couldn’t help but prattle
on about how the band had been given the big cabin for the week, a
four bedroom rental that dwarfed the rest of the quaint one and two
room log structures.
    “Stop here,” Miranda said into his ear.
    He could see what she may have objected to,
a pair of women who were all smiles, breaking from the group headed
into the barn with trays and pitchers. One was short, a plump older
woman, and the other was taller and thin. They both had the same
dark hair as Miranda except for an invasion of a little grey. The
shorter one with the bigger smile caught them with her Polaroid
camera, practically tittering at the act. She pulled the instant
photo off the front of the camera and waved it in the air.
    Miranda gave him a final squeeze. “See you
later,” she whispered before dismounting and pulling the straps off
her shoulders so he could get his guitar.
    He accepted the guitar and said; “Take it
easy,” immediately wishing he’d chosen any other words. The private
space that separated them from the rest of the world was gone. As
he watched her walk towards the two older women who were only a few
feet away, admiring her shape through tight fitting jeans, he
realized he wanted it back more than anything.
    “You don’t have to gloat every time you’re
right,” Miranda said as she walked past the pair of women. The
taller one rolled her eyes and followed her, speaking in
Italian.
    Maxwell knew he had been caught admiring
Miranda’s retreat towards the main house, as evidenced by the
shorter woman grinning at him through momentarily narrowed eyes. He
smiled back at her a little and tended to his bike, doing some fine
adjustments before he let it down on it’s kickstand so it wouldn’t
topple over onto the gravel. She approached, admiring the image
forming in her photograph. “I knew you two would match,” she said.
“Look at that.”
    He glanced at the photo and returned his
attention to setting his kickstand down on more stable gravel.
“Think she just hit me up for a ride, if I’m honest,” he said.
    “Look,” she said, putting the photo in front
of him.
    The pair of them matched, both in dark
leather and denim, and it didn’t look like Miranda was simply
wrapped around him, it looked like they were riding his shining
motorcycle together, sharing one space. Their expressions were
passive, relaxed as they stared back at him through the photo.
    “Yours,” she said, putting it