Chapter 12

Raegan

Mama's up to something; I can feel it.

First, it was the weird way she insisted all of us girls purchase coordinating outfits and boots on our outing this morning for whatever she has up her sleeve for us tonight, and second, she's been unusually giddy all day. I tried to get whatever secret she's hiding out of Micah by bribing him with a second Goo Goo Cluster, but he swears he doesn't know anything more than I do. All she told us is that after dinner we're going to an old ballroom called Carter's that she and Lynn sang at back in the day, along with a verbal caution to "prepare our hearts and our dancing feet for a good time!"

Perhaps one of us girls might have pressed Mama for more if we hadn't been so enamored with checking in to the fancy Tulsa hotel Micah pulled up to in midtown. The idea of showering in a non-mobile bathroom where shaving my legs doesn't involve advanced-level acrobatic training was all I needed to skip out of that bus with a huge smile on my face. Even Micah looked ready for a break from the road, and he's the diehard among us. I can only imagine how nice it will be for him to stretch his long legs out on a real mattress.

Not that I've thought all that much about his long legs.

The hotel concierge has arranged for a town car and driver to meet our crew at a side exit door at six o'clock sharp to take us to dinner and then to whatever special arrangement Mama has made for us. Our rooms are booked on the top floor in a private hallway bracketing Mama's presidential suite. Before we stepped on the elevator together, I overheard Mama ask Micah if he'd escort her downstairs a few minutes early to discuss a few things with our driver beforehand. Naturally, he agreed.

When I exit my room and step into the hallway at ten minutes to six, Hattie has just done the same. We take in our coordinating outfits and smile at each other. Per Mama's specific instruction, we're both wearing variations of a denim skirt on the bottom, a sleeveless blouse on the top, and a pair of cowgirl boots of our liking. Mama had handed us her credit card and given us full rein of that darling little border-town shop, but up until now, I haven't seen what either of my sisters settled on.

"You need darker lipstick," Hattie says cheerily. "And you're in luck because I happen to have your ideal shade on me."

"What a coincidence," I say, grinning as she comes toward me in her white snakeskin cowgirl boots.

Her own smile is an exaggerated kind of amused, and for one fleeting moment in time, my chronic worry over Hattie vanishes. All I see is the stylish, party-planning, always-up-for-an-adventure sister she used to be before Peter slowly began to isolate her with definitions of wife and mother that were contrary to anything good or right or true.

"Here, try this one." Hattie whips out a tissue from her clutch purse and instructs me to wipe off the clear gloss I'm currently wearing before handing me the berry lipstick and a mirror. "With your olive undertone and layered, chestnut curls, you need something a bit more dramatic. Plus, this one will look fabulous with your fuchsia top."

I thank her as I apply the lipstick. She's absolutely right; it's a pretty shade. When I hand it all back, I'm momentarily dazzled by my sister's beauty. She's striking.

"You look like a supermodel," I say. Between her summer-tanned skin, shiny snakeskin sleeveless blouse, and stunning figure, she looks ready to walk a runway.

"Oh, please, I'm thirty-seven. I'm old enough to be the mother of a supermodel."

I roll my eyes. "You'll never not be gorgeous."

Her light denim mini skirt is roughly a foot shorter in length than mine, as I'd opted for a mermaid fit that draws the eye to the small of my waist and hugs the curve of my hips before flaring out at my mid-calf. The slit in the front seam begins a few inches above my right knee so I can move freely. But my favorite piece of the outfit I chose is the distressed cowgirl boots I found at the thrift store at the end of the block. They add some fun character to the whole ensemble.

"I love the outfit you chose, too," Hattie admires. "That cut is stunning on you." She takes a step back and waves her hand from my head to my toes. "Why don't you dress like this more often?"

"Asks the woman who can literally wear anything from any store," I deadpan while conducting my own comparison between my hippy pear-shape and Hattie's svelte Barbie-shape.

"Oh, please," Hattie dismisses me. "Between that hair and those Greek goddess curves of yours, we'll be batting men off you all night. Your figure is what all the girls want these days—don't you watch reality TV?"

I roll my eyes even harder at that. "I think being newly single has obstructed your pulse on reality."

"Mark my words," she says, pulling her phone out from her pocket. "There will be at least one man giving you a double take the instant he sees you."

My stomach bottoms out at the flirty insinuation in her tone. "What—who?"

"You're way too smart to play dumb, Sunny Bear. But you're also way too honest to do anything about it while Tav's still a question mark in your head."

"Hattie, Tav's not a—"

"Nope." She puts out her palm like a stop sign. "I'm self-aware enough to know I do not have the emotional capacity to counsel you or anyone else on their love life at the moment. I was just making an observation is all." She winks at me before glancing down at the time on her home screen. Her eyes startle wide. "We're supposed to meet Mama downstairs in three minutes. Where's Adele? Do you think she went down without us?"

I scrunch my forehead. "I don't think so."

Like a single unit, we move to the door on the opposite side of the presidential suite and knock.

"Adele? You in there?"

Her voice is muffled by the door. "I'm going to skip tonight."

Hattie and I look at each other before we ask in unison, "Are you sick?"

"No."

"Then let us in," Hattie says, pressing her mouth closer to Adele's peephole.

"You two are going to be late for dinner. Go on without me, I'm fine."

But thanks to Micah's therapisting I know the use of fine in this situation means she is obviously not fine at all.

"Let us in, Adele, or we'll camp outside your door and sing Backstreet Boys obnoxiously loud."

When Hattie starts in on the verse of "Quit Playing Games with My Heart," the door swings open, and I actually gasp at the sight of my oldest sister. She looks ... she looks so young.

"I know, I don't know what I was thinking when I bought this today. I have a kid in college for heaven's sake. I look like an idiot."

"No!" Both Hattie and I shout in unison. "You look great!"

Hattie continues to point out what works about her outfit while I nod in agreement and play a quick mental game of spot the differences. Adele's dark denim skirt is a classic style that stops just above her knee with a short slit on each side. The perfect cut for her shapely legs. I suddenly wish my brother-in-law, Michael, was here to see her like this. She's tucked a teal, sleeveless top into the belted waist of her skirt, which makes the teal accent color in her mid-calf cowgirl boots pop. I study her a second longer, realizing it's not only what she is wearing that has me in such befuddlement, but also what she's not wearing.

A blazer.

Apart from very rare occasions, Adele is never in a public setting without a blazer. Heck, she's rarely in personal settings without a blazer. If I didn't know better, I'd bet she slept in one, too.

She faces the mirror and tugs at her top. "If my office could see me right now, they'd—"

"You're not at the office, Adele. You're in Tulsa with your sisters and your mama. You don't have to be anyone's CEO tonight. You just get to be a woman on a mom-and-sisters road trip," I conclude.

Her eyes shift to look at me in the mirror, and slowly her shoulders begin to relax.

"Raegan's right, we're all just sisters tonight." Hattie places her hand on Adele's arm, and I'm so moved by the rare affection between the two of them my throat thickens. "However, Mama's gonna have all our hides if we don't get downstairs soon. Let's go."

After a resigned sigh, Adele nods at herself once in the mirror and then turns toward us. "Okay, I'll go. Let me just grab my blazer—"

"No!" Hattie and I both blurt in unison.

To ensure she listens, we each grab an arm and pull Adele to the door. "Sorry, but tonight is a blazer-free zone," I say. "Hattie, grab her purse on the side table."

"On it."

To my surprise, Adele actually chuckles a little when the door slams hard behind us.

"You're bossy," she says with a bit of pride.

I beam at her. "I learned from the best."

This time, Hattie is the one to laugh. All the way down the elevator and into the main lobby where the concierge is waiting to take us to the town car we're ten minutes late for. We hustle to the glass doors to see Mama sitting in the back seat of the black town car alone and Micah standing inside a small hallway with his hands stuffed into his pockets, waiting.

The three of us file into the tight area in birth order: Adele, Hattie, and then myself.

"Look at you, ladies." Micah whistles and then slides into a hilarious attempt at a Southern drawl. "Y'all look way too good for your mama to unleash the scolding she's been threatening ever since the clock struck six." He salutes and then pulls open the exterior door to the parking lot. "Godspeed."

Each of my sisters bids him goodnight as he holds the door for them to join Mama in the car. Only, when it's my turn, it's as if the world pauses ... with the exception of Micah's gaze, which heats my bloodstream as it slowly drifts down my figure and back up to meet my eyes again.

"Wow, Raegan. You're..." He swallows. "You're stunning."

I can't fully register the low swoop in my belly his compliment provides because I'm too confused as to why he's not dressed for an evening out. "Aren't you coming with us?"

"Your mom gave me the night off tonight. I thought I'd catch up on some journal reading."

"Oh, right," I say, failing to mask my disappointment. "Of course. You deserve a break from us."

His lips part but nothing comes out, so I take it as an invitation to continue.

"I'll keep my eyes and ears open for any details you might be interested in while I'm at the club tonight. Mama mentioned our mothers sang there together back in the day."

"Raegan Lynn," Mama scolds out her open window in the back seat. "We are going to miss our reservation, and I am not about to deal with three hangry daughters all evening."

I shoot Micah a chagrined smile and dash out the door he's still holding open. "Enjoy your night off."

But as soon as I step off the curb, I feel his hand secure my wrist and soon he's spun me around to face him again. "Raegan ... Lynn?" he says in a husky tone I feel all the way to my toes. "Your middle name is Lynn?"

"Raegan, please," Hattie calls out her window. "My kids are calling me in eleven minutes."

"Yes," I answer as I slip my hand from his and climb into the back seat of the town car. The instant I'm situated, I rotate in my seat to stare out the back window where Micah stands bracing the back of his neck with both hands, watching us drive away.

Dinner was chaotic. Not only did we arrive late for our reservation at a five-star steakhouse, but Hattie's only quiet option for a phone call with her kids was in the powder room. Nobody thought twice when she missed the appetizer, but when her sizzling entrée had gone cold, worry began to creep its way into my subconscious. I was just about to go in search of her when she slid back into her seat with puffy, red-rimmed eyes. When I leaned in to ask her what had happened on the call, she shook her head and promptly ordered a glass of red wine.

Despite Mama's many attempts to start a conversation with the three of us regarding something about her future dreams for us as a family, she was interrupted nearly every thirty seconds by a patron kindly asking her for a selfie and telling her how much "Crossing Bridges" has meant to them for some reason or another.

Mama never refuses a fan.

"I told you to wear your wig and hat inside the restaurant," Adele mutters after another round of pictures and fanfare. "You do realize you'll be followed for the rest of the night."

"Oh, don't you worry your pretty little head," Mama says, patting her eldest's hand. "There's sure to be a big crowd at Carter's Ballroom; I'll be able to blend in just fine there."

I meet Adele's gaze from across the table and know we share the same unvoiced opinion. Mama has never "blended in" anywhere in her entire life. It's literally the opposite of who she is.

"Carter's is where you want to go tonight?" Adele whispers sharply. "You knew I sent two of our senior talent agents out this way last month. If you would've told me you were interested in a nostalgic visit, I would have made all the necessary arrangements for you. Starting with a security team. That venue has a reputation for getting rowdy." She exhales and sets her napkin on the table with a definitive "I think we should postpone."

Mama chuckles dismissively. "Nonsense. I happen to know the main act tonight, and she's brilliant. Trust me, you won't want to miss it. I'm thinking of recommending her to our label, but I was hoping to get your professional opinion first."

Adele pulls back as if Mama just spoke the magic words to solve all problems: "I was hoping to get your professional opinion first."

"Fine, but you have to swear you'll wear your wig and stay close to us for the duration of the evening. The last thing we need is a mob. You're headlining a festival in just over a week, remember?"

Mama crosses herself. "I solemnly swear to blend in."

Adele sighs. "Just keep your wig on, please."

As soon we stand from the table and Adele's back is turned, Mama makes her hand into a puppet and mimics her oldest daughter's final request.

"Careful what you do behind my back, mother," Adele warns in a low voice. "There are roughly a dozen iPhones filming us at the moment."

Instantly, Mama's puppet mouth morphs into a pageant queen's wave as she pauses to blow kisses to every table on our way out. Whistles and applause follow us.

So much for blending in.

It's not until we're being escorted from the town car for a second time that evening and walking through the back door of a historical music hall that I realize Hattie's despondency hasn't lifted. She hasn't muttered a single word since we left the restaurant.

I allow Mama and Adele to pass me by at the entrance of the venue, then hook my arm through Hattie's. The thumping bass line of a driving melody is already ear-poundingly loud from back here, and I know from experience the volume will be ten times more abrasive once we get on the other side of the speakers.

"Hey." I stop her from passing through the barrier. "What's going on with you?"

She stares at the black curtain in front of us but says nothing.

"Hattie, talk to me." My hold on her tightens as fear seeps in. "We don't even have to go in there. I can order us a rideshare back to the hotel if you want."

Slowly, her eyes focus on mine. "What I want is a night off from my life. Can you give me that, Raegan? Can you give me one night where I can forget all the ways my life is a dumpster fire right now?"

I peer into her face. "Did Peter do some—"

"I don't want to talk about Peter! Please." Her voice breaks on the word. "Just let me be tonight." She begins to walk ahead when she suddenly twists back. "And for once, don't let Adele bully you into babysitting me."

I'm so startled by the accusation I struggle for words. "That's not what—"

"That is exactly what happens. I know she's the one who sends you to stay with me on the weekend when my kids are at Peter's, and how she asks you to keep tabs on my every move through the stupid tracking app she insists on. Don't defend her."

"I'm not trying to defend her. She's just worried about you." We all are, is what I don't say. "She cares."

Hattie's laugh is cold. "No, she cares about our image, not about us." She pushes through the curtain, leaving me no choice but to follow after her.

It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dim, hazy light of Carter's Ballroom. Between the glare of the glossy floors and soaring, exposed trusses overhead, I feel dizzy in this shadowy sea of dancing bodies. I spot Mama first, in her black wig and nondescript cowgirl hat. She's chatting it up with a dark-skinned man with a graying beard that brushes his collar. Adele is with them, appearing about as comfortable as a cop in a crowd of freshly released prisoners. I scan the crowd for Hattie and find her a minute later, swaying to the music and sipping an ice water.

Though I've never known my sister to have more than a single glass of wine on any occasion—social or otherwise—her choice in beverage allows me to take a full breath. If it's space she needs tonight, I can give her that.

With my anxiety slowly ebbing, I face the stage, watching two men and a female banjo player exit as the emcee stirs up the crowd by throwing out meaningless trivia to gain participation before the main act. I've seen it all before—the circus that is life in the spotlight, although my mama hasn't played in a venue like this for decades. And it's then my mind recalls what it's been fighting against ever since we pulled out of the hotel parking lot: Micah's face when he heard my middle name.

A strange longing brews inside me at the thought of not seeing him again until the morning. The way he examined my face as he said my full name was as if I were a clue in his quest for answers. If only that were true. But I'm as lost in my own quest for answers as he is in his.

The drumroll coming from the front pulls my focus back to the stage.

"...so please put your hands together for tonight's honored guest and our spotlight talent for the evening. Straight from the heart of Nashville, here's Miss Cheyenne Avery!"

The crowd roars, and my jaw slacks. Cheyenne Avery? Surely it can't be....

I twist to find Mama cheering at the top of her lungs while Adele looks positively stricken. I rush toward where they stand on the sidelines as my gorgeous niece takes the stage with the Martin guitar Mama gave her for her fifteenth birthday.

She greets more than a thousand people with a hearty, "How y'all doing tonight?"

The crowd's response for her is deafening.

"What in the..." Adele grips my arm to steady herself and blinks up at the stage, bewildered. Her only child strums her guitar and speaks to the audience with the ease and confidence of a performer twice her age.

"Surprise!" Mama squeals. "Didn't I tell y'all you wouldn't want to miss this?"

"But how..." Adele, clearly dumbfounded, shakes her head. "How is she here? Her classes aren't over yet; neither is her internship."

"Don't worry, Jana and I worked out all the logistics. Bruce was kind to book her during our trip. The best part is she's all ours for the next twenty-four hours!" Mama hollers proudly.

Cheyenne's background strumming changes to an intricate finger-picking pattern, and my eyes instantly flood with tears at the way her talent has advanced since last I heard her play.

"I'd like to dedicate this first song to my mama." She peers into the crowd. "We don't always see eye-to-eye, but it's her tenacity and dogged determination that beats like a drum in my chest. She's been my guiding light when I've felt lost, and she's been my champion since the first time I poured a bowl of cereal without spilling the milk." A collective laugh and awww.ills the room. "So thank you, Mama. Thank you for teaching me to stand up, speak out, and sing with my whole soul. I love you."

I watch as my sister's expression melts into a look so full of maternal love and admiration, I can't help the sob that rises and breaks from my chest. I haven't seen my oldest sister cry since the day we laid our daddy to rest in a private cemetery east of Nashville. But these tears are different tonight. Not tears of grief, but of pride.

And then my niece, the first newborn I ever cradled in my arms at the ripe old age of seven, opens her mouth and bares her soul, one perfectly sung note at a time.

September 3, 1975

Nashville, TN

Dear Chickee,

The three of us made it to Nashville in one piece: Luella, me, and our ever-faithful Lima Bean. We decided she deserved a name since she made it all the way here without a single complaint (other than the jam that prevents us from opening the back hatch).

We rented our first hotel room since Oregon last night and took extra time on our hair and makeup before going to our first meeting at TriplePlay Records. Luella had held out the phone so I could hear Russell Farrow's reaction when she called him last night, and his elation at us being here, in his city, made us feel pretty elated, too.

When we got there, the three partners had ordered us lunch in their meeting room where they asked us all sorts of questions about our travels. When Luella told them about our rattlesnake incident in Amarillo, they were howling, especially when she reenacted our reactions to it. Between you and me, I'm still not quite ready to laugh at that story yet.

Dorian is the funny one of the three. He spent a year in Vietnam and seems to find humor in things most people would cringe at, but his jokes helped calm our nerves. Troy seems to know the most about the music industry and drives the kind of fancy sports car we've only seen in movies—he let us both sit in it, too! Russell is exactly as Luella described: intelligent, confident, kind, and eager to please, at least when it comes to her. I caught him watching her every time she turned her attention to something else.

When they finally asked us to play for them, we were ready. Our voices blended perfectly, and I didn't miss a single chord on the guitar. When it was over, the three men were quiet. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hoping for the same kind of response we received in San Francisco. But there was no applause or cheering, just a lot of staring at us and intense whispering among themselves until we were asked to leave the room. When we were called back inside, they told us they were "optimistic about our potential but that we weren't quite ready for the stage yet." We assured them we were willing to work hard and do whatever they ask of us. That seemed to be the answer they were looking for.

Russell has a lead on an affordable apartment for us, and Dorian has a connection for a job at a downtown lounge popular with industry professionals. We'll be waitressing. I hope you won't be mad when I tell you this next part, but we have to lie about our age in order to work there. Luella is nearly twenty so it's not as far of a stretch for her, but when I told them I was still eighteen, Dorian sang me three rounds of Happy Birthday and then gave me a new ID card.

I love you,

Lynn

March 14, 1976

Nashville, TN

Dear Chickee,

I'm sorry I haven't been writing. Truth is, I've never felt so tired. Between waitressing in the evenings, writing and rehearsing new songs in the afternoon, and playing gigs on the weekend that are mostly to empty bars, all I want to do is sleep. Troy gave me some pills from a doctor friend that will help me stay more alert and decrease my appetite. Troy says it would be better if my weight matched Luella's. I suppose he's right, I could stand to lose some pudge around my middle. Guess I should probably cut back on the grilled-cheese sandwiches we take home from The Lounge, too.

Russell hasn't missed a single gig we've played. Once he was our only audience member. He called out song requests and yelled encore after we walked offstage. We had a good laugh, even though I could tell both Luella and I wanted to cry.

In many ways, this dream is much harder than I thought it would be, but I'm happy. Tired, but happy. I love our tiny apartment and driving Lima Bean to work every night with my best friend. Oh, and you'll be thrilled to know, we found a church to attend every Sunday (as long as we get home at a decent hour on Saturday night). I'm planning to call you tomorrow. I miss your voice. Why do phone calls have to cost so much?

I love you,

Lynn

P.S. I got your birthday package in the mail. I'm saving it till Friday. Luella is baking me your famous lemon cake, and all our friends will be over to celebrate. No dieting on birthdays.

October 3, 1977

Nashville, TN

Dear Chickee,

I decided a while back that unless something really big happens, I'm not going to write it down. There are too many almosts and too many disappointments to rehash them all. The guys say "that's just life in Music City" and "we can either take it or leave it." Well, we took it all right, and you know what? We got our first big out-of-state show! We're playing a whole set, too. The owner is connected to other venues, and we might have enough bookings to be on the road for several weeks. I'm working hard to shed a few more pounds before Luella coordinates our stage outfits. Troy assured me that these are the same pills fashion models take to stay trim, and seeing as he dates so many beautiful women, I'm sure he knows what he's talking about.

He also says that if we keep working hard, we might be ready to cut our first album this time next year. Can you believe it?

One more thing, and this one is top secret, but Luella and Russell are in love, and I'm the only one who knows. Our contract with TriplePlay Records states that Luella and I are to remain unattached for the purposes of building our public personas and creating widespread appeal. Luella promised me she'd never break our pact or put Russell over our dream. I trust her.

I miss you,

Lynn