Chapter 13

Micah

I've read the contents of nearly two of my mother's journals at this point, and all the while my mind has continuously jumped from the past to the present. More specifically, to the moment right before Luella's town car left the parking lot and she spoke her daughter's full name for the first time. Raegan Lynn. While most of my questions about my mother's life as a rising star remain unanswered, that is the one I keep coming back to tonight. Raegan was born more than a year after our mothers' friendship and careers blew up, so why would Luella choose to name her baby after her?

When I stand up from the bed to stretch my back, the sudden shift of the mattress catapults the journal closest to the bed's edge to the floor. With an agitated sigh, I bend to pick it up, only to see the drawing I'd flipped past yesterday while at the coffee shop. At the time, the charcoal sketch of a building I had no reference for didn't stand out as anything of interest. But tonight, when I read the words Carter's Ballroom scripted across the bottom under the date 1977, the spinning in my head comes to an abrupt stop.

And suddenly, I know exactly what I need to do. And better yet, where I need to be.

The Uber ride to Carter's is short, but I run into a jam when the box office out front is closed and all the exterior doors are locked. The red signage states: No Reentry. I'm just about to sleuth my way around the perimeter in search of another way in when a young couple stumbles out the main entrance, too busy groping each other to have a care in the world about me or anyone else for that matter. I don't hesitate to slip in behind them.

It takes several seconds to orient myself in the room. The lights are low, but the stimulus is high. There's a full bar surrounded by a massive crowd. My eyes scan the dance floor in front of the stage while music pumps in from somewhere unseen. The vaulted ceiling is about the only antidote for the claustrophobic setting.

Right when I'm beginning to doubt my ability to locate even one Farrow woman in this overstuffed space—much less all four—I spot Raegan in a group of familiar faces, and for nearly a minute I'm too awestruck to take my eyes off her. Every movement she makes is captivating. The way she leans into a conversation when someone is speaking, the way she finger-combs her curls over one shoulder only to have them spring back in disobedience, the way she sways in time to the music as if in a private dance no one else is invited to. Only, I want to be invited.

I stretch my neck from side to side and remind myself why I'm here. And then I'm on the move. Luella's wig choice this evening is nearly black, the darkest one I've seen her wear so far. I don't know much about hair, but the shocking shade is anything but natural looking.

A song has just ended onstage, but the applause is so loud Luella is all but shouting across the small circle gathered around her. Her hands are as animated as the expression on her face. It's then I notice Adele's arm looped around the waist of a young woman who favors her in nearly every way.

"Mind if I join you?" I break into the circle at Raegan's side.

She whips around so quickly, I shoot out a steadying hand at her middle back.

"Micah?" Raegan gasps. "I thought you were taking the night off."

"I thought I was, too," I say simply as the background music fades out and the only sound in the ballroom is the low hum of patrons' voices. My eardrums appreciate the break, and I use the timing to introduce myself, given Raegan's confused expression.

"I'm Micah," I say to the one unfamiliar face among us. "I'm guessing you must be associated with this raucous crew somehow."

"Only when they're on their best behavior," the young blonde says as she shakes my outstretched hand. "I'm Cheyenne." She tips her head to the right. "And this is my mom, Adele."

"Micah's quite familiar with who I am, sweetheart. He's been the bus driver for our trip," Adele states without a trace of her usual aggression. It doesn't take a clinical analysis to see how motherhood affects her.

"He's also a family friend," Luella pipes in happily. "Micah, my granddaughter here just knocked our socks off on that stage tonight. She surprised her mama with an original song and made her whole family proud!"

"Congratulations," I say. "I'm sorry I missed it."

"It was an incredible performance," Raegan concurs.

"Cheyenne will be with us overnight at the hotel, and then we'll drop her at the airport in Amarillo tomorrow afternoon," Luella chirps. "Perhaps we can convince her to share more of her talents with us on the road."

"Only if you promise to join in, Nonnie. I wouldn't be here without you, after all," Cheyenne says.

I notice the slight shift in Adele's posture and the way her arm slips from her daughter's waist. She rotates to look her child in the eye. "I'm still curious as to how you were able to make this trip happen on such short notice in the middle of your summer internship with Union Capitol and Associates?"

Cheyenne glances at Luella before focusing on her mother again. "Because I ... I decided not to take the internship."

Adele doesn't so much as blink as the all-male cover band is announced onstage. Obviously, this is brand-new information. "That is hardly a decision you should be making on your own at nineteen, Cheyenne. Your father and I worked hard to get you that position."

"I know you did, and I appreciate it, but music is what I want to do, Mom. I've told you that. I don't want to go into business management and work for the family label. Nonnie said—"

"I told her we're only blessed with one life," Luella interjects, "and as I've said before, she should get a choice in how she wants to live it."

Adele's expression is raw when she looks from her mother to her daughter, as if she's too disoriented to formulate a reply. She's been blindsided, and I can't help but feel for the blow she's been dealt.

When Luella starts in with another speech, Adele's voice is tight with hurt. "I can't do this here, Mother. This is neither the time nor the place."

For what might be the first time, I agree with Adele.

Raegan gives me a look that says, Let's get out of here. Only, I feel a strange sense of duty to follow up with this potentially disastrous conversation—maybe even offer my assistance to mediate between the three of them if needed. From the expression on Luella's face, something tells me it will be needed.

Raegan loops her arm through mine and leads me toward a walled-off area at the far side of the room. The thumping volume lessens the closer we get to the enclosed area, and my bones will be grateful for the relief from the vibration. Before we're through, she presses in close and asks, "What are you really doing here?"

"I found something in my mother's journals about this place. A drawing—summer of 1977. Know anything about it?"

She shakes her head and points to the arched doorway beyond. "I don't, but I know where we might be able to find out." Her gaze holds a mesmerizing sparkle. "But first, can you help me get eyes on Hattie? Is she still out on the dance floor?"

Oh, right. Hattie.I chide myself for playing into the stereotypical fear of a middle child—being forgotten—and search the room from where we stand on the sidelines. I scan the sea of gyrating bodies.

"She's wearing a white snakeskin tank top," Raegan says, gripping my forearm and lifting up on her tiptoes. The heat of her hand searing into my skin is far more distracting than anything else in this dance hall.

"Over there! Near the front. Is that her?" She squints and points. "She knows every word of this song; it's one of her favorites."

I watch the woman she's pointing at sway like seagrass on a stormy riverbank. She's right, it's Hattie. Only, she's certainly not in the condition I last saw her in at the hotel.

"How many drinks do you think she's thrown back?" I ask just as the kick drum picks up again.

"What?" Raegan yells.

I bend so my lips are practically pressed against the shell of her ear. It's an effort not to think of how close her mouth is. "Drinks. How many has she had?"

Raegan startles back. "She had a glass of wine at dinner, and I've only seen her drink water since we've been here."

I watch as Hattie sloshes back some clear liquid from a plastic cup. "I'm thinking she's been enjoying something a bit stronger than water."

Raegan groans. "Wonderful. I'll go grab her as soon as I show you the wall."

"What wall?"

She tips her head for me to follow. "I saw it on my way to the restroom earlier. Took some pictures of it to show you, but now you can see it for yourself."

The second we're tucked behind the protection of the shadowed alcove, the volume in the ballroom is cut in half. The next moment the lit wall of art steals my full attention.

"What is this?"

Raegan leads me to the far end of what looks like a painted timeline that begins in 1968 and runs the entire length of the wall to present day. The painted images of music celebrities and bands are wildly realistic, and there are plaques with information interspersed throughout, along with framed articles and memorabilia.

"Do you see them?" Raegan points to the arrow at 1977, where our two mothers have been illustrated, standing side-by-side in bell-bottoms and tie-dye. They both flash peace signs. The metal plaque underneath them reads: "Lynn Hershel and Luella Farrow on October 3, 1977. The knock-out songwriting duo from north Idaho played a full set with our house band. The first of many magical nights to come, and the beginning of a long and beneficial relationship with Carter's."

I feel an inexplicable surge of pride, thinking back to my mother's entry after her win of the Elvis dance-off. "So they made it back just like they'd hoped."

"We did indeed." To my surprise, the voice belongs to Luella, not Raegan. "This was the first big venue we played—a full set. Bruce, the owner, saw something in the two of us nobody in Nashville would take the time to see. The industry was male-dominated back then, full of solo artists like Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, George Jones, John Denver. And here we were, a female duet with a single guitar. But Bruce took Russell's call and gave us a chance. And in return, your mom and I ended up saving his place from demolition." Luella saddles up beside me. "This building meant a lot to us back in the day." Her smile is sad when she adds, "It's one of the last places we played just for us. For those two girls who fought as hard for each other as they did for their dreams."

"How long did you two stay with TriplePlay Records before Russell founded Farrow Music Productions?"

"Too long, if you ask me." Luella makes a scoffing sound. "The split was in the works for quite a while as there were personal and legal ramifications to consider, but Farrow Music Productions was officially founded at the end of 1993. Russell and I risked everything to start that label, but it was time. My husband was too principled to stay in a partnership that wasn't."

I'm about to comment on this when Raegan hollers at us from further down the timeline. "Here's an article about your fundraising efforts to save Carter's in the '80s, Mama." She taps on a plexiglass frame bolted to the cement wall under 1990 and waves us on.

Together, we move down the mural and meet Raegan at the article. I study the black-and-white photo attached to the top of the newsprint. A five-member ensemble—three suited gentlemen who stand directly behind my mother and Luella, who together hold a giant pair of scissors, posed to cut a thick ribbon out front of this very building. I skim the details of how, after years of a struggling economy and slow business, the city was set to bulldoze the building to make room for a popular hotel chain. But the duo, along with the help of TriplePlay Records, organized enough charity fundraising concerts to save the historic building from its untimely death. They even found sponsors from surrounding areas who agreed to foot the bill for specific renovation projects within. This article commemorated the grand reopening of Carter's at the end of 1990.

I stare into my mother's eyes before scanning the three gentlemen dressed in suits behind them. Russell is the easiest to spot as he stands directly behind his wife, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. "These other two men with Russell are..." I try to recall their names from the journals. "Troy and Dorian?"

"That's correct," Luella says. "I know this photo isn't the best quality, but Troy Rigger is the taller, thinner one with the round glasses, and Dorian Zuckerman is the goofy looking one there in the middle with a cigarette bobbing out the side of his mouth. I don't think he ever took a single straight-faced picture in all our time together—God rest his soul."

"He died?" I ask, turning to face her.

"Sadly, yes. Not long before my Russell. Lung cancer. My husband was a pallbearer at his funeral, and Raegan wrote a gorgeous poem she dedicated to their family during the service." She smiles in the direction of her youngest daughter, but I'm stuck on a detail I hadn't considered until then.

"Are you saying the three partners remained close even after Russell started his own label?"

"Not all three." Luella hesitates, seeming to choose her words carefully. "But eventually, Dorian came to work for Farrow Music Productions, and those two remained close friends for the rest of their lives. Our families have stayed close for many years."

My pulse thuds harder at this new tidbit of information. "If Dorian worked for Farrow Music, does that mean he and Russell were together in Germany while you and my mother toured in 1994?"

"No." She shook her head. "While Russell was away securing what would have been our first international tour, Dorian opted to stay back. After Vietnam, he had no interest in leaving the States again. He became our manager for the domestic tour. Without him, we would have been forced to cancel." She remains quiet for a long moment, her gaze growing distant as she says, "Sometimes I wonder how different things would have been if we'd all just stayed home that summer."

There are so many more things I need to ask, but the photo of Dorian Zuckerman doesn't let me go, nor does the question of his involvement with my mother the summer I was conceived.

I feel Raegan move to my side just as a deep, husky cough alerts us to someone behind us.

"It took the artist over a year to map this timeline and paint it for us, but we'd be nothing without our history." A man with bohemian-style dreadlocks and a white beard appears behind Luella and stretches his hand out to me. He introduces himself as Bruce before he drapes an arm around Luella's shoulders.

"It's lovely, Bruce." Luella's admiration for him is tangible.

"Not as lovely as you. Even with that crazy black wig you're trying to pull off." He tsks. "That thing looks about as out of place as a dolphin in the desert, if you ask me." He chuckles, then returns his gaze to the mural again. "I sure wish your Russell was here to see this mural. You both were an integral part of why this place is still standing." Bruce is quiet a moment before continuing. "You two were that rare, fairy-tale romance only soulmates get to experience. It's why the public couldn't get enough of the two of you. You were his queen."

Luella laughs. "Not sure you'd call us a fairy tale if you saw the way I got after him for leaving his socks under the coffee table night after night. The man couldn't walk to the dirty hamper to save his life."

As the last country song fades out in the background, a familiar melody plays over the loudspeakers, and surprisingly, the crowd hoots and hollers at the abrupt change of genre. "How Deep Is Your Love" by the Bee Gees blares over the speakers, and Bruce begins to sway his hips as he quirks an eyebrow at Luella, who laughs all the harder.

"Don't you even try to pretend that's coincidental, Bruce."

"I think we owe it to your Russell to cut a rug in his honor."

He extends a hand to her, and both Raegan and I are impressed by the rhythm he keeps while grooving to the song. The man has to be close to eighty, and yet he could "cut a rug" better than most people a quarter of his age.

"You know I can never say no to his song." Luella trails behind him to the dance floor.

I turn to ask Raegan if we should collect Hattie from the dance floor, but Raegan seems to have fallen through another portal. I wave my hand in front of her trance-like expression.

"Raegan?"

Her focus snaps to mine, and her mouth opens and closes twice before sound follows. "What if ... what if my mama's real story was published before Peter's lies are released?"

It takes a minute for me to track what she's asking since she's jumped multiple topic hurdles to get here, but as soon as I'm able, I want to know more. "What do you have in mind?"

"You heard Bruce, my parents' love story is compelling—it covers so many romantic tropes and stretches over a long period of time: love at first sight, friends-to-lovers, forced proximity, forbidden romance. There's even a secret wedding ceremony they managed to keep hidden from the public. These are the bedtime stories I grew up with, Micah. I know them by heart." Her eyes are wild now as if she can't quite believe what she's about to say. "When Chip confirmed the tell-all was more than a rumor, he said the best we could hope for would be for the tell-all to be overshadowed by something far more deserving at the time of release. What if I could write that something?"

I recall what Raegan told me about the fiction book she wrote—the one about struggling individuals who fight for what they want. "I think you're plenty qualified."

She drops her gaze. "For credibility, I'd have to write it under my own name."

"Is that an issue?"

"Writing is the only thing in my life that's truly mine. No pressure, no expectation, no fear that my mistakes or failures will have any ill effect on my family. I always imagined if I was ever to get published, I'd do so under a different name."

I know this particular conversation is far more nuanced than what she's told me. I also know I should be professional enough to help her explore the pressures she's mentioned as a Farrow—and the root cause to her aversion for conflict—but I don't do any of that. Because right now, as the music slips into something slow and melodic, I don't want to be a therapist. I want to be a man, one who acts on the all-consuming attraction I've felt for Raegan since the first time she smiled at me.

I step toward her to ask her to dance, and when we lock eyes it nearly sends my pulse into an arrhythmic episode. Whatever this is between us—I don't want to suppress it any longer.

But the instant I start to speak, a short, shrill scream breaks through the dance hall. And then a second one, followed by a third, until an entire chorus is chanting a singular name that has been shouted in concert venues worldwide for decades.

As if in slow motion, the two of us rotate toward the mushroom cloud of patrons rising from the dance floor. And before I can even spot the way Luella's black wig has been yanked from her head, exposing her signature blonde curls underneath, my adrenaline has kicked into action.

There's no time to form an escape plan, nor enough security detail to create a proper barricade, but even still, I charge toward the chaos with a single instruction for Raegan.

"Get to the town car!"

"What?" she yells back.

"The town car!" I holler again over my shoulder. "Tell the driver to wait by the back door!"

And then I'm smashing through a mob of bodies in order to retrieve a woman I've come to care for with an intensity that doesn't make sense for the short time I've known her. And yet, she's not the only Farrow who's made her mark on me in record time.