Chapter 17

Raegan

Despite the short night and early start, I'm thankful for Micah's quick thinking to get us out of harm's way when he did. He seems to have a knack for that. Red Cross should really make him their volunteer of the month.

In addition to his navigational app anchored to the dash, I have the weather app open on my phone, feeling safer with every mile we travel north—so safe I doze off more than once, waking each time my head bangs against the passenger side window.

"Go take my bunk, Raegan," Micah says for the tenth time. "Please."

I straighten in my seat and then pivot the AC vent closest to me so it blasts cold air directly into my eyeballs. "I'm staying up here for moral support."

He laughs. "Hate to break it to you, but your moral support could use some work." He taps the digital map with his pointer finger. "According to this, we'll be in Wichita in two hours. Should be a good place for you to make your phone call, which is yet another reason for you to consider taking a nap now."

If I wasn't so exhausted, I'd argue that my motion sickness might keep me up in the back while we drive, but I don't think that will be the case today. I can barely keep my head upright on my neck. And he's right, if I have any hope of having a coherent conversation with Chip, then I need my thoughts to be clear. "You promise you'll be okay up here?"

He lifts his coffee. "I'm good, although I'll miss the entertainment of watching you fight against sleep. And here I thought my two-year-old niece Hannah was bad."

"Is that your brother's daughter?"

"Yes. Hannah will stand straight up in her bed as soon as Garrett and Kacy put her and her twin sister, Lainey, down for the night. The rule is that they can't get out of their bed once the lights go out, so instead she sings and dances and tosses all the toys she ferreted away during the day at her sister to get out of sleeping." He shakes his head. "Little stinker."

"I hope I get to meet them someday," I say without realizing how presumptuous it sounds until it's out. Micah and I are only friends. Sure, we're friends who almost kissed and spent the night together on the same mattress while reading his mother's old journals until dawn, but yeah ... only friends.

What are his thoughts on all that this morning? I can't get a read on him.

"I'm sure they'd like you—all of them." He pulls his gaze to the road again. "I'll wake you when we stop."

"All right." I push to standing and begin my climb over the driver's cockpit toward the back when I remember the other wake-up he assisted with this morning. I pause and twist to crouch near his ear so as not to be overheard. "Thank you for what you said to Hattie this morning."

His brow crimps in confusion. "When?"

"When you told her to find the light switch."

"I thought you were asleep."

"I'm glad I wasn't," I admit softly.

He doesn't take his eyes off the road, but I see the way the cords in his neck tense and release on his next exhale. "What she's going through right now ... it's tough. I've sat with a lot of hurting parents in her position. I don't envy her pain."

Quite an observation coming from a man I know is carrying around a considerable load of his own pain right now. Grief. Betrayal. Secrets still unanswered.

I can't help but reach out and touch his shoulder, wishing he wasn't behind a steering wheel right now so I could give him a hug. "You're a good guy, Micah."

As his beautiful eyes flick to mine in the rearview mirror, my insides liquefy. "Get some rest, Sunshine."

On my way through the lounge, I pass an unconscious Hattie splayed out on the sofa and take a moment to cover her bare legs with a light throw blanket. The inside of the bus is chilly with the AC on full blast.

When I straighten, I notice Adele sitting at the dining table. Her laptop is propped open in front of her, but her distant stare is directed out the window. The stress lines around her eyes have softened into a reflective expression that looks ... sad. The occasions I've witnessed this side of my sister have been so few and far between in the last handful of years that I can't bring myself to look away. I'm suddenly struck by an onslaught of memories. Me sitting with her at her kitchen table while Cheyenne was off at elementary school. Though our age gap has always felt vast, as a teenager, I valued my alone time with Adele differently than I did with Hattie.

Hattie took me shopping for new clothes and talked about the latest décor trends and brainstormed the big events she had upcoming at the label, while Adele fed me smoothies with hidden veggies and quizzed me on my schoolwork with Jana. History, politics, math, and even for a short time my Bible lessons and Scripture memorization. But there was always this moment at the end of our time together when she'd step down from playing the role of Strong Older Sister to simply be my friend. We'd discuss the artists she enjoyed at the label and those she could barely tolerate. She'd show me recipes she was saving for rainy days that rarely came and ask me to weigh in on family vacation plans we rarely took due to Daddy's obligation to the label. We'd laugh at Mama's eccentricities and shake our heads at Daddy's lack of work-life balance.

As I matured, so did our talks at her kitchen table. The most memorable of them all having to do with Tav. While the whole of my family rooted for the moody musician I'd been infatuated with since childhood, Adele cautioned me about his intentions.

Somehow my big sister had called the end of our love story before the first chapter had ever been written.

My throat tightens as I think of what I'd give to go back to the days where honest conversation flowed easily between us and trust went both ways. But just as quickly as the thought comes, so does a sickening wave of realization: I can't ask her for what I haven't been willing to give myself.

Maybe Micah was right last night in the hotel room. Maybe I've been fooling myself into believing this secret I'm keeping about Peter is for their protection, when really it's me I'm trying to protect. If I want Adele to confide in me, then don't I have to be willing to do the same with her?

I offer up a silent prayer and take a seat across from my sister. Her expression goes from mild confusion at my presence to resignation.

"If this is about what happened with Cheyenne last night, I'm really not—"

"It's not," I say quickly. "But I can understand why you'd be upset."

Her tired eyes rove my face, but she says nothing more.

I will my mouth to open, but it takes several tries until the courage shows up. "I was hoping to talk to you about something else." I rub my lips together and again plead with God to give me the right words. It's been a long time since I've tried to engage in a conversation with Adele of this depth. "The day Mama showed up in the driveway with Old Goldie, I had a meeting with an editor friend of mine, and he mentioned a—"

"You met with an editor?" Adele's posture stiffens. "For what reason? I thought you agreed to put your hobby on hold for now, Raegan. There's too much going on."

On second thought, I probably should have jumped ahead to the phone call when Chip confirmed the tell-all. "He was giving me feedback on a manuscript, but that's not actually what I—"

"Raegan." She drops her head into her hands and kneads her temples. "I don't have the capacity to talk about your fiction when so much in our real world is hanging by a thread. It's not a good time."

Her disparaging tone sparks a fire in my belly. "I'm not asking you to discuss my fiction with me. I haven't asked that of you since the last time you shot it down and told me I needed to put the family first."

She lifts her head slowly, her eyes narrowing on me. "I'm sorry if putting your family first is such a burden on you, but not all of us get to do what we want in life. If that makes me your personal villain, I'm sure you can find others on this bus who will commiserate with you."

I bite the inside of my cheeks and try to remember why I sat down in the first place. "There's something in the works you should know about."

She puts up her palm and shakes her head. "Unless it's directly related to Mama's performance at Watershed, it can wait until after the show. I cannot handle one more distraction. I never should have allowed Mama to convince me this trip was a good idea. It was a mistake."

"I know you have a lot on your plate right now, but—"

"You don't even know the half of it."

"You're right, I don't. And whose fault is that?" I challenge, meeting her gaze straight on in the silence that follows. "I can't remember the last time you've shared anything of importance with me that didn't involve me running an errand or organizing a schedule or checking up on a family member to avoid a potential crisis." I glance around at the quiet bus. "But Mama's in her room, and Hattie and Cheyenne are both asleep, and I'm sitting right here." I feel the tears climbing and fight to push them back down. "I'm asking you to treat me like a sister. To talk to me."

For a split second, when the weariness returns to her features, I think she might actually take me up on my offer—that this might actually be the first step in a whole new direction for us as sisters. But then I see her gaze flick to where Hattie lies asleep on the sofa. "Were you with Hattie last night?"

I nod. "She stayed in my room. She ... was up most of the night."

Again she rubs at her temples. "I need you to keep a closer eye on her. That can't happen again. There are too many distractions right now as it is, and I need Mama to stay focused on this festival—it's imperative." Her eyes tick back to me again. "Can you manage that?"

When haven't I managed that?is what I want to argue back. "If that's what you want."

"No, it's what we need," she corrects. "There's a difference, Raegan. The burdens I carry are for the well-being of our whole family. Despite what my daughter chooses to believe about life, not all of us get to live how we want."

She turns her attention back to her laptop. It's a clear and final dismissal. With heavy limbs and an even heavier heart, I push away from the dining table and into the hall.

After toeing off my shoes, I crawl into Micah's bunk as my mind goes to battle. Why should I feel an ounce of guilt over keeping something from Adele when she routinely shuts me out and asks me to put my life and goals on hold? Last year her reasoning was Hattie's divorce, now it's the festival, and chances are high that a month from now Adele will have a new excuse as to why I should keep my hobby hidden away from the world. Her instincts might have been right about Tav, but that doesn't mean they're right about everything.

As I press my face into the cool cotton of Micah's pillowcase, I'm enveloped by his scent, and soon my thoughts have shifted back to him. There is much I wish I could change about my present circumstance, but Micah is without a doubt the one thing I wouldn't change. I meant what I told him last night—I couldn't imagine him not being here with us. With me.

As exhaustion tugs at the corner of my mind, I lift him up in a silent prayer, asking God to guide our next steps and, most importantly, to help Micah on his quest to discover his birth father.

"We're here, Raegan."

I blink my eyes open and stare into the face of the man I fell asleep praying for. "Where's here again?"

He rests his folded arms on the bunk frame. I roll onto my side, noting how our height difference is nearly obsolete in this position.

"Wichita," he says with a smile. "Good nap?"

"Yes." I yawn and sit up to stretch my neck, careful not to bonk my head on the top of the bunk. "Thanks again for loaning me your bed."

"I would say my bed is your bed, but I don't think that has the same connotation as ‘mi casa es su casa.'"

I laugh. "I don't think it does."

Micah tips his head toward the street-facing window. "Hattie is upright, sitting on a bench in the shade eating saltines and drinking some electrolytes we stopped for a few minutes ago, and the others are out picking up some lunch orders to go."

"Together?" I ask, confused. "Are they all speaking to each other again?"

"Not unless they were speaking in a silent language." He tugs on his ear. "Do these Farrow family showdowns typically last this long?"

"Longer. And I have a feeling Adele will wait to address what happened last night with Cheyenne and Mama until after the festival."

Micah's eyes grow so wide it's comical. "You're kidding, right? That's nearly a week away. Surely the stonewalling can't last that long."

"Oh, it can. Hattie and Adele went nearly six weeks without speaking after Peter won the lawsuit. I was their go-between." I shrug. "Adele told me herself in no uncertain terms that she doesn't want to deal with any distractions unrelated to the festival."

"Distractions as in ... having important conversations?"

"Correct."

The puzzled look he gives me lingers. "And you think that applies to the tell-all?" When I give no indication either way, he sighs and presses his palms against the top of the bunk frame. "Raegan, I understand your family dynamics are less than ideal, but please think through this logically for a minute. What happens if news of the tell-all leaks to the public soon? Don't you want your family to be prepared? Adele will need to be ready with a statement from the label."

Just the mention of her name shoots a bolt of indignation through my core. "Do you have any idea how often I've submitted to my sister's preoccupation with preparing our family for the worst, Micah? How often I've done or not done something based on her judgment of what's best for the Farrow name? So often I'd be mortified to say the number out loud if I knew it." I want to ease the tension I've created with a laugh, but the sudden constriction of my vocal chords prevents it.

When I look away, he touches my chin and draws my gaze back to his. "I'm sorry."

I pick at the raw hem of my shorts, planning to tell him that it's fine, that I usually reserve these pent-up moments of familial tension for my fiction, when the thought triggers an unprompted confession. "Two weeks ago I walked away from a book contract with my favorite publisher for The Sisters of Birch Grove because I wouldn't agree to write under my given name."

His face goes slack. "What? Why?"

"Because I believed publishing under a pen name would allow me the autonomy I rarely feel in my real life, as well as the ability to succeed or fail on my own merit." Tears crack my voice. "Because I know the minute I publish as Luella Farrow's daughter, I sacrifice all that."

Understanding dawns on Micah's features, and I'm guessing he's replaying our conversation in the hotel room through a different filter.

"Your sister doesn't know about the offer?"

"Adele hopes my writing will stay a hobby—there's less risk involved to the family that way." The raw admission burns in my chest. "So yeah, maybe I'm taking the coward's way out by thinking I can solve this crisis without her involvement, but I promise you, there's a cost to both options."

"Raegan."

I pat my pockets in search of my phone. I must have left it up front. "I should probably leave so I can call Chip before everybody comes back." I shift to jump off Micah's bunk to the floor below when he takes my hand and assists me down.

If ever I've contemplated the tight quarters back here before, I have an entirely new frame of reference now. There's barely enough room for one person to stand in this small pass-through, much less two. My instincts scream to twist away, to shelter myself the way I've always done, but without a word, Micah pulls me to him, and soon my cheek is pressed against his chest. The steady rhythm I find there calms my rapid-fire thoughts.

"You're more than a hobbyist. Wanna know how I know?" he asks with a voice I could listen to all day. "You care too much. A hobby you can pick up and put down without a second thought, but a calling is part of who you are. Part of a purpose God made you to fulfill."

Tears fill my eyes as validation sings through me.

"Thank you." Slowly, I wipe the dampness from under my eyes. "You have a real gift in making people feel seen and heard. You're obviously in the right profession."

I expect his face to lift into a humble grin, but he remains stoic. "Afraid the jury's still out on that." Before I can ask him to explain, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out my phone. "You left this on the jump seat so I plugged it in for you."

"Oh, thanks."

"You had a few missed calls."

I tap on the home screen and find Tav's name in my notifications. He's probably wondering about his unfinished lyrics. When I look up, Micah's watching me intently, and the shift in his demeanor is enough for me to take note.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Nothing that can't wait until later. You should go make your call."

"Micah," I say, my concern growing. "What is it?"

"Tav's last name is Zuckerman."

"Yes." I furrow my brow. "That's right."

"Which means his father is Dorian Zuckerman, one of the business partners your dad worked with at TriplePlay Records and then later at Farrow Music?"

I nod, wracking my brain for relevance. "Yes, that's right, but—"

"He's mentioned all throughout my mom's journal entries, Raegan. Her mentions of him are ... favorable." His voice is hushed, and yet the emotion behind it causes a seed of nausea to sprout in my belly. "Your mom confirmed he was with them the summer of '94. He stayed back to manage the tour while your dad was away in Germany."

"No." My mouth forms the word, and yet it's barely audible as it passes my lips. "Dorian couldn't be your ... he can't be."

His next question is so quiet, and yet it echoes through my bones. "Tell me why not?"

Because you can't be related to my ex, I think. Because that kind of freakish irony is only reserved for soap operas and manufactured reality TV shows. "Because—because Dorian was already married to Donna by then. He was an honorable man," I say instead.

"Even honorable people make mistakes, Raegan," he says. "It's clear from my mom's entries that she was struggling with loneliness, and as for Dorian, I can't imagine being away from home for months at a time is easy on any marriage. The possibility of two people acting out of weakness seems like a viable option I shouldn't overlook."

I search his face, hating how logical he sounds about something so insufferable.

"But if he is your father, that would make Tav your..." I can't say it. I can hardly even think it.

"I know what it would make him." His voice is resolute as he stares off into the distance. "I didn't realize how connected Tav's family was—is—to yours."

"I told you I've known him all my life."

He nods and drops a pained gaze to my face, to my mouth. "You did."

I shake my head, hoping to shake off this entire subject. "Let's keep in mind that this is only speculation at this point. An educated guess. Nothing is confirmed yet. You need to talk to Mama."

"I know." He pushes a hand through his hair. "It just feels wrong talking to her before I get the chance to sit down with my dad."

"I know, but you're doing your best to navigate a difficult situation. There's grace for that." I give his arm a light squeeze before I take a step into the hallway. "I should go."

I'm halfway down the aisle when he says, "We should exchange numbers. Just in case."

"In case of what?" I smile and turn back. "We've barely been more than a bunk away from each other all week."

His only answer is a smile, so I rattle off the digits to him before I step from the bus to a busy sidewalk in what looks to be the heart of downtown Wichita. My good humor quickly fades as soon as I duck into the nearest coffee shop and begin to mentally prepare for the conversation ahead. After I order myself an iced white mocha, I pull up the cryptic email I'd sent Chip late last night, informing him I'd be calling with news today.

My nerves take a nose dive. Am I really going to do this? As I study Chip's simple reply of Call me anytime, I'll answer, my phone chimes with an incoming text from my newest contact.

Micah D., bus-driving ex-therapist:

I believe in you, Sunshine. You've got this.

I read his text over three times and can't help but bite the smile from my bottom lip in response to his encouragement. I give his text a thumbs-up in reply and secure a corner table. The second I'm seated, I tap Chip's contact.

Chip's phone rings twice.

"Raegan?"

"Hey, Chip. How are you?"

"More than a little curious at your email, to say the least. Hang on just a minute; let me close my office door." I hear the distinct sound of a door closing in the background and then, "Did you figure out who's behind it?"

"I believe so, unfortunately," I say. Cheater Peter's smug grin comes into focus.

"And by that response, I take it it's not someone you can negotiate with?" he asks.

"I'm afraid not."

"I'm sorry, I wish there was more I could do to help you."

I take a deep breath and feel my palms grow slick around the cold disposable cup. Am I actually doing this? I could still back out, still pretend not to know a thing about a secret tell-all when it all hits the fan. And then what? Cower as I watch my already fractured family deal with the aftermath of a scandal I could have assuaged with the mere stroke of my pen? And then I think of Micah's text: I believe in you. You've got this.

"Actually, I think you can help me, Chip." I wait two heartbeats and then push the rest of the words out. "What if we published a book about my family before the other one hits the shelves?"

There's a beat of silence before Chips asks, "We as in you and me?"

"Yes," I confirm. "We as in I write a book with exclusive content and eyewitness accounts regarding my mama's early romance with music and with my father when she met him in the mid '70s. He was the love of her life, and they were married for forty years when he passed away. I've never written nonfiction, but I know romance. It's what I read and what I love to write. If you think that's something Fog Harbor would be interested in acquiring, then I'd love for you to be my editor."

There's such a long silence that I pull the phone away from my ear to check the connection.

"I'm sorry, I'm just ... wow." He laughs then, big and full and bright. "I don't think I could be more shocked if you told me a pterodactyl was about to fly through my office window and deliver the sub sandwich I ordered for lunch." He clears his throat. "Am I right to assume you've reconsidered your position on using a pen name? Because it will be your name as Luella's daughter that will be the selling point on something like this."

"That's correct," I say, trying to shove the clickbait headlines of every viral video of me kissing Tav from my mind. Here we go again. "I'm willing to use my own name as long as you think it will create the diversion we need to undermine the tell-all."

"I absolutely think it will." I hear the click of computer keys in the background. "By cross-referencing a few publishing data sites online, my best guess is the tell-all is slotted to release within the first quarter of next year. I'm going to shoot straight with you, the turnaround time on your first draft will be tight. If you can send me a paragraph or two on your basic premise, and whatever supporting documents or extras you might be willing to include—old letters, pictures, etc.—then I'll work up a proposal over the weekend and set a meeting with the board on Monday for emergency approval. If they sign off like I think they will, I could have a contract to you by early next week. But, Raegan." His pause has me pressing the phone even closer to my ear. "I'll need at least the first fifty pages in-house by the end of the month and likely the finished first draft no later than the end of October. We'll have to move on this exceedingly fast to get it all the way through production in time for publication. Are you positive you have the capacity to take on a project of this caliber?"

My eyes widen as the weight of such a task sinks in. Three months to write a book about my family that they know nothing about. I try to push the guilt down to embrace Adele's words at face value. I'll tell them all after the concert. And then I think of how much writing I'll need to do over the course of the next week and just how little I know about structuring a book like this. And how the minute I get off this phone I'll need to search for the closest Apple Store and buy myself a new laptop. "I'm positive."

"Okay," Chips says, a whisper of disbelief still in his tone. I recognize the reaction, seeing as it's looping through my own brain at this very moment. "Then I suppose I better clear my schedule and start on that proposal."

"Thank you," I say, hoping he can't hear the way my voice trembles. "I'll do my best to get you a basic outline by the end of the day."

"Don't hesitate to text if you have any questions—day or night." His excitement is unmistakable, and I smile to think of what a book deal like this might mean for a young editor as deserving as Chip Stanton.

"Will do," I confirm.

"And Raegan, if we can pull this off and it's even a fraction of the success I think it can be, then I have every hope those readers will follow you anywhere you want to take them, even if that road leads to some of the best fiction I've read in years."

Tears flood my eyes as I work to swallow the thickness in my throat. This certainly isn't the road less traveled I'd imagined for myself as I hid in my mama's house, writing as a means of escape. Or the road I hoped would keep me anonymous to critics who will only see me as a product of nepotism. But perhaps the road less traveled wasn't the road meant for me. Perhaps this was always the path I was meant to take.

The road that follows a journey my mama paved for me decades before I was born.

A road that led me right here to this very moment.