Chapter 19

Raegan

Despite Cheyenne's offer to search for "decent accommodations" in Scarecrow, Kansas, after 4.6 miles of walking in the blistering heat, none of our cell phones show even a single bar of signal strength. At the risk of sounding like a completely ignorant American, I didn't even realize there were still places in the US without cell coverage. Or people who would voluntarily choose to live in those places. But as we stand at the entrance to a gravel driveway arched by a wooden sign with the words No Place Like Home Inn carved into it ... it looks like we're about to introduce ourselves to some such people.

Outside of a silo and two equipment barns, this is literally the first sign of civilization we've seen. And we're all too tired, thirsty, and hot to debate the poor manners of knocking on a stranger's door. Even Mama, who under normal circumstances would throw a fit about dropping by unannounced, is far too flushed to care. Micah expressed his concern over her exertion level several times in the last hour, but without shade or alternative transportation, there's been little choice for us but to keep walking. At one point, he soaked his T-shirt with water from his water bottle and draped it around her neck. Naturally, she protested him fussing over her so much, but she didn't take it off. Unfortunately, his selfless act didn't come without a cost. His shoulders and upper back are going to remind him of his sacrifice for at least a day until the redness fades into his established tan.

"I'll do the talking for us," Adele says as soon as we approach the inn. "It will be less overwhelming if only one of us explains our situation to the owner."

Micah gives me the side-eye I've come to expect, and I raise him an eye roll. Just like I'd warned earlier, Adele had commanded our troop of six like we were a military operation. I study the older two-story farmhouse, which from the outside looks to be at least a hundred years old, though well-loved and equally well-maintained. The closer we get to the front door, the larger the dwelling becomes. Even the charming wrap-around front porch, which looked tiny from the road, now seems anything but as I count six empty rocking chairs. I sweep my gaze over the interesting choice of emerald-green shutters surrounded by dusty white shiplap siding. Even if this isn't an actual inn that houses traveling strangers like us, I'm hoping whoever lives here can spare a few glasses of sweet tea and will be able to point us in the right direction. Or be a mechanic who can work magic on Old Goldie.

"You should probably take this back," Mama says, handing the damp, wrinkled shirt back to Micah. "I'm not sure I'd open the door if I saw a shirtless man standing on the other side of it."

"I would. Especially if he looked like that," Hattie says under her breath, and I elbow her in the ribs as Micah pulls the shirt back over his head. And though I'd never admit it to my older sister, I'm ninety-nine percent sure I'd answer that door, too.

Adele reaches for the ornate bronze knocker in the middle of the door, and it's only then I recognize it's shaped in the face of the cowardly lion ... from The Wizard of Oz. She pulls back the bottom half of his beard and knocks it against the wood.

A moment later the door opens to reveal a middle-aged woman with peppery hair pulled back in a loose braid, wearing a blue checkered apron and holding a wooden spoon ... which is currently dripping something whipped onto her canvas shoe. "Oh, goodness. Well, hello there!" she greets us with a broad smile, looking from Adele to the rest of our sweaty crew. "I should probably save you nice folks some time. If you're here to try and sell me something, I probably already own it. And if you're here to try and sell me someone, I definitely already know Him. I've been trusting in Jesus since before I knew how to make a decent pie. And I don't much like to think about life before pie." She shudders.

Once again, Micah and I share a glance.

Adele appears so off-guard that she actually stutters, "N-no, ma'am, we're not here to sell anything or anyone for that matter. We're sorry to bother you, but our bus broke down a few miles back, and we're hoping you might have a phone we could use to call a tow truck."

She steps further out onto her porch and glances left and right. "Where did you break down?"

Hattie points exaggeratedly. "Exactly four-point-six miles that way."

"But there's nothing but wheat farms out that way." The woman gasps. "Did you walk all the way here in this heat?" When her gaze falls on Mama's flushed cheeks, I'm worried she's recognized her, but then she exclaims, "Please, please, come inside where it's cool. I'm happy to help. Nobody should be out in this heat—not even if it's Jesus you're selling. I've just finished up a French silk pie, and I have some iced tea in the fridge to share."

"Thank you, ma'am. We appreciate your help," I say just as Mama teeters on her feet.

"Nonnie?" Cheyenne calls out. On sheer instinct, I open my arms to catch Mama's frail, fainting frame just as Micah swoops in to lift her from me as if she weighs no more than a paper doll.

"Mother!" Adele cries as Hattie calls out, "She needs water!"

I'm completely mute as fear sweeps through me.

"Good gracious, bring her inside to the sofa." The woman waves us through an entryway so plastered in knickknacks it would take more than ten minutes to process everything in this space. But one thing's for certain: I can definitely understand why she said she didn't need anything we might be selling. It would appear she has one of everything already, especially if it's in any way related to Dorothy's magical journey to Oz.

"The green velvet one there is fine. I'll get some ice water and some cool washcloths. Poor thing's probably got heatstroke."

Cheyenne follows after the woman to help while Micah lays Mama down.

The three of us sisters crowd around her, and thankfully in a matter of a few seconds Mama opens her eyes and blinks up at us. Her brow rumples as much as it can, given she's had every fountain-of-youth facial treatment imaginable. But even though my mama might look forty, she's nearly seventy. And something about that revelation punches me through the heart. And by the looks of it, Micah is having a similar reaction. His brows are furrowed as he watches her every movement.

"Oh, phooey," Mama says, coming to. "Did I make a dramatic entrance I hadn't planned on?"

"Mama." I drop to my knees in front of her and take her hand. "That was really scary. How are you feeling now? Are you dizzy?"

"Just a bit parched is all," Mama amends.

"Well, I don't want you leaving this couch until we're certain you're okay," Adele says in her usual take-charge way.

"I'll be just fine after a sip of water and a decent sit-down." She smiles and pushes herself up to a seated position.

Micah plants a hand on Mama's shoulder. "I agree with Adele, Luella. You should take it easy while we figure out a plan for the bus."

There's a protest brewing in Mama's gaze when we're interrupted by our gracious host.

"Oh good, you're awake." She hands Mama a giant glass of ice water, and Cheyenne folds a damp wash cloth to blot Mama's forehead with. "That was quite a scare."

"I'm feeling fine now, thank you." Mama takes a few ladylike sips of water. "We'd like to repay you, Ms...."

"I go by Dottie. And there's no repayment necessary. Hospitality shouldn't be the exception but the rule. At least, that's been my motto ever since I opened my home as an inn."

"You have a beautiful home," I comment, noticing the life-size statue of Scarecrow standing guard next to the staircase. I'd hate to run into him in the middle of the night. "You must be quite a fan of The Wizard of Oz."

"Fan is putting it mildly, sweetheart, but yes. I'm a strong believer that there's no place like home." She winks as Micah steps forward.

"Dottie, may I trouble you for your house phone and a ... phone book?" The look on Micah's face is so iconic I nearly laugh. I'd bet money my niece has never seen a phone book in her young life.

Dottie waves her hand in the air and starts for the kitchen. "Of course, but I'll save you the trouble of calling around. There's a large service station about two hours east, but my brother Billy owns the local mechanic shop just ten minutes up the road. You would have run straight into it if you could have kept on driving."

"You've got to be kidding me," Hattie mutters as she collapses into a winged-back chair across from Mama, one with tiny ruby slippers printed all over it.

"I'm sure Billy can help get a tow figured out for your rig, too."

Micah follows Dottie into the kitchen, but not before he sends a pleading look in my direction.

I situate myself next to Mama and waggle my eyebrows at him. Good luck, I mouth an instant before he disappears into Oz.

I've never bought into the superstition that bad news comes in threes ... until today. Not only did our bus break down in the middle of nowhere, forcing Cheyenne to miss her second flight back to California, but after hours of waiting to hear from Micah after he left for town with a man who could be Harrison Ford's twin brother, the part we need replaced on the bus will take a minimum of twenty-four hours to get to Billy's shop. And that's with paying all the expedited fees to rush it. Bottom line: without transportation and working phones, we're stuck in Scarecrow, Kansas, for at least a full day.

Thankfully, good news also seems to come in threes, or at least that's how I'm choosing to look at it. After feeding us all generous slices of French silk pie, Dottie kindly offered us lodging in her six-bedroom inn for however long we need. And to no one's surprise, Dottie's impressive Oz collection doesn't stop downstairs. Nope, each of the six rooms is themed. According to our host, the inn has fallen on hard times due to the economy, but with some minimal dusting and a few quick linen changes, I'm happy to report our group managed to reset the place for guests in no time at all.

We set Mama up in the Glinda the Good Witch room, which is everything tulle and sparkly and pink, like Mama. Adele and Cheyenne—despite the unresolved issues between them—agreed to take the lofted Tin Man Suite that holds two queen beds and hosts a large en suite bathroom. Hattie took the Wizard's room, decorated in an elaborate landscape of the Emerald City. She's documented every square inch of the inn to show her kids once she's able to find WiFi. And I set up camp in the Cowardly Lion's quarters, the only room with a desk suitable for working on a secret writing project.

I made sure to save the best accommodations for Micah, though.

Sometime after seven, he pounds on my door and steps inside with horror-filled eyes. "Do you happen to know why there are creepy, oversize bats hanging from my ceiling?"

I lean back in my chair and stifle a laugh behind my hand. "Those aren't bats; they're flying monkeys."

He stares at me as if I'm a flying monkey. "Raegan, I realize we didn't grow up in the same part of the country, but I've never seen anything close to that in a zoo." He slips off the backpack he's wearing and opens it to reveal his mother's journals for me to reference in my writing endeavors. It was beyond considerate of him to anticipate my need for them. Lynn's date-keeping will come in handy in these early chapters.

"Micah, thank you, that was incredibly nice of you to—"

But Micah is not ready to move on yet. "What is with all the weird stuff in this house? Did you see the stuffed dog in the dining room?" He drops his voice. "I've never been so disturbed while eating pie in my life. I kept waiting for him to leap up on the table and rip out my throat."

"Relax," I laugh. "Dottie's allergic to animals. That Toto dog was never a real dog. She found a perfect replica in Japan and had it shipped."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better about the mental state of our hostess? Do you forget what I do for a living?"

"She's an avid collector," I defend.

"Of what?" He throws up his arms. "The things night terrors are made of?"

"No, of The Wizard of Oz." I narrow my eyes at him. "Wait—have you never seen it?"

"No, and I have to admit, she's not really selling me on it, either."

I gape at him. "You've never seen Judy Garland sing ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow' or skip down the yellow brick road with Tin Man, Scarecrow, and the Cowardly Lion?"

"If I didn't know you better, I'd request a drug test."

"Micah, that movie is considered an American classic."

"Technically speaking, my first car was also considered an American classic," he deadpans, "and the heater only worked when the radio was tuned to AM."

I laugh like I haven't laughed in years, and it feels so undeniably good after the last few days we've survived together.

He waits till I've recovered from wiping my eyes before asking, "How's your mom doing tonight?"

"She seems back to her normal spunky self—which you know is hardly normal at all."

"That's good." His chuckle falls flat, and I see the tension on his face for the first time.

"Hey," I say gently. "You alright?"

"Yeah, I've just been worried about her."

And it's then I realize how close to home my mama's fainting spell must have hit for him. "Oh, Micah, I'm sorry. She's okay now, really."

He nods and clears his throat, then points to the open document on my laptop. "And how's that going?"

"Slow, but having your mom's journals to reference for the timeline of events will be so helpful. Thanks for bringing them. I have to figure out a way to send this off to Chip tomorrow morning somehow. I'm already late on it."

"We'll get it figured out." He plops onto my bed, then positions himself so that his back rests against my headboard. With a yawn, he scans my entire room. "Hey, why don't you have any demon creatures hanging from your ceiling?"

"Because not all of us can be as lucky as you." I study the tired lines of his face. He looks more than tired, really. He looks exhausted. Thinking back over the last twenty-four hours, I honestly don't know how he's still upright.

"You should get some sleep, Micah. You've been going nonstop since the hotel this morning."

"I will. I just need a minute to work up the courage to return to my room first. I know what would help, though."

"What's that?"

"If you read me what you have so far."

"What? No." I laugh nervously. "It's not even edited yet, and I barely know what I'm doing—"

"I don't care, I just want to hear you read." His shoes drop to my floor in a tandem thud, and he closes his eyes. "Consider it my bedtime story."

My cheeks heat. "You're ridiculous."

"So you've mentioned a time or two."

Realizing he's serious about not exiting my room until he gets his way, I twist back to my screen and scroll up to the first of the six pages I managed to write after dinner. The quiet of this house has been a timely gift, and I'm planning to take full advantage of the private quarters for as long as we're here. Not having to worry as much about my sisters accidentally barging in on a writing session has lowered my anxiety by half.

I clear my throat and start to read the first chapter. I'm only three pages in when I hear the deep throaty exhale that defines the unconscious. I turn to find Micah slumped on a stack of pillows and fast asleep on top of my bed.

I debate waking him and forcing his return to the Flying Monkey room, but then I recall all the selfless things he's done for my family today and decide to let him rest peacefully a while longer. Besides, it's not like I'm going to need my bed tonight. My afternoon nap gave me a second wind, and at the rate this manuscript is coming along, I might not sleep again until deadline day. An unexplainable exhilaration zips through me at the thought: I'm going to be a published author.

I stand and pull the quilt off the end of the bed, unfold it, and tuck it around Micah using the traditional burrito-style technique my mama always used on me. The blanket's edge barely extends over his long legs. But even with a few accidental knee bumps to the mattress and the fumbling of my under-practiced tucking skills, Micah doesn't stir.

Yet something inside my chest most definitely does.

April 10, 1982

Nashville

Dear Chickee,

I wish there weren't so many miles between us. I know you tell me not to worry about you, but I can't help it. I suppose it's similar to how you must worry about me even though I try my best to convince you I couldn't possibly be better. On many fronts, this is true. We have sold-out shows booked through the end of the year and a southern state tour we're getting ready to start next month, but I'm lonely. I haven't actually said that out loud to anyone for fear of sounding ungrateful, which is the same reason I keep so many thoughts to myself these days.

A few weeks ago, I felt brave enough to address the increasing number of tabloids featuring either my perceived jealousy of Luella, my lack of suitors, or my undesirable figure to our label, hoping they might step in or at least offer a solution. Instead, Dorian did his best to convince me that any publicity is good no matter the topic. But who exactly is it good for? I can't imagine how unflattering pictures of my backside increase sales.

Luella is often featured in the rags, only the articles written about her are either about her impeccable style or which celebrity she's rumored to have flirted with. How is it our fans find Luella's singleness mysterious while they find mine matronly?

I miss you,

Lynn

November 17, 1982

Nashville

Dear Chickee,

I moved into my own home two weeks ago. I took pictures of it today so I can bring an album with me before I fly out to see you next month. The house has everything I asked for, even a guest room I named after you. I had it painted your favorite shade of blue, and it has tall bookshelves, a television, and a large window overlooking a grove of red and black maples. There's even a Bible on the nightstand. It makes me feel closer to you. I miss hearing you pray. And I miss the prayer rocks you used to write on and have me scatter in the garden out back. How many rocks do you think you've written on by now? Thousands, probably. Maybe someday I'll start a prayer garden just like yours. Of course, that would mean I'd need to start praying regularly again. It's been a while.

Do you ever get tired of the quiet, Chickee? I thought this transition would be easier than living in a house where I often felt more like an accessory rather than a best friend. But that was before I knew how this much silence would remind me of the Monster.

Saturday is Luella and Russell's "official wedding," and just like Troy predicted, the world has gone absolutely mad for it. For a man obsessed with Luella's public perception, Troy was the mastermind behind Russell's onstage proposal last summer at our Dallas concert. Do you know what the press calls them? Nashville's Fairy-Tale Couple.

It makes me wonder if all fairy tales start off as a lie.

It makes me wonder if I might be living one, too.

Lynn

September 2, 1983

Dear Chickee,

Luella and Russell are having a baby! With as off as things have felt between us all since their official wedding ceremony, this news brought so much joy to my heart. I'm going to be an auntie! As you know, I've never seen myself having kids, so Luella's children will be as close as I come to experiencing "maternal bliss."

Baby Farrow is all anyone can talk about on the media—which is both a relief and a blessing. No more awful backside pictures of me to report. Just pictures of Luella's rounding tummy. Perhaps this baby will be what sets all things right again. I hope so.

Lynn

P.S. I've already sent you this in a letter, so you better start working on a blanket now. Luella's due in late February.

August 27, 1987

My heart refuses to believe you're gone.

Jan 1, 1989

Nashville

Dear Chickee,

I made a New Year's resolution three years ago that I'd start these up again—for you. I bought this blue journal days after your funeral, but it's done a better job of collecting dust than thoughts.

I spent Christmas at the Farrows' this year. Little Adele offered to share her Strawberry Shortcake bed with me, and I must have read Where the Wild Things Are to Hattie at least a dozen times. I envy her energy and spunk, although the new prescription Troy ordered me is helping, despite what Luella says. It's hard to take advice from someone whose life has always been next to perfect.

Lynn

June 14, 1991

Portland, Oregon

Dear Chickee,

Luella and I realized over dinner that neither of us has been back to this part of the country since our first road trip in Lima Bean, God rest her soul. I'm embarrassed to say I sobbed the day she refused to start up for me. In a way, she felt like the last piece of the girl I was when I still believed dreams could be shared forever.

Franklin invited me to go stargazing with him tonight outside the city. I've mentioned him to you before, haven't I? He's our driver. He's not nearly as polished as the trio, and I think that's why I like him so much. He says what he thinks and doesn't much care about what others think of him. At least, not in the way I've been trained to. He's an odd mix of rugged and gentle, and he talks about fishing and camping the way I used to talk about music and God with Luella in the early days. I hope he's our driver again next year.

Missing you always,

Lynn

July 5,1993

Austin, Texas

Dear Chickee,

We played a huge show last night on our Patriot tour, and I couldn't help but feel the growing tension between Troy and Russell. I asked Luella about it backstage, but she refused to break Russell's confidence. I reminded her that Russell is not only her husband but also our shared manager and that I have a right to know what's going on. Once upon a time, it was my secrets she cared about keeping most, but those loyalties seem long gone now. She's a wife and a mother, not to mention the original sweetheart of country music. It's hard to know where I fit in that equation anymore. Even after all these years, I'm still living in her shadow. I said as much to her after the show, but she was too focused on saying goodnight to her girls to respond back to me.

I started riding in the jump seat next to Franklin at the start of this summer tour rather than in the back with the Farrows. At first, Franklin didn't say much about the change, but he can't seem to keep his thoughts in his head for too long. He asked me why I never sleep more than a few hours at night and why I only pick at my food during meals. I was surprised he'd noticed, but he told me he's noticed a lot more than that when it comes to me. Sometimes I can't decide if I'm insulted by his honesty or intrigued by it.

Today he asked about the pills I take. I explained to him that they are prescription and that I've taken them for well over a decade now. He said prescriptions can be wrong. I told him bus drivers can be wrong, too.

Lynn

September 16, 1993

Nashville

Dear Chickee,

The mounting tension I've felt for months between the trio was revealed when Russell finally announced he was breaking away from TriplePlay Records to start his own label, Farrow Music Productions. To say the least, the meeting where it all came to a head was explosive. First, Russell accused Troy of cheating the company, then Troy retaliated by threatening Russell with a lawsuit if he even thinks of pulling Luella and me off his label. But Russell stood his ground like a sentinel, flashing a folder of receipts and telling Troy that if he so much as parks his sports car near our homes, he'll be subpoenaed.

I wish I could say I understood the reasons why Luella and Russell kept their discoveries a secret, but by the time they brought me into the loop, the decisions had already been made, and it's difficult to feel much of anything but hurt. Luella says leaving TriplePlay will be the best thing for all of us as Troy is nothing more than a wolf in sheep's clothing. Only, Troy isn't the one who kept me in the dark for months and made plans on my behalf without my knowledge. In a way, I can empathize with the betrayal I read on Troy's face during that meeting. I feel it, too.

Dorian left with Russell to become a partner of Farrow Music shortly after the split. I am grateful to have a familiar face at the studio. He still makes me laugh, even on the days I want to cry.

Because of all the changes, there was no tour scheduled this summer. I didn't realize how much I would miss seeing Franklin until June rolled into July. There's so much about this year that has felt off, but not sitting next to him, talking through the night the way we used to, has felt especially so. I wondered if he might have been feeling the same way since I got a letter from him out of the blue. I read it over four times before I replied. I hope he writes again. It will help the time pass before he's driving us around on tour again next summer.

Lynn

August 8, 1994

It's our last night of driving before we're back home in Nashville, and Franklin has just told me he loves me. It's both the best and worst thing he could have done. I told him I'm not the marrying type of gal and that if he knew what was good for him, he'd choose to love someone else. Someone less damaged, less lost. He refuted every one of my arguments and told me he won't change his mind, but he'll pray I change mine. He's so stubborn!

Even if I could allow myself to feel the same way about him, I know it would never work between us. Franklin would hate living under a microscope here in Tennessee, and I'm bound by my contract with Farrow Music for another five years. Russell's been in Germany working out the details for our first international tour next year, and Luella's been so focused on his homecoming that it feels like the only time we see each other is when we're on stage performing.

But friendship isn't meant to be a performance.

Friendship is meant to be communicating and sharing and connecting and commiserating. Together.

I've been so desperate to talk to someone who understands this push-pull tension I feel, and yet when I had Franklin right there in front of me, I pushed him away.

Lynn