Chapter 21

Raegan

Pulling an all-nighter on a writing deadline must take some practice because mine ended with twenty pages' worth of the letter g and a stiff neck. How on earth can it be after noon? I yawn and stretch my torso side to side in the hard desk chair, careful not to knock the open journals to the floor, and wonder at what point in my delirium I decided my keyboard would make for a decent pillow. I drag my cursor through the manuscript and highlight the evidence of my failed attempt to work till dawn and delete it back to the ten pages I managed to write before my forehead crashed into the middle of the alphabet. I blow out a frustrated sigh at the words that remain. Something's off with the story, and I don't know what. I used a template to create a digital timeline, inserted every important date I came across in Lynn's journals that pertained to my mama, and even drew out a plot web to get the creative juices flowing. And still, what's here isn't as compelling as I want it to be—need it to be.

The remnants of a dream linger in my subconscious, but it's not until I push the chair back in search of my morning caffeine fix that I feel the quilt slip from my shoulders and fall to the floor. The same quilt I'd used to cover Micah with last night.

Micah.

I spin and stare at the rumpled comforter where he'd slept as my mind replays the dream as if it's being streamed on a device with poor WiFi: Micah and Tav in the same room together, making uncomfortable small talk, all while Tav loops an arm around my waist and Micah refuses to meet my gaze.

I shake my head. It was just a dream. A nightmare is more like it, one that could easily become a reality if Micah's newest hypothesis is true. Where is he now?

After a quick stop to freshen up in the bathroom, I follow the lingering aromas of breakfast in search of coffee, but Dottie is the only person I find, and soon I'm locked in a discussion about the wonders of technicolor cinema. The woman is so gracious and hospitable, but after three attempts to escape in the name of a much-needed shower, my only hope is a one-for-one exchange: me for Hattie. When my sister comes down the stairs freshly showered and asking if she can hitch a ride into town to find some WiFi to call her children, I don't hesitate to slip away and return to my room.

Only when I do, I'm not alone.

I freeze in the doorframe of my bedroom, my mind short-circuiting in my verbal command center at the sight of my niece bent at the waist reading my secret project. And she's apparently so engrossed in the chapter she can't hear the alarm bells ringing inside my skull. I close the door behind me, and she jolts upright, whirling around with a hand pressed to her chest. Her smile comes instantaneously, as if the sight of me brings sweet relief. I wish I could say the same about her in this moment.

"Good morning, Auntie Rae. I was coming to brainstorm some lyrics with you"—she points to her Martin on my bed—"but when I saw Chapter One on your computer, I got completely sidetracked. I was hoping it was the sequel for Birch Grove." Her smile brightens. "How come you didn't tell me you were working on something new?"

I take a quick swig of my piping-hot coffee to lubricate my brain and hope I have enough esophagus left to speak. "It's nothing."

She laughs as if I'm trying to be modest. "Hardly. I was so sucked in. I didn't even realize until halfway through the first chapter how little I knew about Nonnie's early days in Idaho at that camp. Are you helping her write her memoir or something?" Her tone is innocent as she lifts one of the open journals on the desk. "I thought these old journals must be Nonnie's at first, but the handwriting is too different to be hers." She twists back. "Who's Lynn?"

An unexpected protectiveness rises in me at the thought of Lynn's journals being out in the open for anyone to read. I should have been more careful. I've grown as attached to her raw and honest reflections as I have to her son. "Those are private, Chey. All of that is."

She sets the journal down and backs away. Her cheeks bloom pink, and instantly I feel like my title of favorite auntie should be revoked.

"Oh gosh," she says. "I'm sorry. How rude of me, I should have asked you before I read something on your laptop, it's just I've always read your books, and I was excited and—"

"No, no." I exhale a shaky breath and set my coffee mug down. "It's okay."

Cheyenne and I have always been close. Of course she thought it was okay; she's been my unofficial beta reader for years. How was she supposed to know I'd be hiding a secret from literally everyone in my life outside of Micah and Chip?

"I was just surprised," I admit with a sigh.

Her uncertainty at my cryptic response is humbling, and I do my best to reassure her with a hug. Thankfully, she doesn't hesitate when she presses her clean curls to my shoulder. I don't know how she got my hair—yet another genetic mystery in the Farrow tree—but it's just one more connection to bond us.

"I really am sorry," she says. "I shouldn't have assumed it was okay."

When she pulls back, I study her, asking a silent question I already know the answer to. Can I trust you? Yes, I can.

"I'm writing something I haven't told anyone in our family about yet, but it's something I hope will help protect them from a true invasion of privacy in the future."

Her eyes grow round, and I nod toward the bed and then reclaim my coffee. She props her Martin against the desk, and together we settle onto the mattress, the way we used to when she was a preteen and I was visiting home for a weekend from college. It's strange to think that once upon a time this was her mother and me, just reversed. I can so easily picture Adele, coming into my room and asking if I needed any extra help with my math workbook. I was forever needing extra help with my math. But magically, when Adele explained fractions to me, I understood them. After I worked a few problems on my own, she'd reward me with a watermelon-flavored sucker, the kind with bubble gum inside. She'd eat one, too, and whoever could blow the biggest bubble at the end would get to choose the day's reward activity. If I won, I chose the bookstore with the biggest selection of children's books in the city, and if she won, she always chose some elaborate baking endeavor I was in no way qualified to assist with. I was probably the only fifth grader who knew how to make the perfect crème br?lée. The memory pricks me with bittersweet nostalgia, and for a moment I wish for nothing more than to go back to when things were less ... like how they are now.

I stare into Cheyenne's dark brown eyes and fill her in on everything that's happened with the tell-all up to this point, including my diversion tactic. Her shock is short-lived as indignation quickly takes the lead. The flash of injustice in her eyes is her mother's. "I've never wanted to hate someone more than Uncle Peter."

"I know." I grab her hand. "But hate speaks to what's in our heart more than his. That's something I have to remember, too."

She nods solemnly.

"You can't tell anyone about this, Chey. Not even Allie. I still need to get Nonnie's approval before I submit anything to Chip, and I can't do that until I have a few chapters in hand to show her. And I need them to be right."

Cheyenne ponders this. "What's not right about what you have now?"

I shrug and rub my forehead. "I'm not sure yet."

"May I?" Cheyenne gestures toward the desk and I nod, thinking she's going to read through my first draft again for critique. Instead, she picks up the open journal beside it, and I realize I never answered her earlier question.

"Those old travel journals belonged to Lynn Hershel before she became Lynn Davenport. She was Nonnie's original music partner and childhood best friend before the two went their separate ways in the early '90s. She was around long before Nonnie became Luella Farrow as the world knows her now." I pause, careful not to reveal more than what's mine to share. "She's also Micah's mother. She passed away a few months ago."

Her eyes snap to mine. "Micah as in your Micah?"

"Cheyenne," I chide.

"Sorry, but it's obvious he thinks you're like the best thing ever."

Her words create a spark I don't want to stamp out.

She flips through the journal, her interest seeming to grow with each page. "I always thought Nonnie and Papa met in Nashville."

"No, they actually met in Idaho at a summer camp the girls worked at when they were your age. Papa was on a national scouting trip when he heard Nonnie sing at a little chapel, then invited the girls to come to Nashville to meet with his label. Nonnie's loyalty and love for Lynn, for music, and for Papa were once an inseparable trio."

The mug stills and hovers in front of my lips as I hear those words repeat in my mind for a second and then third time.

"Auntie Rae?" Cheyenne asks, dipping her gaze to meet mine.

"I think I know what I need to add," I say on the back end of a whisper.

She peers at me quizzically.

"The thing that's felt off—the reason the story hasn't felt full enough to me yet." A terrifying elation swells in my core. "I can't tell Nonnie and Papa's love story without including Lynn. Her part is too important to the early narrative of, well, pretty much everything Nonnie wanted and worked for in those early years. And it's never been told before."

"I barely even know her name," my niece admits perfectly on cue.

"Which is precisely why her perspective will be valuable. She disappeared from the public eye for thirty years, and yet she helped shape Mama's entire future." I swallow. "She's still shaping it even now."

My fingers itch to get started with the revision of the first chapter, and I can't wait to talk to Micah about it.

"When do you hope to show Nonnie your book?"

"As soon as the festival weekend is over. I should have the contract in hand by then."

Cheyenne stands to retrieve her guitar and slides the strap over her shoulder. Some people have comfort blankets; Cheyenne has her music. She perches on the edge of the hard desk chair and forms chords but doesn't play them. "Mama asked me to stay on the trip through Watershed."

"She did? When did that happen?"

"After breakfast. Honestly, if I hadn't been there to witness it myself, I would have sworn Micah had hypnotized the whole family." She forms another chord and then strums. The low resonance of a minor chord fills the room, but I have half a mind to take the instrument away and demand her full attention. "Micah was in the kitchen with Mama and Nonnie when I got down there, and I'm not sure what happened, but they were both in good spirits. Like nothing was awkward. And then Aunt Hattie joined us, and Micah started asking some questions about our different kinds of communication styles, and soon everybody was chiming in with their thoughts and it was all so ... normal." Cheyenne lifts her head. "For like an hour there I felt like I was in a completely different family."

My heart swells to five times the size. Once again, Micah to the rescue.

"And then Mama asked me to talk to her on the patio, and she asked if I'd stay on this trip so we can talk more about what I want for the future. I said I would."

"Chey, do you really want to drop out of school?" I ask softly.

She stops strumming and pats the strings. "I told Nonnie last night that I don't want to work in finances or business—I loathe numbers. Music is my passion. Why would God give me a talent He didn't want me to use? Some days it seems like the only reason I keep going to those classes and working at the internship program is because I'm afraid to disappoint my family—my mother, especially. But fear can't be the reason I do or don't do something."

My chest thuds with resounding empathy. "Did Micah tell you that?"

She shakes her head. "I told myself that."

Whoever says this next generation doesn't have a clue about life should meet my niece. "It's wise."

"I'm open to hearing what my mama has to say, but I don't want to be in my thirties and feel obligated to a life I didn't choose and never wanted."

ThatI feel. So much so that I sink back into the mattress several inches while a sharp pain wiggles it's way under my ribs. How different would things be today if I'd asked God to show me how to use the talents He gave me when I was Cheyenne's age? And how different would things be if I'd learned to balance those plans with the needs of my family through real communication?

If Lynn's journals have taught me anything, it's that. I wonder how much of Lynn and my mother's friendship could have been saved if they'd talked to each other sooner. If they had believed the best about each other. If they had shared their hurts and fears and rejections before it was too late. There's a thundering of conviction in my chest that's impossible to ignore.

Despite Lynn's faults, she raised a son who thrives on the very thing she struggled with most, so much so that he was willing to step into my family's mess even while in the midst of his own.

"Do you know where I can find Micah?" I ask Cheyenne as she strums a melody as beautiful as her soul.

"Last I saw, he was out back, talking to Nonnie."