Chapter 25

Raegan

After we said good-bye to the yurts, I spent the long driving day that followed writing from the jump seat of the bus while Micah played lookout for any approaching family members via his interior mirror. Thankfully, I'd managed to complete and polish the first three chapters of the memoir due to Chip after the festival—barring Mama's approval, that is.

As soon as we'd parked in Crescent City, California, last night, I'd mapped a rideshare to the nearest office-supply store to print out a hard copy for Mama since she loathes reading on screens, and I covered up the errand by offering to make a grocery run for fresh produce and snacks. My family was more than happy to provide me with their shopping lists. And despite his road weariness, Micah had volunteered to escort me.

Which meant he was with me when Chip's email came through in the checkout line.

Raegan,

As expected, the publication board was thrilled with our proposal. Attached is the first draft of your contract. We can discuss specifics once you have a chance to review it in detail. Does tomorrow work for a call? I'd like to get a writing update from you, as well.

Chip Stanton

Acquisition Editor

Fog Harbor Books

Now a beautiful new day has dawned. And I'm blessedly alone as I comb through each section of the contract, awaiting my phone call with Chip. I'm struck by how surreal this moment is. Three weeks ago, I'd been convinced a partnership with Fog Harbor Books wasn't in the cards for me. And yet here I am, sitting on a bench overlooking the Pacific Ocean and planning to sign an author contract under my real name. My initial review did clarify one thing: the shocking offer Fog Harbor is willing to advance me for this book will eventually need the attention of a lawyer as long as Mama gives me her blessing. Perhaps Adele's cautious thinking has influenced me more than I realized.

I snuggle into the oversize sweatshirt I borrowed this morning that still smells faintly of campfire, and as if sensing the action from afar, the owner of said sweatshirt texts me an update of his beach excursion with my family.

Micah D., bus-driving ex-therapist:

We're still out collecting shells. Should be headed back your way by eleven. Does that give you enough time, or do I need to stall? Your mom wants to be at the Redwoods by early afternoon.

Raegan:

Timing is great. Thanks again for escorting them to the beach this morning. I owe you. My call is in five minutes. I have my list of questions ready.

It's almost two minutes before Micah texts back, and when he does, I analyze the five words as if they were five paragraphs.

Micah D., bus-driving ex-therapist:

Wish you were with us.

On the surface his sentiment is sweet and endearing, but I saw the reservation in his eyes last night when the contract came through to my phone. I know he's concerned that the cart is way too far ahead of the horse, but this is still my best option. If I only get one chance to win Mama's blessing on this project, then it's vital I understand everything involved—including the proposed publishing contract. I've gone through it line by line three times now, and after some extensive Googling in my bunk, I feel fairly confident.

At least, until I think about everything I've kept from my family.

As quickly as the guilt moves in, I remind myself that I only have a couple more days to keep this secret. And didn't Adele ask me to keep the peace and limit all distractions until after the festival?

My decision is for the greater good. Mama will see that; I know she will. And her vote is the one that will matter most.

When Chip calls, we spend the first fifteen minutes rehashing the meeting he had with the Fog Harbor executives in greater detail—their elation over the exclusive proposal, the specific deal points of the contract, the marketing plans they'll put into motion as soon as the contract is executed. Through it all, Chip's enthusiasm over this project is impossible to miss.

"Raegan, I don't want to add any pressure to your plate, but is the timeline we discussed still on track?"

I rub my lips together, thinking through the agenda for the next few days. Per Mama's request, we'll spend the afternoon at the Redwoods, then do another long stretch of driving tonight in order to get her to the outdoor amphitheater in George, Washington, a full twenty-four hours before her first performance. Adele had spent the majority of the bus ride yesterday confirming rundowns and makeup and backstage-interview schedules. Since Daddy's passing, she doesn't trust the details to anyone else. Not even the talent managers on her payroll.

"Yes, as soon as my mother is able to read and approve the sample chapters, I plan to send the signed contract back to you. My hope would be after the weekend."

Chip is quiet for a moment. "And what do you think the chances are of her not approving it?"

I inhale a fresh pull of ocean air and fill my lungs. The truth: I can't imagine Mama protesting after she reads what I've written, especially since her heart has been so open with us after Lynn's passing. "Slim."

"That's good to hear." He sounds relieved. "I hope it will be a productive and positive conversation for you both."

"I appreciate that. And I appreciate everything else you've done for me and my family."

"It's been my honor. Who knew when Allie introduced me to her roommate's aunt at the Christmas party last year that this would be happening now?" He's quiet for a moment. "Celebrity memoirs are popular for a variety of reasons—but I think what you're working on has the potential to reach past our basic fascination with fame. One of the things we discussed in the meeting was your use of the word legacy in the proposal. Few people take the time to reflect on the legacy that's been left for them, much less the one they're leaving for the next generation. I hope you'll continue to explore that as you work. It's the perfect union to some of the themes you wrote about in your fiction. "

I watch a wave break against a giant rock formation fifty feet or so away from the shore and ponder the weight of his words. "I don't think I've thought of it like that before."

"The editor I used to work with, Ingrid, always said, ‘Perspective is the most powerful tool in a storyteller's arsenal.' It's how she sold me on Allie's fantasy series."

I smile, thinking of the tall, quirky brunette who'd become a treasured friend over the last year. "How is Allie? Is her first book still slotted for next year?" My niece is already planning to preorder at least a hundred copies for everyone she knows. When the girl supports someone she cares about, she goes all out. I have been a recipient of such love for some time now. I only hope I can return her generosity of spirit in equal measure one day.

"Allie is..." The hesitation in Chip's voice catches my notice. The same way the memory of him escorting her to the Christmas party did last December. Only, Chip has a girlfriend now. And despite what I hoped, that girlfriend is not Allie.

"Allie's like a sunflower in a forest of pine trees," he finally concludes.

"Wow, that almost sounds poetic."

"Not if you realize how stubborn sunflowers can be," he says with mock jest. "They just pop up wherever and whenever they want."

"And yet they're still stunning wherever they grow."

"Right, well—" he clears his throat—"we'll touch base soon, Raegan. Safe travels."

After we end the call, I search the heavens overhead and ponder the connection between legacies and life, and one question circles my heart and mind: Will the book I'm writing play a part in my own legacy one day?

My family came back to the bus from their time at the ocean with salty, mussed hair and wind-chapped cheeks. But even more than that, their postures spoke of the kind of peace nature invokes. A peace I was only just now beginning to recognize thanks to Micah's passionate insight. Even Adele seemed uncharacteristically calm, despite the list of last-minute details she was confirming with Mama's bandmates, production team, and styling crew.

The drive to Redwood National Forest was less than an hour away, and I'd been more than a little surprised when Adele had offered me the only other nausea-proof seat on the bus—which also happened to double as the best workspace on the bus, as well—since I'd given the jump seat to Mama. Instead, Adele set up her office in the back bedroom for the day. The thoughtful gesture made a ripple of affection course through me, which was immediately followed by a ripple of anxiety. Would she understand why I'm doing this?

"Once we see the park signs, I believe we take the second entrance into the park," Mama speculates from up front. She's been a chatty navigator on this short stretch of coastal highway, and Micah's amused gaze has flickered to find mine in the rearview several times. "Although, hmm, on second thought, perhaps I better reference the pictures in this map book again. Things look a smidge different now than they did in the seventies."

"I hate to break it to you, Luella, but this beast isn't exactly known for its tight turning radius. We may only get one shot at finding the location you're after once we get into the park."

"Don't you worry your handsome head about that. I'll find it. I just need to make sure this map matches my memory is all." Mama goes back to studying the guidebook she picked up, and Micah gives me a wink in the rearview.

Cheyenne plunks down beside me and sets a spiral seashell as big as my palm on the table between us. "Aunt Hattie and I went shell hunting this morning. She found a few treasures for Anabelle and Aiden, and I found this one for you. It didn't seem fair you were stuck in your bunk while we got to experience the ocean."

The guilt is creeping in again. Cheyenne knows nothing about my call with Chip. The tangled web of omissions is more difficult to manage while stuck on a three-hundred-square-foot bus. "Ah, that was sweet of you." I tip my head to hers. "I love it." I run my finger over the cool inside of the pink shell while Cheyenne hums a chorus she came up with during her beach walk. She's only strung a few words together as of yet, but her melody is so addictive I can't help but harmonize.

Mama flips around from her jump seat. "Bring your guitar along with us today, sweetheart. We're going to need it."

Cheyenne's eyebrows scrunch into a V. "On the hike, Nonnie?"

"We won't be walking too far," Mama says before she turns to face front again.

"Okay, I'll bring it." My niece looks to me, but I can only shrug. I have no idea what Mama has planned.

Hattie joins us at the table, showing us the videos she took for her kids at the ocean, and then the videos they've sent to her from Greece so far. A stone balcony with a view of a jewel-tone coastline and a sky at sunset linger in the background like a tempting visitor. I know I shouldn't be awed by it, but it's stunning. The kids are goofy and giddy, and even though they appear happy and well cared for, I watch my sister's chin quiver just before she shuts it off.

I wish I had the words to soothe her heart, but I touch her hand instead, hoping to remind her I'm here just the same.

A second after Mama scares us all to death with a shriek over her discovery of the spot she's been searching for on the map, Adele cracks the back bedroom door open with her laptop in hand.

"Mother," she hollers to be heard, "did you know Travis Knight was asked to replace Jim Labarro at the festival?"

Mama twists back and frowns. "I heard that was a possibility, seeing as Jim's been in and out of the hospital."

"It's official now." Adele groans and comes out to plop on the sofa. "Here's hoping his agent has finally retired—or better yet, been blacklisted from the industry."

"The Gorge is a ginormous venue, darling. It will be easy to keep our distance."

"That's much easier for you to say when I'm the one who will be stuck with him behind the scenes while he ogles and comments about every young female in proximity." Adele gives a full-body shiver, and I don't know whether to be alarmed or intrigued by her comments. I'm not often privy to shop talk when it comes to the music label, but this conversation feels more personal than professional.

"Who's Travis's agent?" I ask.

"Troy Rigger," Adele provides with an eye roll. "He's an old ex-business partner of Daddy's and a real piece of work. I don't know how he still has clients willing to be represented by him." Her eyes flit from me to her daughter. "Actually, now that I think of it, I want you to steer clear of him, Cheyenne. There's some bad history between Papa and Troy, and it would be best for you to keep your distance."

The familiarity of his name surfaces quickly. Two weeks ago, the only thing I knew about Daddy's life as a talent agent in the '70s and '80s was the name of the label he once represented at TriplePlay Records. But Lynn's journal entries had painted the once gray-scale history of their past in vivid color. This man was the one supplying diet pills to Lynn for nearly two decades, the same one obsessed with keeping my mother's sex appeal and desirability first and foremost, even after she was married to my dad.

"There it is!" Mama exclaims. "That's the entrance for the trail we need."

Adele closes her laptop and perches on the sofa as Micah traverses the tight curves and slows for the speed bumps. It's only been minutes since we were on the highway, yet I feel as if we've been transplanted inside another universe altogether. It's as if each of us has shrunk to the size of one of Mama's woodland figurines and been placed inside a garden bed. Only, it's not that any of us have shrank, but that the nature around us has been magnified by a factor of ten or twenty. Even from the outskirts of the forest, the massive size of these tree trunks makes it seem like we've entered a fantasy set in a land of giants.

Minutes after parking, we trail after Mama, gobsmacked by our surroundings. Cheyenne has her guitar strapped to her back, and my sisters seem to be doing exactly what I'm doing: straining our necks to glimpse the top of the redwood trees. It's not possible. I stumble over roots and debris more times than I can count, but thankfully, Micah's arm is always in the right place at the right time for me to steady myself on.

"Incredible, isn't it?" His voice is hushed as we circle a fallen tree trunk wider than the length of my SUV. Maybe even the length of our tour bus.

"You've been here before?"

"About a decade ago. It was my mom's idea, actually. Unusual since she was such a homebody. She didn't often accompany us on the road," he says. "We set up camp not too far from here." He slows and glances around the forest. "She went off on a long walk one afternoon. We were afraid she must have gotten turned around out here, as much of the forest looks the same. The three of us split up to search the area. I remember it well because I was the one to find her." He stops and points to the place where my mama has stopped. "Right there."

Near the base of a small wooden bridge arched over a slow but steady stream of water is Mama. For close to a minute, we watch her ... until one by one, the five of us gather behind her in anticipation of what's to come.

When she finally rotates to face us, her cheeks are damp, and her voice tender. "Forgive me, I didn't realize how I would feel seeing it again after all this time." Her gaze sweeps over my sisters until it lands on Micah. "Lynn and I cowrote our first song together while sitting right here, on this bridge. There were many choices for us in those early days and years, some we took, others we skipped. It's what ‘Crossing Bridges' is all about: friends who love each other enough to cross them together or not at all."

"My family will always cherish the award you sent her, Luella," Micah says quietly.

Mama shakes her head. "She deserved so much more than that trophy. I wish I would have taken that step decades sooner."

I look between the two of them, at the unspoken truths no one says out loud.

Because the truth is, their reunion was little more than a short-lived good-bye.

"It meant the world to her," Micah confirms.

Mama's eyes swim with tears, and it pains me to watch her grieve. "And your mama meant a great deal to me." Her chin quivers. "Out of respect for your family and town, I chose not to attend her memorial service. It didn't seem right after missing so many years of her life." She takes in a shuddered breath. "But with your blessing, Micah, I'd like to pay your mother a tribute in the best way I know how, in a place that was special to us both."

I watch Micah swallow twice before he manages to speak again. "You have it, Luella."

My mama nods to him gratefully as Cheyenne positions her guitar. She doesn't wait to be cued, she simply begins to fingerpick the chorus of a song the whole world seems to have memorized. And by the somber expression on all our faces, it's not lost on any of us that the same song that once began the journey of two best friends in search of their dreams is the same song dedicated to the end of their dreams. A final benediction echoed from the treetops in the same place they'd once plotted their futures together.

Though tears glisten on my mother's cheeks from the splashes of sunlight cutting through the thick branches above us, the original melody of "Crossing Bridges" never wavers. Neither does her voice. There's not a note, a breath, a single word sung out of sync or off-key. There are far too many years of practice for Mama to choke under the strain and weight of emotion, and yet it's the emotion inside her that pours out in every lift and swell of her gift. On the rise and build of the chorus, it's as if we've all disappeared, as if the only person who really matters is the one person who isn't here.

Cheyenne's accompaniment is flawless, and just like her Nonnie, her eyes are closed as if in prayer, tears trickling down her cheeks. My niece never knew this woman her grandmother once referred to as sister, and yet her sorrow is real. Hattie's lips tremble as she silently mouths the lyrics while Adele stares into a distance beyond what our human eyes can see. On the last time through the chorus, Micah folds my hand into his, and it's then my tears spill over. Not only for the woman whose name I bear, but for the children, the husband, the friends, the life she left behind.

This bridge can hold us both / Our comings and our goings

It's steady and secure / Where water's always flowing

We can take it on together / The way we've always done

Not afraid of looking back / Not afraid of what's to come

There's more for us to find / Let go of what's been lost

As long as we're together / This bridge is ours to cross

It's quiet for nearly a minute after Mama stops singing, and I can't find the off switch to the overflow of emotion welling inside me. My heart thuds inside my chest, and my palms grow damp. I can't seem to pinpoint the source of this new ache inside me. All I know is that I want it to stop.

I sense Mama is about to say something to conclude our time together when, instead, Adele turns toward her daughter. "I never thought I would enjoy listening to that song again after all the cover bands and remixes I've been forced to hear this last year. But you two—you and Mama together—you have something special."

With muted approvals, the rest of us concur.

"I also think," Adele goes on, "if it's okay with your Nonnie, you two should consider performing this song together onstage at the festival."

Cheyenne's eyebrows lift in question as she looks from her mother to her grandmother, who smiles through her sorrow.

"I'd be honored, darling girl. And I think if Lynn were here to ask, she would feel the same."

Cheyenne moves a trembling hand to her mouth, obviously too overcome for words.

"I remember your mother well, Micah," Adele says as she faces him. "She smelled like lavender and honey. I always thought it was such a comforting scent. It's the same one I use in my home."

I catch sight of Cheyenne's soft smile. "I never knew that's why you bought it."

"I never told you," Adele admits softly. "Lynn was my first experience with loss as a child, and I missed her very much after she left."

"Me too," Hattie says, wiping under her eyes. "I can still remember the last time she tucked me into bed. It was the last time she read to me, too. I can't believe it's almost been thirty years since that night."

"I don't believe love and loss are limited by the boundaries of time," Mama says. "Scripture says that in heaven we'll know love in full, but loss we'll never know again."

At this uncharacteristically open conversation between my family members, I press in closer to Micah, hoping to share in his steadiness and slow this incessant rhythm in my chest. But instead, the ache I felt at the ending of Mama's song has seeped into my bones. As much as I'd want to label it as grief, the tension inside me is different than with loss. Yet somehow it feels just as dire.

Micah's face remains stoic as the breeze picks up and skitters pine needles along the dirt trails beside us.

"Thank you all for sharing your memories of her with me," he says. "I won't forget this."

"It's us who should be thanking you for sharing her with us." Mama steps forward and wraps her arms around him. "You've brought the best parts of her with you."