Chapter 4

Raegan

This morning is not the first time I've joked about changing my name to Cinderella. Barring the evil-stepmother component of that particular fairy tale, the rest of it has hit pretty close to home all week. I've spent the last seven days running a million odd errands in preparation for our departure, checking off the to-do lists Adele emails me from her corner office every morning, while also keeping Hattie from sleeping the day away. When I first moved in with Mama after Daddy died, Adele added me to the company payroll as a "strategic assistant," a title I've since come to realize is as ever-changing as the music industry itself. My duties are often a reflection of whatever Adele requires of me in the moment. Most recently, I've been tasked with being the gatekeeper of any potential threat to our family—inside or out. I can't exactly blame Adele for being protective. After everything that happened with Peter, she's ultraparanoid about who we invite into our lives.

Which is why the text from Chip Stanton that pops up between my packing tasks for the morning stops me dead in my tracks.

Chip—Fog Harbor Books:

Hey, Raegan. I wanted to follow up with you about the rumor we discussed last Friday at the end of our meeting. I have an update whenever you have a free moment. I'm at the office early this morning.

I abandon the box of pantry goods on the counter and let myself outside to the pool patio. The July humidity is far from comfortable to linger in, but it's about the only area on the property I can guarantee privacy at this hour.

Chip answers on the first ring.

"Raegan, hey." The first thing I notice is the lack of buoyancy in his greeting. "I'm glad you called, though I wish I had a better reason to reach out."

I drop onto the corner lounge chair at the far end of the infinity pool and skip past any polite small talk. "Did you hear something more about that rumored biography?"

"Yes and no," he begins unsteadily. "I went to dinner last night with a college buddy I reconnected with at the conference in Nashville. We got to talking about our upcoming projects. He happens to work in freelance editorial for several publishing houses—mostly in nonfiction. I thought I'd broach the rumor with him, see if he'd heard anything at all. Turns out he was asked to submit a quote for a sensitive project with Willow House Press a couple of months ago." Chip slows his cadence, as if selecting each word with care before he speaks. "Nick doesn't think the project is a biography—"

"Oh, thank God." I squeeze my eyes closed and exhale a breath I didn't even know I was holding. There are gobs of opportunists all over this city looking to trade lies for a big payout, and dealing with one is the last thing we need right now. Not with Mama's festival around the corner. And certainly not when we're about to board a bus for the next two weeks. "That's a relief."

"Raegan," he says in that grounding tone again. "Nick confirmed the project has to do with your mother. He said it's already been contracted out to a popular ghostwriter in our industry. He also claims it's one of the most secretive deals he's ever been asked to submit a bid for."

"But you just said it wasn't a biography."

"Right. Because authors of biographies aren't usually kept under lock and key—even the unsanctioned ones. Nor do they require a ghostwriter well-versed in celebrity gossip and scandal."

"Scandal ... like a tell-all?" The words feel sticky and wrong on my tongue.

"That would be my guess, yes. At the moment, Nick feels slighted by Willow House, so it's possible I might be able to eke out more information from him if he gets wind of anything else, but he and I both know the editor in charge. She's well-known for her shrewd business dealings and targeted subject matters."

Perspiration gathers at my neck from the oppressive heat, and yet an icy chill licks up my spine at his words. This can't be happening. Not now.

"I'm sorry, Raegan. I wish there was something more I could give you on this." He sighs and hesitates. "Do you know anyone close enough to your family who would be willing to sell them out?"

Immediately, a face etched in smug disregard for any of the sins he's committed against my family materializes in my mind.

Peter San Marco.

Just the thought of him makes me want to scream. Hasn't he taken enough from us—from Hattie? He won the lawsuit money, not to mention the shared custody he fought for and the entire summer with his kids and girlfriend in Greece.

"Possibly" is the only reply I can form back to Chip. "What can be done at this point?"

Chip goes quiet. "Not much, I'm afraid. Even if you uncovered the author's identity and tried to negotiate with them, there would still be a binding contract between the author and the publishing house—in this case, Willow Creek Press. It would be a massive and costly legal undertaking to break it, especially considering the kind of resources they've already forked out. The fact that your mother has never collaborated on a book deal tells me the publisher must believe their source is solid enough to create a mass amount of sales, especially given her recent spike in popularity."

My hope deflates. "It's pretty much the worst-case scenario, then."

"The length some people are willing to go for money is truly despicable."

Not money,I think. Peter has money thanks to the massive lawsuit he won after Mama's song went viral. If he's the one behind this, it's personal.

I think back to when Adele was appointed the CEO of Farrow Music Productions after our father's death, leaving Peter in the same position he'd worked at in the legal department since he married Hattie.

Is it power he wants? Retribution?

"Do you know when this ... this book is supposed to be released?"

"Nick said there wasn't a release date specified on the paperwork he was sent, but I'll do my best to find out. It has to be recorded somewhere. The world of editorial is relatively small, and we're a surprisingly connected bunch. Dirty, underhanded deals like this tarnish the integrity of an industry many of us are working to improve. The best we can hope for is that the timing of this release will be overshadowed by something more deserving."

And yet, even with his conversational push toward optimism, I feel the distinct lack of hope at nearly every angle I consider. "I appreciate you telling me, Chip. I know you didn't have to do that." Especially considering he has no professional tie to me whatsoever.

"It was the right thing to do." Another pause. "Take care, Raegan. I'll reach out again if I hear something more."

The instant our call ends, a barrage of unknowns hit me at once. I don't want to believe the author is Peter for numerous reasons, but who else would be conniving enough to write something salacious about my mother? And who on earth would even be able to? Anyone with personal connection or access to our family has already signed their soul away in nondisclosure agreements via Adele.

Adele.

My sister will be here in less than an hour.

True, unadulterated panic fills me as I try to imagine how I'll tell her. I pace the length outside Mama's infinity pool, which feels as never-ending as my anxiety, before I make the distinct mental switch to go into storytelling mode. A big glob of scary details always feels a bit less overwhelming when I think of them as the plot points in a story. It reveals the things I know, but more importantly, the things I don't know yet.

If I were to boil Chip's update into a story synopsis, the plot would be about a secret book deal with unknown content that may or may not have to do with Luella Farrow, written by an anonymous author and set to be published on an unknown date. It's far from a compelling story, and there's no way Adele will be satisfied with that level of information. She'll demand more, which I don't have and won't be able to acquire with only minutes to spare before we spend the next fourteen days together on a bus.

After several long, cleansing exhales, the Armageddon-level crisis resizes to one I can pack up and take on the road with me. But the plain truth is, it would be reckless to pull the fire alarm on this without filling in some of the vital plot holes first.

At a quarter past ten, I push all thoughts of the tell-all into a mental file marked Later and rap on the bathroom door, informing Hattie of the time, as she still needs to take her luggage down to the bus before Adele arrives with her proverbial clipboard. Honestly, for a woman who's been walking around in the same Oreo-encrusted gray T-shirt for the better part of a week, spending an hour in the bathroom seems a bit overkill for the start of a road trip.

"Hattie?" I knock again. "Adele just texted. She's on her way. You should probably move your bags down to the bus."

"Almost finished in here. Did Jana drop our driver off yet? Mama said they were headed to pick him up a while ago. Seems odd that the driving company wouldn't drop him off." Hattie's tone is so normal sounding it almost makes me forget her sobs on my shoulder last night after she hung up with Aiden and Annabelle. They'd arrived in Greece with Peter two days ago and were yammering away at all the gifts Francesca's family had given them. "Also, isn't loading the bus a job for our driver?"

"I don't know a thing about him or the company he works for." Driver vetting is not in my jurisdiction of family responsibilities. I might have been in charge of securing the original tour bus for Mama—with Adele's approval—but she's big on checking credentials of contracted employees herself. "I took my luggage down last night." The same thing I suggested Hattie should do in order to keep the peace this morning.

"Would you mind taking mine down for me? Please? I really can't handle an Adele-lecture on how much luggage I'm bringing."

I rumple my brow. "How much luggage are you bringing?"

"Only two bags," she answers quickly. "I consolidated this morning."

I recite every Scripture verse I know about patience before I can muster up a reply. "I'll take them down for you, but there are still some loose ends to take care of before we can load up."

"Thank you, Sunny Bear. I'll help with whatever you have left as soon as I'm done in here."

As I walk into the room across the hall from mine to play volunteer bellhop, my eyes drop to the giant, dusty hardcase bag on the floor that looks as if it could double as a bomb shelter for children in WWII.

"Where did this brown suitcase come from?" I call back down the hallway.

Hattie is usually a designer-bag kind of gal. I can't quite see how this monstrosity would fit into her personal luggage collection.

"Found it in the garage. There's a duffel bag near the closet, too."

"Where's the Dolce and Gabbana set Mama bought you for Christmas two years ago?"

"Don't have it anymore."

"What? Why not? You loved that set."

"Raegan, I'm trying to put mascara on—do you want me to talk, or do you want me to finish getting ready so I can help?"

"Fine."

It takes two tries on the count of three to heave the mammoth eyesore to a standing position before I stack the duffle on top of it. Thankfully, there are wheels at the bottom. A relief, considering nothing else about this suitcase is modern or convenient. I can't remember the last time I've seen leather straps belting the girth of a suitcase.

It's a precarious task dragging the bags down the stairs, but finally, I arrive at the front door and slip on my shoes. I prepare for the heat wave I'd only just escaped a few minutes ago when I was out back. Sadly, the blacktop of the driveway will be even hotter.

The low hum of the air conditioner from the goldenrod motor coach sounds like a jet engine even from across the drive. I'm only a few steps out when I feel the remaining anti-humidity gel in my curls surrender. There is no lotion or potion that will keep these curls intact during a Tennessee summer. Halfway across, I break for breath, readjust my grip on Hattie's bags, and wonder how I got suckered into doing this again.

The wide luggage compartment at the side of the vintage bus is hinged open and resembles a mini garage door of sorts. The middle shelves are filled with supplies and totes, leaving the top and bottom shelves open. Bottom shelf it is. There's no way on earth I'd be able to lift the Brown Behemoth any higher than my knee. If I push the bag all the way to the back, it won't be visible for Adele's judgment. Although, if I'm honest, I'm feeling pretty judgy myself at the moment.

As soon as I heave the bag onto the shelf, it jams on the leather belt buckle. It takes three pushes and a hip check to make it budge an inch. Only, when it does, I hear a disturbingly loud pop followed by the clang of something solid hitting metal. No, I think. Please no. Cautiously, I bend and confirm that Hattie's luggage straps have indeed popped open. Worse, some of her clothing has been catapulted to the opposite side of the shelf.

After a choice word or two, I squat low enough to shimmy my upper body into the opening and retrieve a handful of my sister's random belongings, noting a pair of animal-print panties in the corner. I work to shove everything back where it belongs, which proves to be a difficult task, seeing as the belt loop of my shorts is caught on something along the wall. I try to reach around to unhook myself, but the space is too tight for such ninja maneuvering.

The fear of confined spaces has never been at the top of my list, but I'm beginning to reconsider that now. I scissor my leg from left to right, worried I might lose my shorts altogether as the entire bus sways with the motion. When I hear the whoosh of the bus door opening close by, followed by the distinct sound of footsteps on the stairs and then onto the pavement, relief comes swiftly.

"Hello? Jana? Is that you?" I call out. "I think my shorts are caught on something—a screw, maybe? Can you unhook me, please? This is far from the most flattering way to die."

There's a notable silence before a throat clears. A male throat. "That is a rather curious predicament you're in."

Mortified, I flail to the left side of this hot box and catch sight of the man who has an unobstructed view of my derriere. The stranger dips his head low enough for me to catch a brief peek at his shaggy brown hair and dark eyes. "Hey there."

"Um, hello," I say as sweat prickles the base of my neck. "Are you ... the driver?"

"That would be me, yes. I was just inside getting acquainted with the rig." Before I can respond to this, he ducks out of view and adds, "I was also doing my best to become one with the air conditioner. Humidity doesn't mess around in these parts, does it?" His northern accent comes from the other side of me now—the stuck side. "Ah. I think I located the culprit. May I?"

"Um ... sure?" On second thought, maybe I do want to die like this. It would be less embarrassing than facing the stranger who's had an up-close and personal view of my backside.

"Would it make you feel better if I told you I'm a card-carrying Red Cross member who's medically trained and can help you?" His honeyed voice dips with restrained humor.

"Strangely, it does," I admit.

He laughs, and then without further ado, I feel a swift yank near my right hip followed by an immediate release that causes my bent-over body to sway.

"Here, take my hand," he instructs. "I'll guide you out so you don't smack your head."

In a different life, one where there's still an ounce of dignity left to my name, I'd politely decline his offer and emerge from this underworld unscathed from humiliation. But not even my pride can will that to be the case.

My already hot-as-fire face flames as I reach for his extended hand.

As soon as I'm upright and shielding my gaze from the sun, the blood rush to my head makes me feel a bit woozy. Yet the longer I stare into the melty brown eyes of our bus driver, the worse my symptoms become. This stranger doesn't look at all like what I imagined, given his profession, and I can't decide if the stereotype is a myth or if this man is simply an anomaly of epic proportions. I work to straighten my shirt as self-consciousness consumes my entire body.

"You doing okay now?" the man, whose eyes are the color of milk chocolate and whose hair appears more auburn than brown in the sunshine, asks.

"Yes. Thanks," I say. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been certified in first-aid training."

His face breaks into an amused grin. "Glad I could put it to good use on someone other than Bob the half-bodied mannequin. Honestly, he was a bit oblivious about the whole thing. Not very grateful, either."

"Torsos can be so entitled sometimes."

He's smiling in earnest now, and I can't help but join him. "Your accent isn't as strong as some of the locals I've met since I flew in. You from Tennessee?"

"Born and raised." I give my decade of voice lessons a mental high five at the compliment. Like my mother and my sisters, I can turn my Southern charm on and off at will. I swing my gaze to the bus. "I didn't realize the driving company Adele approved was out of state. She's usually not big on outsourcing."

"Driving company?" He gives a shake of his head. "Luella was actually the one to hire me. I was supposed to come by yesterday afternoon to get everything in order and meet the family, but my flight was delayed so I opted for an airport hotel. Luella's house manager..." He looks up and to the right as if trying to recall it. "Jane, maybe?"

"Jana," I correct.

"Yes, that's right. The two of them picked me up and took me on a mini tour of downtown before they dropped me off here in time to rescue a damsel in distress."

"Poor timing for you."

"That depends on how you look at it, I suppose."

Something flutters low in my abdomen, and I glance around the driveway for the women. "Where are they now?"

"They said they were going to pick up the coffee orders before everyone arrived." He extends his hand to me again as if this is our real first meeting. "I'm Micah, by the way. Any chance you'll be joining the Farrow women on this epic road trip, as well?"

Joining the Farrow women?The question barely has a chance to register when Adele's Lexus flies up the driveway and brakes to a stop beside us. She looks the two of us over from her driver's seat. Her eyes round as she focuses on the state of my frizzy hair and makeup-less, flushed face. This homely look is certainly not Adele-approved.

"So which Farrow sister is this?" Micah mutters under his breath. "Wait, let me guess—Adele, right? She has the look of a firstborn."

It's then I realize Micah doesn't think I'm one of them, the Farrow sisters. It's also then I make a split-second decision to play along rather than correct him. It would be nice to make a first impression without muddying the waters with my last name. "Ding, ding, ding."

Micah's smile doesn't wane as Adele pops open her trunk and steps out.

"Hello," she directs at our driver. "You must be Micah."

"I am, yes. It's nice to finally—"

"Did my mother give you the last of the paperwork?"

Micah blinks. "Uh, yes. I have most of it filled out in the bus."

"Great." Adele nods. "I have one more nondisclosure agreement for you to sign before we leave. I'll have it ready for you on the dining table inside."

"Sure thing," he says as Adele takes our measure.

"Micah was just helping me with the luggage," I add for no reason other than to break the odd way Adele is studying him.

"I'd appreciate some assistance with mine, as well." She nods toward her trunk. "The black bag can go in the luggage storage, and everything else can go inside. The ice cooler will need to be unpacked into the fridge. Please organize them per the color code of my nutrition protocol; it will make things easier on the—" Her words halt abruptly when her gaze zeroes in on my hand. "What on earth are you holding?"

All eyes drop to my right hand, which is still clutching a pair of animal-print panties. On instinct, I drop them to the ground, which seems to answer her first question while the awkward silence fills with a dozen more.

"Those aren't mine," I all but squeal in defense, stopping myself from blurting out the identity of the true owner. There are levels to sisterhood loyalty I'd never cross.

Adele's eyes drag from the sexy paraphernalia on the blacktop back to my face, which I am certain is now a brighter shade of crimson than Adele's red leather purse. She closes her eyes and seems to take a cleansing breath as if she's already had enough of this day even though it's not even noon yet. "Let's just get ready to leave, okay? I need to check on a few things inside. Have you seen Jana?"

"Sounds like she's still out on a coffee run with Luella."

Adele doesn't bat an eye when I refer to our mama by her first name. I was twelve before I realized this wasn't the normal practice of children everywhere.

After a curt nod, she walks toward the house, her block heels clacking against the driveway.

"Is she always like that?"

"Pretty much," I say as I move to collect the blue toiletry bag from her trunk.

He clears his throat for longer than what should be humanly possible. "Um, I think you might be forgetting something?"

I twist back to see him pointing at the cheetah undies on the pavement.

"It'd be a shame to lose those," he deadpans as he moves toward the trunk. "They look expensive."

"Seriously, they aren't mine," I hiss emphatically, swiping them up and tossing them back into the open luggage compartment.

His chuckle comes out low. "Guess I'll need to take your word for that."

He reaches with both hands for a cooler that's half the size of Adele's trunk, and it's a chore to drag my eyes away from his tan, sculpted forearms. If these are the arms of today's bus drivers, then it's a wonder why more people don't choose this mode of transportation. I sling Adele's toiletry bag and laptop satchel over my shoulder, then reach back to collect the long garment bag, nearly tripping over the tail as I work to follow our bus driver inside. Three strides into the air conditioning later, he sets the ice cooler down and heaves out a hard breath before closing the door and twisting around to face me. "You never answered my question."

I blow a chunk of frizzing curls off my forehead and plant my feet on the top step. "I'm not discussing those panties with you one more—"

"Not that." He shakes his head. "I'm still wondering if you're coming with us?"

With two cumbersome pieces of luggage slipping off my shoulder, I lay Adele's garment bag on the arm of the white pull-out sofa that stretches from the dining table to the driver's cockpit. "Pretty sure they wouldn't be able to make it five minutes on the road without me."

His next laugh determines just how much I enjoy the sound of it. "What's your name?"

I drop the last of Adele's bags at my feet and work to catch my breath. "Just call me Cinderella."