Chapter 7

Micah

Graceland in Memphis, Tennessee, was not the destination I'd been expecting Luella to request for our first stop of the trip. For one, it was only three and a half hours away from her property in Brentwood, and for two, no one on board this renovated motor coach seems too excited about the idea of touring the King of Rock and Roll's grandiose estate. With the exception of Raegan. Unlike my other passengers, she's never been before. Something else we have in common.

As soon as I pull Old Goldie through the famous music-note gates of Graceland, it's clear this is no ordinary tour. The red sign posted on the black security box out front reads: Closed until 3:00 p.m. for a private tour.

"Roll on up to the speaker, Micah sweetie," Luella says, making her way up to the driver's cockpit. "You can let the security team know Jana Barkley's guests have arrived."

"Jana's guests?" I ask.

"Yes, Jana helped me arrange all the lodging and private events for this special trip. Everything is reserved under her name so only those who need to be in the know are privy to our comings and goings."

I glance at Raegan in the jump seat for clarification. "Mama's presence can cause a bit of a stir if we don't have certain protocols in place."

Outside of the hat and oversize sunglasses Luella had worn to pick me up from my hotel this morning, I hadn't given much thought to all the safety measures involved in an excursion like this. What a different life my own mother led from Luella, raising her two sons at home and only sharing her musical talents with a rural school district in north Idaho.

After gaining clearance from Graceland's security team, I steer Old Goldie through the gate and up the slight incline to the driveway. "How do you know the staff at these places won't tell their social media followers where you'll be?" The longer I consider it, the more difficult the idea of keeping Luella's anonymity under the radar for a trip across the country becomes.

"Confidentiality clause. Jana sent one out everywhere we're going. Adele made sure."

"Ah yes," I say. "I signed a couple of those myself." Along with a brick of other paperwork Adele sent prior to my flight out.

I flick my gaze to the rearview mirror, where Adele is typing furiously on her laptop at the dining table. I suppose a legal agreement does make sense, and yet this life of VIP tours, disguises, and secret identities is as uncommon to me as the South's humidity meter. Once we're parked, I lend a guiding hand to each of the four Farrow women as they exit the bus. I'm expecting to wander around the property on my own during their tour when Luella unexpectedly links her arm through mine.

"Did you know your mother had the biggest crush on Elvis when we were girls?"

I laugh, surprised. "Not sure I did."

"So it's safe for me to assume she never told you about the time we won concert tickets in a dance-off to see him on our first road trip together in '75."

"A dance-off? Are you sure you're talking about my mother?"

She swats me with her free hand, and despite myself, I smile at her feistiness. "I most certainly am. The dance-off was sponsored by a local radio station, and wouldn't you know, your mother was the last woman standing in that entire dance hall! She had moves I'd never seen before." Luella laughs heartily. "Talk about being in the right place at the right time. And that concert ... wow. It was a night to remember. It's hard to believe Elvis died just six short years later. We stopped here again together many years after he was laid to rest on our way back to Nashville. Of course, I didn't know at the time it would be our last tour."

The blazing heat is unbearable, yet the date she mentions manages to block out the potency of the sun's rays momentarily. "Are you referencing the summer of 1994?"

"That's right. It was just me, your mom, Jana, my girls, and of course, your mother's not-so-secret admirer, Franklin. The band rode in a separate bus—it was less complicated that way. Single-parenting on the road wasn't the easiest thing I'd ever done, especially without my Russell that summer."

Her reference reminds me to confirm the story Raegan told me about Germany as soon as I have a minute alone in my bunk tonight.

"I'm sure it wasn't," I empathize. "Were there any other stops you made after Graceland?"

"Not that I can remember, but that was over thirty years ago now. If we did stop somewhere, she might have mentioned it in her journals."

I picture the thick plastic box Luella handed me this morning and where I'd tucked it deep into my bunk for safekeeping.

"Chickee made her promise to record all our adventures on the road, and your mother was faithful to do so, even after your grandmother passed away." Luella stops at the end of the walkway just before Elvis's front porch steps, allowing her daughters to go inside the mansion before us. "When you're young, you think you'll always remember the moments that mattered most to you with vibrant clarity." She shakes her head. "But that's simply not true."

Her admission darts through my chest just as a gentleman in a three-piece suit opens the front door to Elvis's former home and introduces himself as Charles, our VIP tour guide for the day. I'm tempted to excuse myself right then from today's excursion in lieu of time with my mother's journals when Raegan rotates in our direction from inside the marbled foyer. Her gaze locks with mine, and my feet make their own decision to join her. I'll have plenty of time to crack open the journals after we stop for the night.

During the ninety-minute tour, we see no other tourists and very few staff members. But the expectation that Luella will host a private meet-and-greet for a handful of employees after we finish up here has been implied by Charles more than once. Luella doesn't so much as bat an eyelash at his comments. Maybe it's all part of the agreement Jana sent out beforehand. Or maybe she's simply too busy hunting for the exact background of a photo she took with her two oldest daughters in Graceland more than thirty years ago.

"Here it is!" Luella confirms with a spark of exuberance I'm realizing is quite common for her. "This is the very same fireplace we took the picture in front of, girls. You were in the middle, Hattie, and you were to the far right, Adele."

Unfortunately, neither of them is paying attention. Adele has been quite invested in whatever's going on in her inbox for most of the day, and Hattie has been single-minded about getting to a secluded location with good enough cell coverage in time to take a video call with her kids. At least her preoccupation is understandable. I've been around enough struggling families after divorce to see Hattie's desperation for what it is—critical to her survival.

Luella frowns as she regards her two oldest daughters in all of their distracted glory. This is hardly the first time she's tried to engage them in a walk down memory lane today. And despite my own unresolved issues with the woman, I'd be an unempathetic jerk not to feel sorry for her unseen efforts. Raegan must feel similarly as she twists away from yet another plaque of information on the wall to look between her sisters and her mother.

"I'll take the picture," she announces with a peace-making tone that catches my ear and causes me to analyze her anew. Even though I've instructed myself to only be a bus driver and not a therapist for the next two weeks, that part of my brain is more difficult to remove than I thought. "I just texted Jana to send me a pic of the original photo so we can get the re-creation just right. I should have it in just a second."

"Thank you, darlin', but what I need most is for your two sisters to get off their phones and pay attention."

Luella's stern reprimand is not unlike that of my own mother. And it works.

Adele and Hattie snap to attention, looking as if they've been sent to their rooms without supper rather than asked to participate in a day their mother obviously took time and forethought to plan.

"I'm ready, Mama," Hattie says cheerily, exchanging her phone for a tube of glossy lip stuff.

Adele slips her phone into her blazer pocket and joins the group without a word. Her compliance is less eager than Hattie's but more efficient as she silently situates herself where Luella is pointing without asking questions that could delay the process.

I step behind Raegan as she sets up the shot, referencing the old picture on her phone. She ducks to avoid shadows and even asks Charles to open the blinds at one point in order to get the re-creation as close to the original photo as possible. It's as endearing as it is telling.

"How about I take one with all four of you now?" I reach around her for the phone she's holding, and Raegan startles at my nearness.

"I wasn't here when they took the originals," Raegan says simply.

I hold her gaze. "But you're here now, aren't you?"

"Come on, Sunny Bear." Luella waves her youngest in while her sisters remain planted in their spots. Raegan crouches low in the front and pastes on a smile, clearly uncomfortable. I'm beginning to see why Raegan identifies with Cinderella more and more. Now, if only I could figure out why her nickname among her family is Sunny Bear.

I take three shots in total and then check the screen. I'm startled by how deceptive the images appear. I used to tell my students at school how easy it is for a picture to lie—for a social media post or YouTube video to mislead an audience—but this might be the first time I've watched it play out in real time. These four women are all beautiful, intelligent, successful, wealthy, and privileged beyond ninety-nine percent of the population, and yet something acute is missing from all of them. I just haven't put my finger on it quite yet.

I hand the phone back to Raegan.

"Perfect," Luella chimes. "Thank you, Micah."

"Mother, it's nearly four," Adele states. "We should get your obligations to the staff here finished up before the public tours begin again."

Luella checks her own watch. "But the Lisa Marie is up next, and I was hoping to get some family pictures out there, as well. It's the best part of the whole tour. Don't you remember how fascinated you and Hattie were with that tiny 24-karat gold sink? Raegan's never seen it."

"Hattie and I were fascinated by everything at that age. We're fine to skip it this time around. Raegan can go, but we are too pressed for time to add anything more without being seen. I also need to make a phone call to HR once we're back on the bus. Apparently, I'm the only one who knows how to properly deal with a disgruntled ex-employee."

The announcement seems to spark Raegan's interest, and she turns to face her oldest sister. "What are they disgruntled about?"

Adele briefly meets her sister's gaze before slipping her phone from her pocket again. "That I hold people accountable to what they sign."

Raegan's eyes and tone grow instantly concerned. "What happened? Did they leak something? Is that why you fired them?"

Adele's eye contact is far more pointed this time when she addresses her youngest sister. "If you'd like to weigh in on how I lead the family business, then you're more than welcome to attend one of the monthly board meetings you've been invited to for the last four years, Raegan. If not, then please kindly keep your judgment to yourself."

"But I'm not judging, I was just trying to—"

"Why don't you go take that tour of the Lisa Marie for Mama, okay? We'll meet everybody back at the bus later."

Adele turns toward the tour guide with a pasted-on smile. "We're ready when you are, Charles."

"Oh! My kids are calling—they're early!" Hattie glances around the room with panicked eyes as her phone continues to alert her of the incoming video call. She takes a quick step away from the group and answers with a grin. The sound Hattie makes when their faces come into view on the handheld screen is half sob, half laugh.

"Mom! Mom!" Her son and daughter cheer. "Can you see us?"

"Yes, yes. Hi, Annabelle! Hi, Aiden! Hey, wait a minute, why do you both look so grown up already? I thought we made a deal. No growing up this summer!" Hattie's teasing tone resounds inside the parlor, and with a quick glance to my left, I confirm I'm not the only one captivated by her animated conversation. Hattie might struggle with who she is as an unattached single adult, but she certainly knows who she is within this dymanic duo.

Raegan catches my eye, and we exchange smiles as the banter between Hattie and her kids continues.

"Would the two of you like to know where I am?" Hattie's voice grows more dramatic, and both kids stop talking immediately. "This is Charles. He's our tour guide today at a special place called Graceland—where Elvis Presley used to live. He's offered to let me show you some really fancy old cars in the automotive museum."

The kids begin to talk over each other, and I can no longer make out what they are saying, other than that there's obviously a lot of excitement, especially from Aiden.

Like the trooper Charles has shown himself to be since our crew first arrived, he escorts Hattie—and by default, her children—from the room and toward the promised cars. Adele and Luella follow suit only a few seconds later, leaving Raegan and I alone on the main floor of a mansion that if sold could put a massive dent in world hunger.

"Looks like it's just you and me." I state the obvious and hold up the brochure, which pinpoints the location of the Lisa Marie on the jetway. "Here's hoping the walking outside part is shorter than this looks."

"Please don't feel obligated to join me."

"If that's not your subtle way of uninviting me, then I'd like to go. I can't remember the last time I toured a dead celebrity's private jet. Oh, wait, yes I can. It was never."

She laughs obligingly. "I hear company is always better when touring a private jet. Let's go."

When I pull the front door open, I immediately stifle a groan from the hellish wall of misery that consumes us as we step into the open air.

I used to think the idea of frying an egg on a sidewalk was a myth; but now it feels as if I could fry an egg on every surface of my body in direct view of the sun. And then there's the issue of the humidity. How do people breathe in this part of the country without worrying about aspirating? I tug at the neckline of my blue polo, wishing there was a slab of ice I could pay to lie on for an hour or two.

"You doing okay?" Raegan glances at me, but I'm already looking at her. She's not even broken out in a sweat, and we've been walking on this hot black tar for more than five minutes.

"How do you look so normal right now?"

"If that's how you compliment women up north, you should really work on that."

My brain is quickly overheating. "No, I mean, how do you look like you could endure several more miles in this sauna and think nothing of it?"

She shrugs. "I'm acclimated. I've grown up in this all my life."

"I'm sorry."

She rolls her eyes as we approach the base of the jetway steps. "Just stop focusing on it so much. It's not as bad as you're making it out to be."

"You're right, it's far worse. The only reason I'm still walking is because my desire for air conditioning is weaker than my pride. Barely."

When we hike the steps up to the jet and enter the cabin of the Lisa Marie, I'm sure I've never been more thankful for the cool blast of air that greets us from the sealed-off cockpit area and saves me from making an even bigger fool of myself.

"See? You made it," Raegan offers. "Good job."

I wipe the river of sweat flowing from my temples with the hem of my shirt. "Yay me."

Before she can roll her eyes at me this time, an automated voice comes on over the loudspeakers, informing us we are on a self-guided tour of the 1958 Convair 880, the Lisa Marie. We both snap to attention as if at any moment, the King himself might come through that cabin door and tell us to behave while on his aircraft. We meander through the entire jet only a few feet apart, pointing out details to each other after "the voice" prompts us to view the stunning 24-karat gold sink, the private library, and the queen-size bed with attached seatbelts near the rear of the plane.

"This is all pretty crazy, isn't it?" Raegan muses. "One man's talent was responsible for all this..."

I weigh her tone for any trace of irony. Sure, Luella's mansion in Brentwood isn't Graceland, but in terms of wealth comparison, her property could easily be considered a great-grandchild to this one. No private jets or vintage automobile museums that I know of, but an impressive dwelling and estate to say the least.

"It is," I venture, "but your family's talent has built a pretty impressive empire, as well."

She twists back. "Empire is a bit of a stretch. And it's not my family's talent, just my mother's."

An interesting distinction to be sure. "But all of you have an important role to play when it comes to Farrow Music Productions, right?"

Raegan leans against a curved wall. "In theory? Yes. In reality?" She shrugs. "Some roles are more critical than others."

I think back to Raegan's interest in Adele's HR issue at the office. "Do you want to be more involved in the business side of things?"

"Definitely not. Although working so closely with my sister would provide me plenty of writing fodder, I'm sure."

I smile at that. "I certainly don't envy the ex-employee she referred to today."

Raegan's expression morphs into something indecipherable. It's the same expression she wore earlier back in the manor. "Me either. There were quite a few layoffs earlier last year, but as far as I knew, things have been pretty stable at the company for a while now. It's partly why I was so surprised to hear her mention a recent firing."

"Any idea who it could be?"

She shakes her head. "Not a clue."

I'm about to ask another question on the matter when her phone rings. We both startle at the loud sound inside such a tight enclosure. She pulls the phone from her back pocket and looks from the screen to me before deciding to swipe right. It's only then I realize it's a video call.

Two in one afternoon. These sisters are popular.

"Sorry, but I need to take this," she says to me, while ducking into the conference room area ... which is only a few yards from where I'm standing. I can't see the guy on the other end of the phone, but I can certainly hear him and the guitar he's strumming when the call picks up.

"Hey, Rae Rae. How are you? I texted you earlier—was hoping to get your thoughts on some lyrics I'm stuck on."

"Oh, right. Yeah ... um, I'm actually in Graceland at the moment. On board the Lisa Marie. We stopped here for a private tour."

"No kidding? I just told the guys we need to book a show in Memphis sometime. Feel like I owe it to Elvis to add a stop. How's the trip going? Everybody still alive so far?"

She laughs, and I notice how different it is from the laughs I've heard from her today. This one is more controlled, almost practiced sounding. "So far, yes. But it's only been a few hours."

"You'll make it; you're a survivor."

There's an uncomfortable pause so I take a step to the right in order to catch a peek at Raegan. Her free hand hangs at her side, and she flexes it into a nervous fist over and over. Interesting. Who is this guy to her? They're far too polite to be romantically intertwined, and yet they're clearly more than casual acquaintances. The tension between them is confusing.

They both start talking at once when I hear Raegan say, "Were you calling to play me the chorus you're stuck on?"

"Yeah, but if it's a bad time..."

"No, go ahead. I'm not sure what my connection will be once I'm back on the road. I have a couple minutes to listen now."

The guitar starts up again, a slow finger-picking melody with a minor bent. "I don't have a strong hook for this chorus yet. That's why I'm asking my muse for her help."

A gruff voice with a country twang fills the jet, and I take another step to the right. I catch a brief view of the singer. Blond. Scruffy jawline. Cowboy hat. "‘When you left I thought I'd drown in a river of my own tears; my lungs still cry out for breath yet the air they crave is no longer there....' And then maybe something about how we belong together." The guitar stops abruptly. "What do you think so far?"

"Wow ... that's a really different sound for you."

"The guys have been challenging me to go deeper, dig up a new emotional well. You like it?"

"It's definitely deeper. What's it for?"

"Our next tour. Gage said our list needs a good breakup song, something that will spark the tears."

Raegan's hand flexes several times before she speaks. "Is there a story behind those lyrics?"

"Nah, it's just fiction," he provides. "Which is why I thought you could write it better than me. I'm hoping to have it finished by the end of week. That is, if you think you might have some time to spare?"

"I'll do my best."

"Thanks, Rae Rae. I ... it's not the same back home without you." A thick pause. "I miss you. I hope you've been thinking about what I asked you last time we talked. I know I have."

"I have, too." Her fist squeezes closed and holds so long her knuckles blanch white. "Tell the band I say hello."

"Will do. Talk to you later."

I watch her lower the phone and exhale several times with her back still to me. I manage to turn away before she heads in my direction. I don't bother pretending to be busy as there's nothing to occupy myself with other than my phone, and that's a bad habit I don't need to pick up again given the challenge I extend to my students to plan mental breaks from screens. Or rather, a challenge I used to extend to my past students. Back when I had a stable career path.

"Sorry about that, that was..." My eyes meet hers, waiting for her answer. "My ex, Tav."

Raegan has an ex-boyfriend. And by the sounds of it, that relationship status is either brand-new or questionable at the moment. A wave of disappointment swoops in at the revelation. It takes me a second to find my bearings, and when I do, all I can come up with is "So he's a musician?"

"He's actually the lead singer in a band that signed with Farrow Music a few years ago. He's been working on his songwriting."

Sounds like you're working on his songwriting, is what I don't say. "Country music?"

"More of a hybrid of new country with a bit of pop, too. They're an eclectic sound. I'm proud of him," she says with an added edge to her voice. "He's wanted this for a long time. He's on a short break from his tour right now, at home in Nashville."

"And you're here," I fill in the blank, stating the obvious.

"Yes," she says on an exhale. "I'm here."

I study her face as a million new questions compile in the silence that passes between us, but there's only so much a near-stranger can ask without risking a complete shutdown. And truthfully, Raegan having a complicated relationship with an ex who is obviously still connected to her is probably for the best. I don't need any added complications right now. I need to read my mother's journals and utilize the time I have with Luella to figure out who my biological father is. That's why I'm here. Nothing more.

"We should probably head back to the bus. I have a few hours of drive time left before we get to our stop tonight."

"You're probably right," she affirms with a nod. "It's been a long day."

When we exit the jet, I will myself to make it across the entire tarmac without breaking into a sweat. I last four seconds.

Our darkened tour bus is tucked in for the night just two hours past the Arkansas state line in a private RV park owned by a famous friend Luella didn't bother to name and I didn't bother to ask. Between the jet lag, the drive time, and all the extra variables that come with life on the road with four adult women I've known for less than twelve hours ... I'm spent.

Now, in the privacy of my bunk, I'm closer in proximity to each of the Farrow sisters than I ever would have imagined I'd be, but the one directly across from me has been quiet for most of the evening. Raegan spent the last leg of our drive head down in her notebook, writing sentences at lightning speed only to cross them out seconds later.

More than once, I wanted to ask to read whatever she was busy working on.

And more than once, I wanted to banish myself to a dark corner so I could regroup and focus on the real reason I'm here.

With my blackout curtain completely closed, I prop myself up on my side and immediately regret the move. My shoulder scrapes the bottom of the hard wooden bunk bed above me where Adele is sleeping with a white-noise machine that could wake the dead. Speaking of, if I ever wanted to know what the inside of a coffin is like, my present reality can't be too far off. My dad never mentioned the sleeping arrangements when he spoke of his glory days as a tour bus driver before he married my mom. How did he do this? He's a full three inches taller than my six-foot-two frame and thicker around the middle, although I suppose he wasn't nearly as bulky in his late twenties. A lot of things were different back then.

I set my flashlight on my phone to the brightest level and illuminate my coffin before reaching for the box Luella gave me earlier. Once I remove the lid, I stare at the half dozen or so journals of varying sizes inside. The moment feels almost as surreal as it did when I found a few treasured photographs and postcards in my mom's music office after she passed.

Not for the first time, I wonder why my mother never requested her journals back from Luella. She had to have known where she'd left them all these years. Why would she trust a woman she hadn't spoken to in nearly thirty years with such personal possessions? And what all had my mother told her oldest friend in those intermittent hours of lucidness only days before she crossed into heaven?

I run my thumb along the spines of the journals and then order them by the dates listed on the inside covers. Some span a year, while others span several years. It's clear my mother wasn't a daily journal keeper, but a situational one.

As I crack open the oldest journal in the pile, dated May 1975 with an earthy green canvas cover and a worn yellow peace sign on the front, there's a charcoal drawing of a building I'd recognize anywhere on the very first page: the old chapel at Camp Selkirk, near my hometown in north Idaho. It looks exactly the same today as it did fifty years ago, as does the mountain range behind it and the river flowing just below it. My mother's first month of entries as a Camp Selkirk employee are fairly limited in details, other than to describe her daily tasks doing grounds maintenance work at the summer job Chickee made her get once she turned eighteen. It's clear this job was not my mother's first choice but equally clear that Chickee's hopes for her to "meet friends" and "get a life outside of playing my guitar in my bedroom" were top priority. I flip through several pages of sketches of flowers, trees, and plenty of peace signs in various styles, and I smile at the number of times Mom mentions how much she dislikes keeping this journal for Chickee when it would be far easier for her to simply "ride back home and tell you the events of the day in less time than it takes to come up with these dumb words."

Though it was rare for my mom to open up about her life before she had Garrett and me, her stories about Chickee were always a highlight. From what I can remember, after Chickee rescued my mother at the age of fourteen from her father's house, armed with nothing more than her walking cane and a hardback Bible, her degenerative illness eventually took away her mobility. But from the way my mom always told it, Chickee refused to allow her illness to limit her mind or her faith, and she certainly didn't allow it to limit my mom. She was a woman of prayer with hundreds of prayer rocks lining her garden to show for it.

I yawn, about ready to give in to the heavy call of sleep, when I see an entry that features far more exclamation marks than all the others I've read combined ... as well as a name I recognize.

June 2, 1975

Dear Chickee,

I'm overwhelmed! I can hardly hold my pen without feeling faint from everything that happened at the chapel tonight. I wonder if you could hear the singing from your porch? There were hundreds of people everywhere! All the inside seats were taken, and people were sitting outside on the dirt and grass. The speaker was so passionate! I'm not sure I can describe it all in words, but I never want to forget this night or this feeling. I didn't know if I would ever believe what those preachers you listen to on the radio say ... but tonight I believe. We stayed in that chapel till after midnight. There was so much praying, crying, and singing that when the speaker finally asked if there was anyone who wanted to make a decision to follow Christ, I couldn't wait to shoot my hand up. I know you're probably in shock over that; I think I'm still in a bit of shock. But I wasn't alone. Luella, one of my cabin mates, held her hand up, too. We prayed together, and then about thirty minutes later we were walking hand in hand to get baptized in the river under a full moon with dozens of our friends. I've never seen so many hippies in one place, and I couldn't stop crying. I don't think I'll ever be able to top this moment. I don't think I ever want to.

I know I've grumbled about you making me spend my summer at camp, but tonight I want to thank you. I think God might have prompted you to send me here. What do you think?

Starting tomorrow morning I'm going to start playing the guitar for Luella during the morning chapel. She has a beautiful voice, and she's asked if I'd accompany her as she's still learning how to play.

I love you,

Lynn

I pause for a long moment, so moved by the experience my mother recorded all those years ago, and yet saddened by the fact I never heard that story from her in person. Garrett and I have attended that same camp, sang inside that same chapel, and were even baptized in that same river, and yet I never knew my mother had led the way in all of it. I read several more entries, detailing the guitar lessons my mother was giving Luella in exchange for voice lessons. Apparently, Luella had dropped out of an elite music program in Atlanta, much to her parents' disapproval, and busked her way to her aunt's house, located in a town about an hour from Camp Selkirk. Another fact I hadn't known.

I continue reading until my eyes lose focus.

July 7, 1975

Dear Chickee,

For the last week, Luella and I have been leading the song service in the evenings. At first, my nerves were so bad I told Luella I was too afraid to harmonize with her for fear I might lose my dinner onstage. But she told me stage fright means I'm focusing too much on myself and not enough on who we're singing to—God. So that shut me up right quick.

I haven't told her everything about my life before coming to live with you yet, but I will. I trust her, and I think trust has a lot to do with what takes people from being average friends to best friends. I also think playing music together must do that, too.

Between you and me, I feel like each time we play and sing together something in me begins to change. Like maybe I can truly become someone else, someone with a different story, someone free. Luella talks a lot about wanting to fall in love. She can be a bit of a flirt around the guys, but I told her last night that I don't care a thing about falling in love. All I care about is never losing this new peace I've found.

I've asked Luella what she's planning to do after camp closes for the summer, but all she'll say is that she hopes to follow the music.

I love you,

Lynn

August 4, 1975

Dear Chickee,

You made me promise I would write this all down after we spoke on the phone tonight, but I don't feel much like writing. I don't feel much like praying, either, which is the other thing you told me to do. I think I'm going to take a walk around the trails and then try again later.

I'm back. My head is a little clearer now although my heart still feels torn in half.

The longer version of the story: Luella met a man with a deep Southern accent (similar to hers but different) who came up to her after chapel last night. He said he drove all the way from Tennessee trying to find an original sound and that he felt God lead him to our camp. He also claims that Luella is exactly who he's been searching the country for all summer long. He works for a recording label in Nashville and offered Luella a chance to meet his partners and see about making an album together in country music.

The short story: Luella told Russell Farrow the only way she'd go to Nashville in pursuit of a record deal is if he offered her a packaged deal: me and her, together. Russell said if she showed up in Nashville, he'd give her whatever deal she wanted.

The even shorter story: I don't want to leave you.

The shortest story: you told me to go.

I love you,

Lynn