Chapter 8

Raegan

The rocking motion I wake to is smooth enough not to be an earthquake but shocking enough for me to forget where I am for several heartbeats. The privacy curtain attached to my cubby is slit just enough near my feet to allow in a spear of light from inside the bus. It's my only indication that life outside this dark cocoon exists.

Adele's white-noise machine is turned up so loud I can't even hear myself cough as I clear the sleep from my throat and peel back the thick black fabric to peek out. Adele's curtain is open, her bed made with a gray and white down comforter and matching pillowcase. She must have left her sound machine on for the rest of us. Micah's privacy curtain is closed, but seeing as the bus is moving, it's safe to assume he's behind the wheel. I slide my head out just enough to glance at the bunk above mine. Hattie is still up there. I know this because her socked foot is sticking into the narrow passageway between bunks. At least I'm not the last one up—not that I'm trying to impress anyone with my promptness, seeing as Micah said the majority of the morning would be spent crossing through Arkansas. Adele might not enjoy Mama's daily surprise destination plan, but I'm enjoying the spontaneity more than I expected.

I search for my phone under my pillow and pull it out, guessing the hour to be around eight when it's actually nearly nine. Before I have enough time to evaluate if I should be ashamed of myself, I notice the text notifications on my phone.

Chip—Fog Harbor Books:

I sent you an email from my personal account. Please read it in a private place and don't forward it on to anyone else. If I can do more for you, I will.

My stomach is empty, but I have that sinking sensation in my core like I'm going to be sick. I brace myself as I tap into my inbox and pull up his email.

Raegan,

I hope you'll see my text first, but just in case, please only read this attachment in a private location, and please delete this email as soon as you've read it. I broke more than one rule to get this to you, but I thought maybe if you had a piece of real evidence you might be able to identify the author behind the ghostwriter. I've had no luck on that part yet. For the sake of my source, I won't disclose how I came about this excerpt.

Chip

My fingers are shaking as I note the file name: Luella Farrow: Lies to Legend. A true story of friends, family, fame, and fraud. I click into the attachment.

Proposal by: Anonymous

Proposed Word Count: 75,000

Sample Chapters: Included

I'm so disoriented by the title that I scroll to the end of the document for context before I attempt to read a single sentence. There's a short summary at the top promising exclusive information on Mama's early history in music, followed by an account of her personal and professional mistakes, milestones, and failures, and the fraud that's long plagued Farrow Music Productions.

My stomach lurches as I read the attached three sample chapters.

Fire fuels my veins as I read an exaggerated tale of how my mother left Idaho as a poor nineteen-year-old young woman and embarked on a reckless dream with little more than a guitar, an orphaned friend, and a stunning talent which, according to the author, she used to hitchhike her way across the country and do whatever it took to find fame in Nashville. A gross misrepresentation.

In these short early chapters there are some details that ring true, others that are mostly true, and still others that are blatant lies. Despite myself, I have to admit that the writing is decent, even if it feels generic and soulless. I read on, mentally filtering through a narrow list of suspects who might have enough intimacy with my family to know any of these early memories—true or not. Peter, unfortunately, still remains at the top.

What strikes me most, other than the audacity of someone who would willingly sell out my mother for money, is how none of us had any clue this was happening right under our noses. I think of all the times I researched late into the night in search of a single detail I needed in order to finish a scene or add to a location or character in my fiction work. How does a person go about writing an entire book about someone's life without extensive interviews and supporting documents? I'm my mother's daughter, for goodness' sake, and I wouldn't even claim to be able to write her entire story without fact-checking with the source throughout.

I'm almost to the end of the final paragraph of chapter three, the last chapter provided in the sample, when I read a sentence I'm not at all expecting, one revealing the secret wedding anniversary date of October 21, 1980, that my parents managed to keep private for over forty years. When Mama and Lynn first signed with their label, they'd agreed to certain stipulations; one of those was in regard to their marital statuses. For this reason, my parents planned a wedding in secret at the courthouse—which they never shared with the public, even after their "secret romance" made the tabloids. For the sake of Mama's fans and her record label, my parents "got married" two years later in front of thousands. Only a select few knew of my parents' private tradition of celebrating their real wedding anniversary by eating hot chicken at sunset.

There's no denying it now. This is happening. Whoever the author is, it's someone with intimate access to my mother's history and possibly the label, as well. Someone who has likely sat at our family dining table ... or is, at the very least, close enough to someone who has.

Before I throw off my covers, I open my notes app on my phone and pound out every key phrase I might need to jog my memory in the future, and then I do as Chip asked and delete the file. It's painful to watch it disappear from my inbox when it's the only piece of evidence I have to go off of, but it's the right thing to do. I have no doubt Chip risked his job—possibly more—by sending it to me in the first place.

In the tiny bathroom on board the bus, my movements are robotic as I change from my pj's, reset my high ponytail, and brush my teeth, all while my motion sickness works in tandem with my anxiety. How exactly do I go about making an announcement that will derail not only the rest of this trip but possibly the mental health of both my sisters—one for a company she's fought to stabilize after so much upheaval, and the other for a bully ex-husband who refuses to let her heal?

I don't believe in hate, and yet I can't think of a synonym that better describes what I feel at the moment for Peter San Marco.

Adele's back is to me at the table when I approach the front lounge. The bus sways a bit on the highway, and I brace a hand to the wall for stabilization. I want to offer up a prayer for guidance and help, but the words in my heart feel as jumbled as my nerves. All I manage is a simple, Please, God.

It's then, as I watch my sister stretch her neck from side to side and take a drink from her green breakfast smoothie, that I see the screensaver on her open laptop. It's a picture of her standing in front of Farrow Music Productions with the entire staff two Christmases ago, back before so many things flipped upside down. They're all wearing Santa hats and grinning as if they could all see the bonus checks Adele would hand out moments after the shot was taken. I skim their faces, wondering which of them was fired for breaking the office confidentiality clause. At the thought, something clicks in my author brain. What if the disgruntled ex-employee Adele's been handling has been syphoning information from the office? It's more than likely they would have worked with Peter during his decade there—could the two be in cahoots somehow? Could the ex-employee have been a spy for Peter?

I recognize that even though the accusation has the potential to be a far greater threat to my mother and to my entire family, it's still only speculation at this point. What if I'm wrong and I turn everybody on Peter and it's not him? A shiver runs the length of my spine.

I need more information.

Too bad everything I need is locked inside Adele's hard drive.

I'm just about to clear my throat and ask Adele if we can talk in private when my sister slides the laptop toward herself and banishes the festive picture for the password key with a swipe of her finger. In a split-second decision, I'm stepping closer to peer over her shoulder. My heart pounds in my ears as I watch her type CheyenneAvery04. My niece's full name and birth year. Not a great password for a CEO to keep, but one I won't soon forget.

I tuck the knowledge away as guilt presses in.

She starts to turn when my voice squeaks, "Morning!"

She jumps and smacks a hand to her chest. "Raegan! Are you trying to kill me?"

"Sorry." I wince.

She breathes out one of her overly annoyed sighs. "Why are you standing so close?"

I do a quick glance around me. "Um ... I was just going to ask you if Mama is still asleep?"

Adele looks at me as if I'm a few cards short of a full deck. Maybe I am. "Hardly. She's been awake since six not doing any of the pre-festival tasks I've asked her to do in the mornings." She rubs at her temples. "I swear, it's like she enjoys working against her own best interest."

"Oh, I don't think that's—"

Adele's scowl tells me whatever I think is not welcome at the moment.

"I'm certain two weeks will never feel as long as this again," she adds.

I can't argue with that.

Adele points toward the front. "Mama just brought Micah a third refill of coffee about ten minutes ago. She's in the jump seat."

I frown, failing in my mental efforts to understand how time works. "How long have we been on the road?"

"Two hours."

"Did Mama say where we're headed yet?"

"No, but she hinted at something involving swimsuits."

If anything could shake the intrusive fear of a corporate spy working against us from my head, it's imminent swimwear. "I really hope you're wrong."

"So do I," she says through an almost empathetic-looking smile.

And it's right then, in that exact millisecond, I'm tempted to unload the heavy burden I'm carrying into the capable arms of my big sister in hopes that the two of us might problem-solve it together. My palms grow damp, and despite the low-level motion sickness I've experienced since the moment I climbed out of my bunk, I shove it down and open my mouth to—

"You're not eating enough green veggies," Adele says matter-of-factly before looking to her laptop screen again. "It's why the dark circles under your eyes are still present after a full night of sleep. Drink one of my kale smoothies at lunch today—it will help."

And just like that, the warm, sisterly moment is gone. Who was I kidding? Adele is a solo act, a take-over, take-charge type. Do I really want to pour more kerosene on that fire before I'm certain who she should be pointing the torch at? Definitely not.

"I'll try that, thanks," I lie. I'd rather drink from the gray water tank than have one of her uppity smoothies.

I move toward the front unsteadily, knowing it's only a matter of minutes before I reach the point of no return with my nausea, and yet the idea of sitting beside Micah again makes me feel a bit squirrelly. Yesterday at Graceland with him was ... confusing. As was the way he searched my face after Tav called. I don't know what it is about him, but every time we share the same space, I have this weird compulsion to divulge far more about myself than I do with anyone else. And right now, that's a very, very bad idea.

I'm holding far too many unlit explosives to suddenly become an oversharer. An overthinker is bad enough.

By the time I reach the closed curtain separating the passenger lounge from the driver's cockpit, Micah's voice has already woven its way to my ears. Only, I'm surprised by the content of their conversation, or rather, by the timeline he's rehashing—the tour of '94. Again. If he wants to fill in the holes of his mother's life, shouldn't he be asking questions about decades earlier? Our mothers' journey together ended in 1994.

"Russell's homecoming from Germany that Christmas was a gift from heaven," my mama says.

"Sounds like there's a story there."

"I tend to reserve the good ones for a captive audience."

"Don't think I can get much more captive than this, ma'am."

Mama laughs. "You have your father's humor."

Still hidden from their view, I lean against the wall behind Micah's seat and listen to a story I used to hear every Christmas Eve—told in dual-perspective.

"It was Christmas Eve of 1994, and I hadn't heard a peep from Russell in nearly two days. I was worried sick! The embassy was operating on holiday hours, and my contact there hadn't returned my calls. The last thing I'd heard was that there was to be a mediation between the two embassies to finally resolve the visas, but then there was nothing but radio silence." Mama pauses, and I lean closer to the curtain. "There had been so many deep losses to grieve that year, and I was certain I wouldn't survive another if something terrible happened to my husband. When I finally stumbled to my bedroom around midnight, I'd convinced myself that this would be our worst Christmas and that somehow I'd have to pull myself together for the sake of the girls. There were a few wrapped presents under the tree courtesy of bandmates and friends, but I felt as if my heart had been removed from my body, and all that was left was an empty shell. You ever felt that way, Micah?"

"Pretty close, ma'am."

Mama sighs. "Just as I reached my bedroom door at the top of the stairs, ready to cry myself to sleep, I heard the sound of jingle bells coming from the driveway outside. Given the late hour, I thought I must be delirious, but the bells continued. And then I heard the front door open. I was so petrified, I froze like a statue right there in the hallway, trying to think of how I could protect my daughters as I was certain I was about to be murdered by a burglar disguised as Old Saint Nick. What a headline that would make."

"Woman Attacked on Christmas Eve by Candy-Cane Wielding Santa?" Micah replies with a hint of amusement. "A true American horror movie if ever there was one."

"Exactly!" Mama exclaims. "But when that jolly old Mr. Claus climbed the stairs and appeared with his fake pillowed belly, long white beard, and red velvet hat, his eyes were the only thing I could see. For the first time in months, my heart felt like it could beat again. My Russell had returned, and I needed him more than I'd ever needed anyone in that moment."

I can hear the tears in Mama's voice, which cause my own eyes to mist with the memory of the last time I heard my daddy tell his version of that story five Christmas Eves ago. How he'd paid the taxi cab driver handsomely to give him the rented Santa suit hanging in a bag in the back seat from a costume shop across town. The way my straightlaced father spoke of undressing in an airport taxi cab after barely catching his red-eye flight from Germany ranks as one of the funniest stories in my family's vault of memories.

"When Russell finally wrapped his arms around me, after all those months, he whispered, ‘Merry Christmas, Lulu. I hope you can forgive me for running a bit late.'"

"Lulu?" Micah repeats.

"That's what he called me," she says. "To be honest, I hardly remember a time when he called me Luella. The day we were married, he told me he would agree to share my name with the world but he would never agree to share my heart with anyone else."

"A true romantic, then?"

"Oh, he was so much more than a romantic, sweet boy. He was my hero." I smile at the admiration in Mama's voice and slowly pull back the privacy curtain, bringing a close to story time and hopefully an end to the crashing waves inside my core.

"Good morning," I say.

"Good morning, darlin'! I didn't realize you were awake. I've been warming up your seat for you." She scans my face and frowns. "Goodness, you look pale. Here, let's trade."

Mama holds her hand out to me, and we gingerly exchange places.

"Your mother makes for a great road-trip companion," Micah says as soon as I'm seated. "She's kept me well-entertained."

After I buckle up, it's a struggle to keep my eyes trained on the horizon like I should when the view to my immediate left is far more appealing. I chastise myself for thinking like a romance writer and not like a regular human being who can simply turn unwanted attraction off. Because that's what I need to do with Micah—turn it off.

"Wait—you can't stop there, Luella," Micah calls out to Mama. "I need to know how Russell knew about Raegan before you. Did the angel Gabriel come to him in a dream?"

Mama slaps him on the shoulder. "You're closer than you realize!"

I lean my head against the seat. "My dad bought her a—"

"Don't you go spoiling my story now, Sunny Bear. How much longer do we have until we arrive, Micah?"

"We should be at our destination in roughly twenty minutes."

"Plenty of time, then," Mama says as he continues on the interstate. I notice for the first time how rich the scenery around us has become. I know we're in Arkansas by the exquisite Ozarks and thick evergreen forests. It's beautiful.

We pass an interstate sign that proclaims: Hot Springs, Arkansas 15 miles and another highlighting a popular destination called Bathhouse Row.

Mama moves up to the stairs. "Can you see this in the mirror, Micah?" She lifts the gold necklace out of the neckline of her shirt that she's worn around her neck since before I was born. It glistens in the sunlight, and I can tell the instant Micah catches the reflection of it in the rearview mirror.

"Is that three angels holding hands?" he asks.

"Yes. It's the gift Russell brought home from Germany for me that Christmas. Oh, how he loved to tell this story on Raegan's birthday." Mama reaches forward and squeezes my shoulder. "When he left the American embassy and was headed with the crew to the airport, he told the driver he couldn't go home without a single Christmas present for his wife and daughters, but there wasn't a store open. You see, it was nearly Christmas Day in Germany. But the driver's wife's family owned a jewelry store, so he pulled over to the side of the road and made a single phone call. Russell said a few blocks later their driver pulled up to a store that looked like it could be a replica in my little porcelain Christmas village I put out each year. He only had five minutes to pick something out, but he said the instant he saw this necklace he knew it was the right one. Naturally, when he gave it to me, I assumed the three angels represented me, Adele, and Hattie. But when he slipped it around my neck he told me that as soon as he saw it he knew the three angels represented his three daughters. Of course, I'd laughed at him—we'd tried for years to have another baby after Hattie. I told him I was too old now and that he had it wrong. But wouldn't you know it, I found out I was pregnant with our Raegan three years later at the age of forty-one! It's what inspired the song ‘My Daughters Three.'"

"That really is quite the story," he says, regarding me again. "Guess you're one of the select few in history whose births were prophesied ahead of time."

"You should have seen these two girls when they were young. They were obsessed with our Sunny Bear here. For years, it was like she had three mamas fussing over her. And now she's the one who's often taking care of us. She's always there to help when there's a need." Mama presses a kiss to my head. "I don't know what this family would do without her."

Her assessment rubs against a sore spot. Is that what I'm doing now—taking care of them by keeping the tell-all a secret?

Mama turns then, saying, "Looks like Hattie is up and about. I better tell her to unpack her swimsuit."

The second she's out of earshot, I address Micah. "Please tell me whatever Mama has planned today doesn't have something to do with that bathhouse sign I saw a while back."

"Sorry, but I'm locked in a verbal contract with your mother. I'm not allowed to disclose that information to any of—"

I swipe his coffee from the cup holder. "You will if you want your caffeine."

He eyes me as if trying to size up my threat. "You do realize that's my third cup this morning, right? Some of us don't wait until nearly ten to grace the world with their presence."

I begin to slide the window open and take the lid off his travel mug.

"Whoa, whoa—okay, yes. You're going to the public bathhouse, although for you gals it won't be very public seeing as your mom rented the entire place out for the day. She sounds pretty jazzed about it." He arches an eyebrow at me. "I gather you're not a morning person."

I slide the window closed and slump back in my seat. "Not this morning, I'm not."

"Why's that?" he asks, the concern in his voice tugging at some invisible chain inside me.

"Forget it." I stretch my neck side to side and try to recalibrate. "I'll be fine."

"Feelings inside not expressed."

I twist to look at him. "Excuse me?"

"That's what fine stands for. It's a cop-out people use when they want to avoid having a real conversation."

I eye him strangely. "That's a ... really weird thing to say."

"Maybe, but it's true."

I think on my answer, knowing I can't possibly disclose Chip's findings to him or tell him how I'm planning to break into my sister's laptop after she goes to bed tonight to scope out information on the fired employee. But the way he keeps glancing at me breaks down my good judgment. Before I can stop myself, I ask, "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"If you knew some ... some potentially critical information that could cause pain to someone you loved, would you confess what you knew immediately, regardless of circumstance? Or do you think there's a right time and place to divulge a painful truth?"

His gaze flares with surprise before he schools his expression into something more pensive. It's as if he's working to read between each one of my chosen words. "I think the answer depends on what you value most."

"How do you mean?"

His face remains contemplative as he navigates the bus toward the exit ramp. "What if you tried flipping the question around on yourself? Would you feel loved if someone waited for the perfect time and place to tell you that same painful truth? Or would you want to know immediately ‘regardless of circumstance,' as you put it?"

Guilt chews at my subconscious even after I say, "I'd value the thoughtfulness of how and when I'm told." His silence is causing me to second-guess my stance. "What about you?"

"The truth, regardless of circumstance," he says without missing a beat.

His conviction is a gavel strike to my ribs, and perhaps that's why I can't quite bring myself to meet his eye again. If Micah knew the specifics of what I'm dealing with, would he feel the same? Or would he understand this murky gray area I find myself in now?

We begin to descend into a small city folded inside a valley. Sunshine and mountains surround us, and Micah slowly weaves the bus down multiple streets. A few minutes later, when we turn into a parking lot, I jump as Hattie squeals for everybody to look out the windows. I twist to see a street lined with ornate buildings to my right—bathhouses. I count eight in total. The architecture is breathtaking. Some of them look like they could be photographed in a European history book, while others boast more of a mythical, ethereal vibe. All are as unique as they are intricate.

Micah circles to find a place to park our mammoth tour bus.

"This is a very special place," Mama announces. "Jana has arranged for us all to spend the day here, soaking in the mineral baths that come directly from the town's natural hot spring. Adele, with your new interest in health and wellness, I think you'll find the health benefits to your liking. There's even a steam cave they've opened for us to enjoy at our leisure." Mama's arms swing open wide. "The best part is we'll get to experience it together. They have robes and towels for us inside; just wear your suits."

"Oh, I could cry—you're giving us a spa day, Mama?" Hattie claps her hands together. "This is the best road trip ever."

Apparently, she didn't have the same start to her morning as I did.

"Micah, will you be staying inside the bus?" Adele asks with a quarter of Hattie's enthusiasm. "I need to know how securely I should lock up my personal items."

I glance at Micah who, for some reason, is looking at me when he says, "I was actually planning to hike one of the trails in the Hot Springs National Forest." He picks up his phone and studies the screen, and even from here I can see the flashing red heat advisory.

"You can't go hiking in the forest—it's a billion degree outside." Hattie's brow furrows. "Mama, tell Micah he's invited to come with us."

I feel him trying to catch my eye as if he wants me to weigh in, but I'm currently too busy trying to figure out the best way to forfeit swimwear time so I can engage in espionage.

"Everything I've planned on the road includes you, as well, Micah," Mama confirms. "You're a welcome and honored guest. Plus, you may like to check out the place where your mother once bribed a service attendant to turn their backs so we could break in and have ourselves a decent shower and soak after being on the road for days. For payment, she offered to draw the attendant any picture she requested."

"My mother did that?" He doesn't even try to keep the suspicion from his tone.

"Sure did. On our first road trip together in 1975." Mama winks.

Just as Micah says, "I'll grab my shorts," I'm saying, "I think I'll stay back."

Our eyes lock, and I don't miss the hint of surprise in his.

"Don't be ridiculous, Raegan," Hattie dismisses. "This is Spa Day. You can't miss it."

"Really, I'll be fine," I say, feigning a yawn. "Micah can go on ahead, and I'll stay back and have some downtime in the bus. I brought some vacation reads to pass the time. Don't bother locking your stuff up, Adele," I offer, hoping she can't hear the tremble of fear in my voice. "I won't be going anywhere."

"No way, you're not missing out to play security guard for Adele." Hattie narrows her eyes suspiciously and uses her mom-tone. "She can toss her stuff in the bedroom safe like everybody else. Now, go get your suit on. We're not leaving without you."

"I never asked Raegan to stay back for my sake," Adele defends in a semi-calm voice. "I simply asked Micah what his plans entailed."

Hattie turns and cuts her gaze to Adele. "Oh, please, if you're too blind to see that the reason Raegan offered is because you're constantly asking menial tasks of her all the time, then you're in more denial than I thought."

Adele jerks her head back. And so do I. I've never heard Hattie stick up for me like this. At least not in a very long time.

"Oh, I'm the one in denial?" Adele prods. "Perhaps we should take a look at your—"

"That's enough, girls," Mama's voice is stern as she swings her gaze from them to me. "Raegan, get your stuff. We'll meet you outside."

Moments later, the lot of us head out into the streets of Hot Springs, Arkansas—one Farrow superstar mama wearing a yellow sunhat and dark glasses, three irritable sisters in swimsuit cover-ups, and one bus driver in camo board shorts who is watching me like a hawk.