Page 100 of The Roads We Follow

I reach for her face and tilt her chin to mine and say the same to her without the use of any words at all.

When Luella introduces Cheyenne a moment later and invites her on stage with the rest of her band, the three of us lose our minds, along with the sold-out festival all around us. While Cheyenne sways beside her grandma and fingerpicks the intro to “Crossing Bridges,” Luella dedicates the song to my mother and to the early years that shaped her—the good and the painful. She talks about choices and mistakes and heartache and redemption. And when she looks at her granddaughter, she talks about legacy.

Raegan and I reach for each other’s hands at the same time and hold on throughout the entire tribute. The horizon behind the stage explodes into a vivid display of neon orange and pink, and as their harmonies layer and swell, I truly hope my mother can hear this from heaven.

The standing ovation goes on for so long, the sound and energy of it is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I don’t know how many minutes pass before Raegan tugs my hand and indicates for Hattie and me to follow her out of our row, but we do. Not even sixty seconds after we exit out the side gate and flash our wristbands to step inside the large, air-conditioned VIP tent filled with industry professionals and headliners does the applause in the amphitheater finally die.

“You’ve done that a time or two before,” I tease.

She shrugs. “I’ve learned to read my mama’s signals to the band. When she’s getting close to walking off stage, she always moves her palm to rest over her heart. She and Cheyenne will join us here afterward for the interviews.”

I scan the tent, my gaze catching briefly on the back of a man in a flashy aqua shirt telling jokes I can’t hear at one of the opening bands I saw this afternoon. His guffaw sounds showy and forced, and even from here, I wish I could mute him.

There are gobs of refreshments provided, all lining the perimeter of the tent. Fresh fruit on ice, meats and cheeses, cookies and candy, and an assortment of individually packaged snacks. I note several familiar faces, thanks to Hattie pointing them out to me earlier.

In less than five minutes, Luella and Cheyenne join us in the tent, and instantly, Hattie and Raegan are all over their niece, hugging and congratulating her.

“You were incredible out there,” I tell Luella as a woman in an apron asks if we’d like anything from the bar. We both order ice waters.

As Luella answers my questions about what it was like to be on that stage in comparison to other venues, a grating timbre assaults us from behind.

“Been a long time since I’ve seen you sing a duet, Luella. Brings back memories, although I can’t say they’re especially good ones.”

The man behind us looks to be around Luella’s age. He screams of old money and smells of imported cologne. His thick brown hair is styled in a way I’d bet is a lot to keep up at his age, as is the way his tanned skin is pulled taut everywhere but the creases around his eyes. Yet not even the best antiaging treatments can erase the reddish undertones in his neck and cheeks likely caused by the same hard liquor he’s nursing now.

Despite our proximity, he doesn’t seem to notice me ... yet I can’t seem to look away from him.

“Wish I could say it’s a pleasure to run into you here, Troy,” Luella says flatly. “But we both know that’s not true.”

The name I’ve read dozens of times over in the pages of my mother’s journals surfaces, along with twenty years of her memories.Troy Rigger.

“Ah, come now. I just wanted to compliment your beautiful granddaughterfor a job well done tonight. As far as music partners go, you’ve certainly upgraded since your last one.” His eyes trail to Cheyenne and linger on her backside in a way that makes me want to rip that drink from his hand and shove him to the ground. “Although I suppose I shouldn’t complain too much.” A smirk alights his face. “Not every woman in my past played as hard to get as you did. Although, I suppose second best is better than nothing.”

Every nerve ending in my body feels raw at what he could be alluding to.

Though she stands at least six inches shorter than him, Luella steps in close and drops her voice to an unfamiliar register. “If I so much as see you breathe in the same direction as my granddaughter this weekend, I will personally see to it that you lose what little standing you have left in this industry.”

“Grudges are so unbecoming in a woman your age, Luella.” He takes a slow sip of his drink. “Don’t you think it’s time the two of us called a truce?”

Luella opens her mouth to retort just as Adele taps her mother on the shoulder to inform her the interviewer is ready to roll. I don’t miss the way Adele refuses to make eye contact with Troy Rigger or the way he slips out of the tent without so much as a backward glance.

And I certainly don’t miss the way dread pools in my gut at the knowing sense that the answers I seek might be closer than I realized.

28

Raegan

Mama and Cheyenne are seated at their last interview inside the media tent as Adele, Hattie, and I watch from the sidelines. The gal interviewing them—Tonya, with CMT—is around my age and has mentioned multiple times that this is her first time at Watershed and how she’s done all sorts of extra homework on the headliners to ensure she gets an invite back. Though my mama is all smiles for the camera, I can tell by the way she stretches her calf by lifting the toe of her boot that she’s ready to call it a night. She hasn’t done such a high-energy show like this in ages. She must be exhausted. And she still has a couple of song collaborations set for tomorrow. My phone vibrates against my palm, and I find a text from Micah.

Micah D., bus-driving ex-therapist:

Hey, can we take a walk? I need to process some information with you.

I can feel my brow rumple at the odd expression. Process some information?

Raegan:

Of course. We’re just finishing up here. I can meet you at the bus in a few. Are you okay?

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