Page 26 of The Roads We Follow

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. “Empireis 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?”

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