Page 52 of The Roads We Follow

Raegan groans. “Wonderful. I’ll go grab her as soon as I show you the wall.”

“What wall?”

She tips her head for me to follow. “I saw it on my way to the restroom earlier. Took some pictures of it to show you, but now you can see it for yourself.”

The second we’re tucked behind the protection of the shadowed alcove, the volume in the ballroom is cut in half. The next moment the lit wall of art steals my full attention.

“What is this?”

Raegan leads me to the far end of what looks like a painted timeline that begins in 1968 and runs the entire length of the wall to present day. The painted images of music celebrities and bands are wildly realistic, and there are plaques with information interspersed throughout, along with framed articles and memorabilia.

“Do you see them?” Raegan points to the arrow at 1977, where our two mothers have been illustrated, standing side-by-side in bell-bottoms and tie-dye. They both flash peace signs. The metal plaque underneath them reads: “Lynn Hershel and Luella Farrow on October 3, 1977. The knock-out songwriting duo from north Idaho played a full set with our house band. The first of many magical nights to come, and the beginning of a long and beneficial relationship with Carter’s.”

I feel an inexplicable surge of pride, thinking back to my mother’s entry after her win of the Elvis dance-off. “So they made it back just like they’d hoped.”

“We did indeed.” To my surprise, the voice belongs to Luella, not Raegan. “This was the first big venue we played—a full set. Bruce, the owner, saw something in the two of us nobody in Nashville would take the time to see. The industry was male-dominated back then, full of solo artists like Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, George Jones, John Denver. And here we were, a female duet with a single guitar. But Bruce took Russell’s call and gave us a chance. And in return, your mom and I ended up saving his place from demolition.” Luella saddles up beside me. “This building meant a lot to us back in the day.” Her smile is sad when she adds, “It’s one of the last places we played just for us. For those two girls who fought as hard for each other as they did for their dreams.”

“How long did you two stay with TriplePlay Records before Russell founded Farrow Music Productions?”

“Too long, if you ask me.” Luella makes a scoffing sound. “The split was in the works for quite a while as there were personal and legal ramifications to consider, but Farrow Music Productions was officially founded at the end of 1993. Russell and I risked everything to start that label, but it was time. My husband was too principled to stay in a partnership that wasn’t.”

I’m about to comment on this when Raegan hollers at us from further down the timeline. “Here’s an article about your fundraising efforts to save Carter’s in the ’80s, Mama.” She taps on a plexiglass frame bolted to the cement wall under 1990 and waves us on.

Together, we move down the mural and meet Raegan at the article. I study the black-and-white photo attached to the top of the newsprint. A five-member ensemble—three suited gentlemen who stand directly behind my mother and Luella, who together hold a giant pair of scissors, posed to cut a thick ribbon out front of this very building. I skim the details of how, after years of a struggling economy and slow business, the city was set to bulldoze the building to make room for a popular hotel chain. But the duo, along with the help of TriplePlay Records, organized enough charity fundraising concerts to save the historic building from its untimely death. They even found sponsors from surrounding areas who agreed to foot the bill for specific renovation projects within. This article commemorated the grand reopening of Carter’s at the end of 1990.

I stare into my mother’s eyes before scanning the three gentlemen dressed in suits behind them. Russell is the easiest to spot as he stands directly behind his wife, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. “These other two men with Russell are...” I try to recall their names from the journals. “Troy and Dorian?”

“That’s correct,” Luella says. “I know this photo isn’t the best quality, but Troy Rigger is the taller, thinner one with the round glasses, and Dorian Zuckerman is the goofy looking one there in the middle with a cigarette bobbing out the side of his mouth. I don’t think he ever took a single straight-faced picture in all our time together—God rest his soul.”

“He died?” I ask, turning to face her.

“Sadly, yes. Not long before my Russell. Lung cancer. My husband was a pallbearer at his funeral, and Raegan wrote a gorgeous poem she dedicated to their family during the service.” She smiles in the direction of her youngest daughter, but I’m stuck on a detail I hadn’t considered until then.

“Are you saying the three partners remained close even after Russell started his own label?”

“Not all three.” Luella hesitates, seeming to choose her words carefully. “But eventually, Dorian came to work for Farrow Music Productions, and those two remained close friends for the rest of their lives. Our families have stayed close for many years.”

My pulse thuds harder at this new tidbit of information. “If Dorian worked for Farrow Music, does that mean he and Russell were together in Germany while you and my mother toured in 1994?”

“No.” She shook her head. “While Russell was away securing what would have been our first international tour, Dorian opted to stay back. After Vietnam, he had no interest in leaving the States again. He became our manager for the domestic tour. Without him, we would have been forced to cancel.” She remains quiet for a long moment, her gaze growing distant as she says, “Sometimes I wonder how different things would have been if we’d all just stayed home that summer.”

There are so many more things I need to ask, but the photo of Dorian Zuckerman doesn’t let me go, nor does the question of his involvement with my mother the summer I was conceived.

I feel Raegan move to my side just as a deep, husky cough alerts us to someone behind us.

“It took the artist over a year to map this timeline and paint it for us, but we’d be nothing without our history.” A man with bohemian-style dreadlocks and a white beard appears behind Luella and stretches his hand out to me. He introduces himself as Bruce before he drapes an arm around Luella’s shoulders.

“It’s lovely, Bruce.” Luella’s admiration for him is tangible.

“Not as lovely as you. Even with that crazy black wig you’re trying to pull off.” He tsks. “That thing looks about as out of place as a dolphin in the desert, if you ask me.” He chuckles, then returns his gaze to the mural again. “I sure wish your Russell was here to see this mural. You both were an integral part of why this place is still standing.” Bruce is quiet a moment before continuing. “You two were that rare, fairy-tale romance only soulmates get to experience. It’s why the public couldn’t get enough of the two of you. You were his queen.”

Luella laughs. “Not sure you’d call us a fairy tale if you saw the way I got after him for leaving his socks under the coffee table night after night. The man couldn’t walk to the dirty hamper to save his life.”

As the last country song fades out in the background, a familiar melody plays over the loudspeakers, and surprisingly, the crowd hoots and hollers at the abrupt change of genre. “How Deep Is Your Love” by the Bee Gees blares over the speakers, and Bruce begins to sway his hips as he quirks an eyebrow at Luella, who laughs all the harder.

“Don’t you even try to pretend that’s coincidental, Bruce.”

“I think we owe it to your Russell to cut a rug in his honor.”

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