Page 75 of The Roads We Follow

September 16, 1993

Nashville

Dear Chickee,

The mounting tension I’ve felt for months between the trio was revealed when Russell finally announced he was breaking away from TriplePlay Records to start his own label, Farrow Music Productions. To say the least, the meeting where it all came to a head was explosive. First, Russell accused Troy of cheating the company, then Troy retaliated by threatening Russell with a lawsuit if he even thinks of pulling Luella and me off his label. But Russell stood his ground like a sentinel, flashing a folder of receipts and telling Troy that if he so much as parks his sports car near our homes, he’ll be subpoenaed.

I wish I could say I understood the reasons why Luella and Russell kept their discoveries a secret, but by the time they brought me into the loop, the decisions had already been made, and it’s difficult to feel much of anything but hurt. Luella says leaving TriplePlay will be the best thing for all of us as Troy is nothing more than a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Only, Troy isn’t the one who kept me in the dark for months and made plans on my behalf without my knowledge. In a way, I can empathize with the betrayal I read on Troy’s face during that meeting. I feel it, too.

Dorian left with Russell to become a partner of Farrow Music shortly after the split. I am grateful to have a familiar face at the studio. He still makes me laugh, even on the days I want to cry.

Because of all the changes, there was no tour scheduled this summer. I didn’t realize how much I would miss seeing Franklin until June rolled into July. There’s so much about this year that has felt off, but not sitting next to him, talking through the night the way we used to, has felt especially so. I wondered if he might have been feeling the same way since I got a letter from him out of the blue. I read it over four times before I replied. I hope he writes again. It will help the time pass before he’s driving us around on tour again next summer.

Lynn

August 8, 1994

It’s our last night of driving before we’re back home in Nashville, and Franklin has just told me he loves me. It’s both the best and worst thing he could have done. I told him I’m not the marrying type of gal and that if he knew what was good for him, he’d choose to love someone else. Someone less damaged, less lost. He refuted every one of my arguments and told me he won’t change his mind, but he’ll pray I change mine. He’s so stubborn!

Even if I could allow myself to feel the same way about him, I know it would never work between us. Franklin would hate living under a microscope here in Tennessee, and I’m bound by my contract with Farrow Music for another five years. Russell’s been in Germany working out the details for our first international tour next year, and Luella’s been so focused on his homecoming that it feels like the only time we see each other is when we’re on stage performing.

But friendship isn’t meant to be a performance.

Friendship is meant to be communicating and sharing and connecting and commiserating. Together.

I’ve been so desperate to talk to someone who understands this push-pull tension I feel, and yet when I had Franklin right there in front of me, I pushed him away.

Lynn

20

Micah

It’s been a long time since I snuck around in a dark house, but I’m having major flashbacks of my teenage years as I move to shut Raegan’s door behind me while clutching my shoes to my chest. I do a triple-check in the dim hallway for any early rising Farrows. Thankfully the coast is clear.

After a speedy shower—which smarted far less on my scorched shoulders than I feared—I finally took a moment to assess the other fear lurking in my mind. The one that shook me from a dead sleep. The one that would make me Tav Zuckerman’s half brother.

I read the last few entries of my mom’s journals this morning searching for clues, yet they ended as unresolved as I feel right now. What had happened after my mom pushed my father away? Where did she go? Who did she see?

I follow the smell of strong coffee down the stairs, mindful of every creak and groan. I don’t know who’s up at this hour, but I pray at least one of them is Luella. I’m only two steps into the kitchen when it’s clear my prayer has been answered.

“Good morning, handsome,” she says in her honeyed tone, wearing an apron that has the state of Kansas traced in glitter on the front. She holds out her arms for a hug I gladly accept. Somewhere between rescuing her from a nightclub and stripping off my T-shirt for her to wear like a scarf yesterday, hugging became natural.

“How did you sleep?” she asks, pouring me a mug of coffee as if she’s the hostess and I’m her guest.

I take the mug she offers and appreciate the fact that she doesn’t bother to offer cream. She knows I take it black. “Uh, I slept great, thanks.” I don’t bother to conclude that the reason for such great sleep was likelywhereI’d slept. It certainly didn’t hurt my feelings to wake up to the sight of Raegan sleeping at her desk ten feet away. It took every ounce of my willpower not to plant a kiss on her head as I tucked the quilt around her shoulders before I left her room.

“What about you?” I consider Luella through filtered eyes after yesterday’s fainting spell. “You feeling okay this morning?”

“I guarantee I’m feeling better than those crispy shoulders of yours.” She grimaces. “I do feel terrible about that. I asked Dottie to pick up some aloe vera for you at the grocery store. She should be back in a bit, but she told us to make ourselves at home. She left us some options for breakfast, too.” Luella lifts the egg carton as if it’s a foreign object she’s never before beheld and says, “Perhaps I’ll whip up some eggs for us right quick.” And something about her innocence is so endearing I can’t help but laugh. Perhaps the conversation I need to have with her will be much easier than I thought.

As she turns toward the stove, I’m about to ask if she’s considering ditching the festival to become Dottie’s second-in-command at the inn when Adele breezes in with a mug already in hand. Apparently, she’s been up for a while. And apparently, she hasn’t been keeping company with her mother this morning. The bus breakdown had definitely thawed a few layers of their freeze-out, but given Luella’s sudden look of uncertainty and Adele’s robotic posture, there’s obviously still work to be done here.

“Can I get you a refill, Adele?” I ask, gripping the coffee pot before she has a chance to.

“Sure,” she says, looking about as comfortable as my shoulders feel every time I lift my arms ninety degrees. “Thank you.”

I keep my pour slow while I make a mental switch to the order of my priorities for the day.

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