Page 91 of The Roads We Follow

As soon as he drops his gear off at his yurt and we’ve rounded the other side of it, the crackle and glow of an impressive campfire beckons us close. I can hardly believe what I’m seeing: each and every woman in my family standing next to a circle of camping chairs.

“We’re sorry, Micah,” Hattie blurts out, which seems to prompt others in the group.

“We made some sides for dinner.” My niece points to a tree stump outside the circle with a hodgepodge of interesting food selections. “We did our best with what we could find at Kent’s mini-mart. It’s mostly Pop-Tarts, pork rinds, sunflower seeds, and baked beans from a can. Oh, and Mama bartered with Kent for some fresh s’mores stuff for dessert.”

Adele is slow to meet our gaze, but when she does, she steadies it on Micah. “I may have overreacted earlier.”

Mama hikes an eyebrow and crosses her arms over her chest, saying nothing but everything all at the same time.

“I’m sorry,” Adele says. “I ... didn’t realize how sentimental this place was to you. And I can see now why you love it so much.”

The look on Micah’s face is one of befuddlement. “I appreciate that. Thank you.”

Mama rounds the fire. “Kent came down when he heard all thefussin’ and carrying on down here. He told us how you and your brother would come for trips with Frank in the summers. Sounds like Kent’s boys followed you around everywhere you went when they were younger.”

Micah chuckles at whatever memory flashes through his mind. “They were good kids, although neither lacked for energy.”

“Kent still marvels at the level of patience you had for them, taking them on excursions and fishing trips so he could get things done around the busy months,” she says. “He said you’re a huge part of why they’re both working with him now.”

“Are they really?” Micah asks with awe in his voice, and I can’t help but think that even as a teenager Micah had a gift for nature and people. The thought fuels me with pride.

“The three of them did a full critter check of the yurt for us,” Hattie explains. “They told us to holler if there was anything else we needed tonight. Nice people.”

“They are,” Micah agrees.

“What do you have in the cooler, son?” Mama asks. “We’re hoping it’s something that will go with cherry Pop-Tarts and charred beans.” Her laugh is light, but I can see the way her term of endearment touches Micah.

He clears his throat, then slings an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close to his side. “Our Raegan caught us a trout.”

There’s a chorus of surprised cheers and claps, but the delight I feel in this moment has little to do with my part of the catch and everything to do with the people I’m about to share it with.

25

Raegan

After we said good-bye to the yurts, I spent the long driving day that followed writing from the jump seat of the bus while Micah played lookout for any approaching family members via his interior mirror. Thankfully, I’d managed to complete and polish the first three chapters of the memoir due to Chip after the festival—barring Mama’s approval, that is.

As soon as we’d parked in Crescent City, California, last night, I’d mapped a rideshare to the nearest office-supply store to print out a hard copy for Mama since she loathes reading on screens, and I covered up the errand by offering to make a grocery run for fresh produce and snacks. My family was more than happy to provide me with their shopping lists. And despite his road weariness, Micah had volunteered to escort me.

Which meant he was with me when Chip’s email came through in the checkout line.

Raegan,

As expected, the publication board was thrilled with our proposal. Attached is the first draft of your contract. We can discuss specifics once you have a chance to review it in detail. Does tomorrow work for a call? I’d like to get a writing update from you, as well.

Chip Stanton

Acquisition Editor

Fog Harbor Books

Now a beautiful new day has dawned. And I’m blessedly alone as I comb through each section of the contract, awaiting my phone call with Chip. I’m struck by how surreal this moment is. Three weeks ago, I’d been convinced a partnership with Fog Harbor Books wasn’t in the cards for me. And yet here I am, sitting on a bench overlooking the Pacific Ocean and planning to sign an author contract under my real name. My initial review did clarify one thing: the shocking offer Fog Harbor is willing to advance me for this book will eventually need the attention of a lawyer as long as Mama gives me her blessing. Perhaps Adele’s cautious thinking has influenced me more than I realized.

I snuggle into the oversize sweatshirt I borrowed this morning that still smells faintly of campfire, and as if sensing the action from afar, the owner of said sweatshirt texts me an update of his beach excursion with my family.

Micah D., bus-driving ex-therapist:

We’re still out collecting shells. Should be headed back your way by eleven. Does that give you enough time, or do I need to stall? Your mom wants to be at the Redwoods by early afternoon.

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