Page 92 of The Roads We Follow

Raegan:

Timing is great. Thanks again for escorting them to the beach this morning. I owe you. My call is in five minutes. I have my list of questions ready.

It’s almost two minutes before Micah texts back, and when he does, I analyze the five words as if they were five paragraphs.

Micah D., bus-driving ex-therapist:

Wish you were with us.

On the surface his sentiment is sweet and endearing, but I saw the reservation in his eyes last night when the contract came through to my phone. I know he’s concerned that the cart is way too far ahead of the horse, but this is still my best option. If I only get one chance to win Mama’s blessing on this project, then it’s vital I understand everything involved—including the proposed publishing contract. I’ve gone through it line by line three times now, and after some extensive Googling in my bunk, I feel fairly confident.

At least, until I think about everything I’ve kept from my family.

As quickly as the guilt moves in, I remind myself that I only have a couple more days to keep this secret. And didn’t Adele ask me to keep the peace and limit all distractions until after the festival?

My decision is for the greater good. Mama will see that; I know she will. And her vote is the one that will matter most.

When Chip calls, we spend the first fifteen minutes rehashing the meeting he had with the Fog Harbor executives in greater detail—their elation over the exclusive proposal, the specific deal points of the contract, the marketing plans they’ll put into motion as soon as the contract is executed. Through it all, Chip’s enthusiasm over this project is impossible to miss.

“Raegan, I don’t want to add any pressure to your plate, but is the timeline we discussed still on track?”

I rub my lips together, thinking through the agenda for the next few days. Per Mama’s request, we’ll spend the afternoon at the Redwoods, then do another long stretch of driving tonight in order to get her to the outdoor amphitheater in George, Washington, a full twenty-four hours before her first performance. Adele had spent the majority of the bus ride yesterday confirming rundowns andmakeup and backstage-interview schedules. Since Daddy’s passing, she doesn’t trust the details to anyone else. Not even the talent managers on her payroll.

“Yes, as soon as my mother is able to read and approve the sample chapters, I plan to send the signed contract back to you. My hope would be after the weekend.”

Chip is quiet for a moment. “And what do you think the chances are of her not approving it?”

I inhale a fresh pull of ocean air and fill my lungs. The truth: I can’t imagine Mama protesting after she reads what I’ve written, especially since her heart has been so open with us after Lynn’s passing. “Slim.”

“That’s good to hear.” He sounds relieved. “I hope it will be a productive and positive conversation for you both.”

“I appreciate that. And I appreciate everything else you’ve done for me and my family.”

“It’s been my honor. Who knew when Allie introduced me to her roommate’s aunt at the Christmas party last year that this would be happening now?” He’s quiet for a moment. “Celebrity memoirs are popular for a variety of reasons—but I think what you’re working on has the potential to reach past our basic fascination with fame. One of the things we discussed in the meeting was your use of the wordlegacyin the proposal. Few people take the time to reflect on the legacy that’s been left for them, much less the one they’re leaving for the next generation. I hope you’ll continue to explore that as you work. It’s the perfect union to some of the themes you wrote about in your fiction. ”

I watch a wave break against a giant rock formation fifty feet or so away from the shore and ponder the weight of his words. “I don’t think I’ve thought of it like that before.”

“The editor I used to work with, Ingrid, always said, ‘Perspective is the most powerful tool in a storyteller’s arsenal.’ It’s how she sold me on Allie’s fantasy series.”

I smile, thinking of the tall, quirky brunette who’d become atreasured friend over the last year. “How is Allie? Is her first book still slotted for next year?” My niece is already planning to preorder at least a hundred copies for everyone she knows. When the girl supports someone she cares about, she goes all out. I have been a recipient of such love for some time now. I only hope I can return her generosity of spirit in equal measure one day.

“Allie is...” The hesitation in Chip’s voice catches my notice. The same way the memory of him escorting her to the Christmas party did last December. Only, Chip has a girlfriend now. And despite what I hoped, that girlfriend is not Allie.

“Allie’s like a sunflower in a forest of pine trees,” he finally concludes.

“Wow, that almost sounds poetic.”

“Not if you realize how stubborn sunflowers can be,” he says with mock jest. “They just pop up wherever and whenever they want.”

“And yet they’re still stunning wherever they grow.”

“Right, well—” he clears his throat—“we’ll touch base soon, Raegan. Safe travels.”

After we end the call, I search the heavens overhead and ponder the connection between legacies and life, and one question circles my heart and mind:Will the book I’m writing play a part in my own legacy one day?

My family came back to the bus from their time at the ocean with salty, mussed hair and wind-chapped cheeks. But even more than that, their postures spoke of the kind of peace nature invokes. A peace I was only just now beginning to recognize thanks to Micah’s passionate insight. Even Adele seemed uncharacteristically calm, despite the list of last-minute details she was confirming with Mama’s bandmates, production team, and styling crew.

The drive to Redwood National Forest was less than an hour away, and I’d been more than a little surprised when Adele hadoffered me the only other nausea-proof seat on the bus—which also happened to double as the best workspace on the bus, as well—since I’d given the jump seat to Mama. Instead, Adele set up her office in the back bedroom for the day. The thoughtful gesture made a ripple of affection course through me, which was immediately followed by a ripple of anxiety.Would she understand why I’m doing this?

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