Page 11 of The Roads We Follow

“Actually, I’d rather not risk them to a mail carrier. They’re too valuable.” I take a breath and formulate a plan I know Garrett would label impulsive if given the chance. “If it’s not too much to ask, I’d like to collect them from you in person.”

There’s a muffled sound on the other end I can’t quite decipher, followed by, “I’d love nothing more than to have you visit. I used to dream about what it would be like to have Lynn’s boys over to introduce to my daughters, as well as to eat some proper Tennessee BBQ. But of course, dreams make everything seem simpler than it is.” Another pause. “Please know that anyone in your family is welcome to come with you.”

Her statement pricks goosebumps down my arms. A week ago, I never would have imagined such a reaction over meeting Luella’s family members, much less that I’d be traveling to her home. But a week ago I still believed my family didn’t have any skeletons in their closet.

“Garrett and his wife, Kacy, have two-year-old twin girls, and he’s recently taken a promotion at the hospital where he works. He’s not in a place where he can get away easily.”

“That’s understandable. Unfortunately, we’re planning to hit the road this coming Saturday. I don’t suppose you’d be able to come this week for a night or two, would you? You’d be welcome to stay at my home in Brentwood. Otherwise, I’m afraid such a trip might have to wait until we’re back from Watershed in August.”

“I’m in a bit of a job transition this summer, so my schedule is fairly flexible.” Job transition? More like gainfully unemployed. But before I can backtrack my response, the impulsive thought returns. If there’s one regret I’ve heard most often in my line of work, it can be summed up in two words:missed opportunity. “At the risk of sounding too presumptuous, may I ask if you’ve already secured a driver for your road trip?”

There’s a short silence on the other end of the phone. “At therisk of sounding too presumptuous, are you asking because you might know a driver who’d be interested in taking a two-week cross-country road trip fueled by more estrogen than a sorority house?”

I can’t help but smile at that. “I should disclose that I’m hardly as qualified as my father, but I have clocked a lot of miles with him at my side in all different kinds of rigs, and on many road trips. He used to volunteer us boys to drive for choir competitions and basketball tournaments. It was his way of giving back to the community—by farming his sons out for community service work.”

“Why, Micah Davenport.” Her voice is pure Southern sunshine now. “I do believe this phone call has just crossed the line into providential territory. If you’re serious about driving for us, I’ll cancel the company driver my daughter hired the second we hang up. I’d be absolutely tickled to have you join us. I can’t think of a better tribute to your mama than to have you along.” She sniffs and coos into the phone. “I’m so glad you called today.”

“Glad I can be of service to you, Ms. Farrow.”

“Luella. Please call me Luella.”

We spend the next few minutes talking through the logistics, including a phone call I’ll need to have with her eldest daughter regarding paperwork, but all the while my mind never stops running the hypothesis that started the instant Garret first flagged my screening test for discrepancies. Once we hang up, I push inside my mom’s old music office in search of any tidbit of information I can get my hands on. If I’m going to drive their bus, then I need to figure out how to steer the narrative in the direction I need it to go.

There are two people who know what transpired on that summer tour in 1994, which resulted in a country girl from out west becoming pregnant by one man and eloping with another within the same month. One of those people is in heaven, and the other is Luella Farrow.

I may not be my father’s son, but I think she could know whose son I am.

4

Raegan

This morning is not the first time I’ve joked about changing my name to Cinderella. Barring the evil-stepmother component of that particular fairy tale, the rest of it has hit pretty close to home all week. I’ve spent the last seven days running a million odd errands in preparation for our departure, checking off the to-do lists Adele emails me from her corner office every morning, while also keeping Hattie from sleeping the day away. When I first moved in with Mama after Daddy died, Adele added me to the company payroll as a “strategic assistant,” a title I’ve since come to realize is as ever-changing as the music industry itself. My duties are often a reflection of whatever Adele requires of me in the moment. Most recently, I’ve been tasked with being the gatekeeper of any potential threat to our family—inside or out. I can’t exactly blame Adele for being protective. After everything that happened with Peter, she’s ultraparanoid about who we invite into our lives.

Which is why the text from Chip Stanton that pops up between my packing tasks for the morning stops me dead in my tracks.

Chip—Fog Harbor Books:

Hey, Raegan. I wanted to follow up with you about the rumor we discussed last Friday at the end of our meeting. I have an update whenever you have a free moment. I’m at the office early this morning.

I abandon the box of pantry goods on the counter and let myself outside to the pool patio. The July humidity is far from comfortable to linger in, but it’s about the only area on the property I can guarantee privacy at this hour.

Chip answers on the first ring.

“Raegan, hey.” The first thing I notice is the lack of buoyancy in his greeting. “I’m glad you called, though I wish I had a better reason to reach out.”

I drop onto the corner lounge chair at the far end of the infinity pool and skip past any polite small talk. “Did you hear something more about that rumored biography?”

“Yes and no,” he begins unsteadily. “I went to dinner last night with a college buddy I reconnected with at the conference in Nashville. We got to talking about our upcoming projects. He happens to work in freelance editorial for several publishing houses—mostly in nonfiction. I thought I’d broach the rumor with him, see if he’d heard anything at all. Turns out he was asked to submit a quote for a sensitive project with Willow House Press a couple of months ago.” Chip slows his cadence, as if selecting each word with care before he speaks. “Nick doesn’t think the project is a biography—”

“Oh, thank God.” I squeeze my eyes closed and exhale a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. There are gobs of opportunists all over this city looking to trade lies for a big payout, and dealing with one is the last thing we need right now. Not with Mama’s festival around the corner. And certainly not when we’re about to board a bus for the next two weeks. “That’s a relief.”

“Raegan,” he says in that grounding tone again. “Nick confirmed the project has to do with your mother. He said it’s already been contracted out to a popular ghostwriter in our industry. He also claims it’s one of the most secretive deals he’s ever been asked to submit a bid for.”

“But you just said it wasn’t a biography.”

“Right. Because authors of biographies aren’t usually kept under lock and key—even the unsanctioned ones. Nor do they require a ghostwriter well-versed in celebrity gossip and scandal.”

“Scandal ... like a tell-all?” The words feel sticky and wrong on my tongue.

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