Page 18 of The Roads We Follow

“Wait! I think we should probably—” But my words falter as soon as she rotates to face me. Her cheeks might be as flushed as they were when I cut her free from the luggage compartment, but her wide-eyed expression is new.

“You’re really Lynn’s son?” It’s the bewilderment in her tone that throws me off balance.

“Yes,” I admit simply. “I am.”

“I ... I don’t ... I don’t even know how to process that.” Her head shake is one of self-deprecation, if not full-blown humiliation. “There I was back there, just babbling on and on about those pictures.” She slaps a hand to her face before peeling it back to say, “You know, stating your last name when we first met would have beenreallyhelpful.”

I shield my eyes from the sun and do my best to match her tone. “I could say the same about your first name,Cinderella. I honestly thought I was talking to an employee of the Farrows.”

“Iaman employee of the Farrows,” she says without a hint of spite. “The irony ofbeinga Farrow andworkingfor them is what makes me Cinderella. It’s rare that someone doesn’t know how I’mconnected to my family, and I just wanted to ...” She blows out a hard breath. “It doesn’t matter. I was wrong to pretend to be someone I’m not, but if I’d known who you were from the start, I wouldn’t have spoken so casually about Lynn’s deathto her son.” She looks at me as if I might have a remedy for how to fix this sad excuse of a first impression, but I’m too self-aware that my own defense on this is weak.

“I feel really stupid,” she says, turning toward the house again.

“Please don’t,” I stammer, working to pluck all thoughts of how adorable this woman is when she’s flustered from my mind.What is wrong with me?Isn’t there supposed to be some kind of internal alarm to prevent awkward scenarios like this from ever happening? This woman could be my half sister. “You’re not stupid. I apologize for not telling you my full name from the start.” As well as for the rest of what I cannot tell you.

When her eyes find mine again, I’m so stunned by the tenderness I see reflected in her gaze that I can’t even recall my full name, much less my reasons for being here, until I finally snap to and realize she’s asking me another question.

“How did this even come about?”

I have the strongest desire to disclose everything to her, but that simply isn’t possible. I can’t blow my entire mission before I’ve even left Luella’s property just because I’m an idiot with a crush—one that needs to dieright this second.

“I’m here because your mom found something of my mother’s.” The truth. “When we spoke on the phone last week, she mentioned this road trip, and one thing led to another and I ended up offering to drive the bus. I thought it would be a good way to get to know your family a little better.”

“But why would you want to do that?” The lack of hostility in her voice is as mesmerizing as a north Idaho sunset. I can hardly tear my eyes away from her face.

“Because our mothers shared a history I want to better understand.” It’s the most honest version I can offer her.

“They didn’t speak for over thirty years,” she lobbies.

“I know,” I admit. “I can’t say I understand much about the events of the past, but I do know that.” When she says nothing, I take a deep breath. “I also know I’m a stranger, but I promise you, I don’t mean you or your family any ill intent.”

She studies me for several seconds without making a sound. “Why were you asking all those questions about my father earlier?”

I hold her gaze and speak as candidly as I can. “I’m trying to piece together the timeline of my mother’s life. I want to understand how all the pieces connect. There are giant gaps in her story I’d like to fill in, especially around the time she and your mother were music partners.”

“Why not ask your dad—Frank? He was around during that time, too.”

I nod not only because she has a point, but also because I wish it were that simple. “Because my dad just lost the hardest battle of his life, and the last thing I want to do is make it worse by asking him questions that could spiral him to an even worse place.” It’s an effort to swallow the lump of emotion that lodges in my throat.

Raegan’s eyes glisten. “I’m sorry. I know those words sound hollow, but I lost my dad four years ago, so I say them not because they help, but because I get it.” She swallows. “I really do.”

“I believe you do.” Her father’s death is a fact I know all too well. “You weren’t wrong earlier when you said grief does strange things to people.”

She nods then and waves me the rest of the way down the walkway and inside the entryway of Luella Farrow’s grand estate. She ticks her head toward what looks to be a den of some sort. The air conditioning is almost as sweet of a reprieve as Raegan’s benevolence.

“Okay,” she starts. “To answer your question, my father was stuck in Germany for eight months in 1994. Farrow Music Productions was a new label at the time, and he was there with a team of employees trying to secure an international tour for the following year.It ended up being a huge legal disaster after their work visas were deemed fraudulent. The entire crew was detained in a hotel for months with armed guards that kept them inside until it was sorted out between the embassies. Which didn’t happen till right before Christmas.”

“You’re saying he missed the entire tour that summer,” I repeat, taking it in.

“That’s right, he did.”

I can’t concentrate on all the details of her story because I’m too busy doing the math in my head. Twice. The numbers don’t add up. Conception. Pregnancy. My March seventh birth date. And then the August sixteenth elopement date between Frank and Lynn Davenport.

I shake my head. “And you’re absolutely sure of those dates—that your father was in Germany from May through December 1994?”

She bobs her head. “You can probably Google ‘music producers stuck in Germany with forged work visas’ and confirm it for yourself. My mama has talked about how hard it was to take my sisters on tour that year as a single parent. It was just our two mamas together back then trying to keep their budding careers afloat.” She stops and looks up at me. “Does that help fill in some of your timeline?”

“It does.” I clear my throat. “Thank you.”

---