Page 23 of The Roads We Follow

“And what do they want?”

“What all of us want, I suppose. Acceptance, freedom, love, aplace to belong.” I swallow and return my gaze to the steaming pavement ahead. “People who they belong with.” I think of Allie’s words when she describedThe Sisters of Birch Groveto Chip the night of the Christmas party. “A friend once described it as a love story dedicated to an entire town.” Something in my chest stirs as I recall the many journeys of the residents of Birch Grove. I miss them. I miss writing.

“Wait—this is an actual book you’ve published? I admit, I mostly read nonfiction, but I usually enjoy at least one novel during the summer. I’ll download yours at our next stop. I’m intrigued.”

The cramp in my chest expands as I admit, “It’s not published. It’s only a hobby for now.”

“For now,” he repeats. “But you don’t want it to stay that way.”

He can’t possibly know how right he is. I think back to my conversation with Chip, and regret and desire war within me. “The timing’s not right for it to be anything more.”

“Why’s that?”

I screw my eyes into slits and examine his profile. “Ya know, you might be the nosiest bus driver in history.”

“I had a really good teacher,” he quips as a white Honda Pilot passes us on the left. “My dad always peppered us with questions when we rode in the jump seat, so you can thank him.”

I study the time-to-destination numbers at the bottom of the navigational app on his phone. “Where are we headed? What’s in Memphis that’s worth stopping at?”

“Afraid that’s a question you’ll have to ask your mother.” He winks. “I’m just the driver, remember?”

Only something inside me knows this man is so much more than that.

7

Micah

Graceland in Memphis, Tennessee, was not the destination I’d been expecting Luella to request for our first stop of the trip. For one, it was only three and a half hours away from her property in Brentwood, and for two, no one on board this renovated motor coach seems too excited about the idea of touring the King of Rock and Roll’s grandiose estate. With the exception of Raegan. Unlike my other passengers, she’s never been before. Something else we have in common.

As soon as I pull Old Goldie through the famous music-note gates of Graceland, it’s clear this is no ordinary tour. The red sign posted on the black security box out front reads:Closed until 3:00 p.m. for aprivate tour.

“Roll on up to the speaker, Micah sweetie,” Luella says, making her way up to the driver’s cockpit. “You can let the security team know Jana Barkley’s guests have arrived.”

“Jana’s guests?” I ask.

“Yes, Jana helped me arrange all the lodging and private events for this special trip. Everything is reserved under her name so only those who need to be in the know are privy to our comings and goings.”

I glance at Raegan in the jump seat for clarification. “Mama’s presence can cause a bit of a stir if we don’t have certain protocols in place.”

Outside of the hat and oversize sunglasses Luella had worn to pick me up from my hotel this morning, I hadn’t given much thought to all the safety measures involved in an excursion like this. What a different life my own mother led from Luella, raising her two sons at home and only sharing her musical talents with a rural school district in north Idaho.

After gaining clearance from Graceland’s security team, I steer Old Goldie through the gate and up the slight incline to the driveway. “How do you know the staff at these places won’t tell their social media followers where you’ll be?” The longer I consider it, the more difficult the idea of keeping Luella’s anonymity under the radar for a trip across the country becomes.

“Confidentiality clause. Jana sent one out everywhere we’re going. Adele made sure.”

“Ah yes,” I say. “I signed a couple of those myself.” Along with a brick of other paperwork Adele sent prior to my flight out.

I flick my gaze to the rearview mirror, where Adele is typing furiously on her laptop at the dining table. I suppose a legal agreement does make sense, and yet this life of VIP tours, disguises, and secret identities is as uncommon to me as the South’s humidity meter. Once we’re parked, I lend a guiding hand to each of the four Farrow women as they exit the bus. I’m expecting to wander around the property on my own during their tour when Luella unexpectedly links her arm through mine.

“Did you know your mother had the biggest crush on Elvis when we were girls?”

I laugh, surprised. “Not sure I did.”

“So it’s safe for me to assume she never told you about the time we won concert tickets in a dance-off to see him on our first road trip together in ’75.”

“A dance-off? Are you sure you’re talking aboutmymother?”

She swats me with her free hand, and despite myself, I smile at her feistiness. “I most certainly am. The dance-off was sponsored by a local radio station, and wouldn’t you know, your mother was the last woman standing in that entire dance hall! She had moves I’d never seen before.” Luella laughs heartily. “Talk about being in the right place at the right time. And that concert ... wow. It was a night to remember. It’s hard to believe Elvis died just six short years later. We stopped here again together many years after he was laid to rest on our way back to Nashville. Of course, I didn’t know at the time it would be our last tour.”

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