Page 6 of The Roads We Follow

“That’s not the point—”

“It’s exactly the point. If you can’t bother to keep your schedule updated on the calendar, then how can you expect me to factor in your plans? As I said before, the most important thing is to keep Mama and everything she’s associated with in good standing until she performs at the Watershed Festival in Washington.”

Before I can offer a rebuttal or even think of broaching the subject of Tav coming to town, a horn blares followed by music coming from somewhere outside. And not just any music, but the chorus of a song we all know by heart: “My Darlin’ Daughters Three.” The song Mama wrote for us not long after her career went solo in the mid-’90s.

Adele starts and moves toward the front door. “What on earth is that?”

“Doesn’t sound like an ice cream truck,” I quip, but Adele isn’t up for my humor. Come to think of it, I can’t remember the last time I even saw her laugh.

Our mother’s distorted voice projects over what I can only assume is either a bullhorn or an intercom speaker. “Girls, can all three of you come into the driveway, please? I have a surprise for you.”

Adele doesn’t hesitate to be the first outside, regardless of the fact that Hattie and I are still in the parlor and one of us looks like the only thing that could wake her is the second coming of Christ. I move toward my groggy sister on the sofa and rock her shoulder gently. “Hey, Hattie? Mama’s asking us to go outside together. She says she has a surprise for us.”

“Later,” she mumbles. “Too ... tired.”

“I’m sure you are tired,” I say, fighting off a yawn of my own as I feel the antihistamines hard at work in my body. “I’m really sorry about what happened at the appeal, Hattie. I wish I would have known about the schedule change ...” I swallow back the guilt. “You can get through this, though.”Somehow.

The only indication she’s heard me is a scrunched-up brow.

There’s another short horn blast from the driveway, so I leave Hattie on the couch and head for the front entrance. I don’t get far.

Adele is halted two steps lower than me on the front porch, and I don’t have to wonder where her gaze is fixed. There is only one option. The metallic gold vintage tour bus with tinted windows donning a bright red bow attached to the rooftop is not exactly subtle. Nor is the voice of our mother, who is standing just inside the open bus door, gripping a bullhorn.

“Well, don’t you two just stand there catching flies,” our mama calls from the shadowed steps inside the bus. “Where’s my second-born?”

Adele twists back to stare at me as if she’s the commanding officer and I’m her recruit.

“She’s sleeping,” I direct at the gigantic brick of gold on wheels.

We’ve moved several steps closer when a siren loud enough to wake the drunks still sobering up from a night of barhopping on Broadway blares. I cover my ears but can still hear Mama’s twangy bellow over the loudspeaker. “Harriet Josephine Farrow, your presence is requested in the driveway.”

“She’s had a hard day, Mama,” I try again.

“Which is exactly why I decided to switch up my original plans for our meeting tonight. Hard days only stay hard if you allow them to. There’s no sense in wallowing over what can’t be changed now. It’s time for some good ol’ fashioned cheering up, and this is just the ticket.”

An instant later, Hattie staggers out the front door. Her black joggers are twisted so that the center drawstring is hooked on her right hip bone, which has become further pronounced in the months following her divorce. Hattie’s build is the female version of my father’s—tall and willowy, with long, lean limbs perfect for running track or walking a runway. Once on the porch, she makes a sad attempt to smooth the frizzy blonde mess atop her head before giving up. She stops short at the same place Adele and I did.

It’s then our mama steps down from the bus entry. She stands there in her adorably petite high-waisted jeans, rhinestone belt, and glitzy black tank top with the wordsDrama Mamascrolled across her ample bosom. My mother doesn’t own a single piece of apparel that isn’t encrusted with something sparkly. One of my many questions for heaven is why Adele was the one blessed to receive the majority of our mother’s genetics when the only things she ever wears are neutral-colored power suits and three-inch block heels. And a blazer.Alwaysa blazer. One would never know there’s a fabulous figure hidden underneath all those CEO-worthy pleats.

I, on the other hand, share neither the lean build of my father nor the hourglass figure of my mother. I’m instead the lucky recipient of a recessive genetic makeup that fashionistas on social media have coined “The Pear.” No buxom bosom or thigh gap for me, folks. But I do have enough hip and booty curve to win a Hula-Hoop contest any day of the week. About the only feature I share with all the Farrow women is our hair. Each of the four of us lands somewhere on the spectrum of curls, though it’s only me and my niece Cheyenne who’ve chosen to embrace our natural ringlets.

Mama uses the handrail to climb down the bus steps, and it’sonly then I wonder how she managed to get this giant rig here in the first place. She hasn’t driven herself anywhere in decades, and Jana certainly doesn’t have the credentials to drive something this large.

Mama waves at whoever is still inside.

“Girls, this is Eddie. He’s the miracle worker behind this secret project of mine.” After introducing us each by name, she addresses him directly. “You’re welcome to stick around for some sweet tea and pie.”

Eddie, who looks like the all-American mechanic on one of those TLC shows, gives us an awkward salute-wave and then glances at his phone. “I appreciate the offer, Ms. Farrow, but my ride is almost here. And thanks again for all the signed merch. My wife and kids will have a whole new appreciation for what I do. Feel free to give me a call if you need it moved before you leave.”

“Thanks, sugar, will do.” Mama tugs on the arm of his monkey suit until he hunches low enough for her to plant a kiss on his cheek. Eddie’s skin flushes three shades of pink.

Our mama has truly never known a stranger.

As Eddie begins his long trek down the driveway toward the privacy gate, Mama’s hands go to her hips and she looks at each of us appraisingly. “Would any of you like to take a guess at who this beauty is behind me and what she’s doing here?”

My gaze is still on the retreating mechanic when Adele steps up to the plate and inspects the sparkly motor coach in front of us as if she’s suddenly become an expert in transportation. “It’s certainly not the tour bus I told Raegan to rent for your travels to Washington next month.” Adele looks to me. “I requested a new model, black in color, and a few feet longer.”

“You did. And that’s what I secured. Give me just a minute and I can pull up the confirmation code.” I dig for my phone in search of the confirmation email when Mama’s voice brightens. “Don’t bother, sweetheart. I canceled that one.”

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