Page 76 of The Roads We Follow

“Your mom just offered to make us some breakfast,” I say.

Adele lifts her gaze from the stream of dark liquid to her mother at the stove. “You’regoing to cook, Mother?”

My lips quirk at the surprised tone in Adele’s voice, and I realize my hypothesis was correct. I don’t think Luella has spent nearly as much time in a kitchen as she has in a studio.

“Every Southern woman knows how to scramble an egg or two, darlin’,” Luella declares, cracking one into a bowl where more shell than yolk end up.

Adele and I share a knowing look.

“What can we help with, Luella?” I ask, emphasizing thewe. Adele doesn’t miss it. “Is that pancake mix on the counter there beside you?”

Luella stops fishing for shells long enough to look to her left and read the blue bag beside her. “Affirmative.”

“How are you at pancake flipping, Adele?” I ask the eldest Farrow daughter. “Because I admit, I’m pretty lousy. I’m much better at slicing fruit.” I grab a handful of apples from the basket on Dottie’s table and then go on a hunt for a knife.

“Oh, Adele has always been a wonderful cook,” Luella chimes in. “I always told Russell he should have let her go to culinary school. That girl loved experimenting with all sorts of recipes. She even taught Jana a few of her signature dishes.”

“Oh yeah? I could use some tips in the kitchen. Did you take any culinary classes?”

“No,” Adele answers simply, wasting no time in finding a mixing bowl and spoon.

“Russell said brains like Adele’s would be wasted in the kitchen. He used to tell her she was—what was it, Adele?”

“‘Built to sit at the head of a boardroom,’” Adele answers in what might be the most reticent voice I’ve heard her use. Soon, she’s collecting the ingredients she needs from the pantry and fridge, and its only then I notice how she leaves the store-bought mix unopened. She’s making pancakes from scratch, from memory.

For a woman who brought her own prepackaged meals aboard the bus, I’m more than a little surprised to find out she’s a foodie at heart.

I slice a few apples on a cutting board I find next to the fridge. “How long have you been CEO of Farrow Music?”

“Just shy of five years.” She stirs the batter, adding in milk a little at a time.

“And she’s done a fabulous job taking over after Russell died. It’s a hard gig, but we’re hoping it will get lighter. Aren’t we, darlin’?” Luella says, and I don’t miss the way Adele’s gaze flicks to hers.

“That’s the hope, yes.”

“I would imagine it’s tough to balance work and home life.” I leave an intentional pause. “Cheyenne seems like a really great kid.”

“She is,” both women say in unison and then look at each other once again.

“There’s a special place in a grandmother’s heart for her first grandchild,” Luella says as she plops a giant brick of butter into her frying pan to make way for her egg mixture. “Adele and Michael did a wonderful job raising her—they were very involved parents right from the start. She has her mother’s tenacity and confidence and Michael’s open-mindedness and charisma. He’s a physical therapist.”

I’m careful to keep my tone light and my hands distracted with the apples when I say, “I’ve worked with a lot of young adults her age, and it’s rare to find such support and love shown to them in a family.”

Adele says nothing, but as she pours the batter onto the griddle, the stiffness in her back and shoulders disappears.

“I do love her,” Luella says, turning away from her scramble to stare at her daughter. “So very much.”

“No one doubts that, Mama,” Adele says, staring at her bubblingpancakes. “But love doesn’t mean encouraging a nineteen-year-old to quit school just because it’s not as fun as when she’s playing her guitar. I know that she’s talented and beautiful and can write a song hook like she’s been doing it for decades, but it’s important to us that she has a degree to fall back on. She made a commitment. That means something to her father and me.” She quickly flips several pancakes in a row with ease. “You and Daddy would have hunted me down if I would have dropped out of Cornell halfway through to pursue cooking.”

I glance up at Luella, who seems to have forgotten all about the eggs on the burner. I leave the apple station and step in to turn the stove off so Dottie doesn’t come home to a fire drill in her front yard.

“You’re right.” Luella doesn’t hesitate to inch her way closer to her daughter at the griddle. I can barely hear her when she says, “We expected a lot from you—too much.”

Adele angles her head.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said at the hotel, about how none of us have been unscathed by my fame—”

Adele closes her eyes. “I was angry when I said that, Mother.”

---