Chapter 2
Raegan
By the time I pull through the privacy gate of Mama’s estate in Brentwood, the all-too-familiar itch on the inside of my wrist has already begun, made worse at the sight of Adele’s black Lexus parked in the driveway. Using the pad of my thumb, I rub at the pink patches snaking up my forearm and release a weary sigh—for the stress hives, for the 9-1-1 summons on my phone screen, and for the dream that felt so close to being realized if not for my name.
I slip through the front door unannounced and head straight back to Mama’s kitchen—though for the last four years, it’s been my kitchen, too, ever since Adele insisted that the best thing for Mama after Daddy’s passing would be for me to move in with her. One might argue that Mama’s longtime house manager and trusted friend for decades, Jana, who’s here five days a week plus most Sunday afternoons to swim with her grandbabies, would suffice for companionship. But arguing with Adele is a lesson in futility.
I scratch again at my forearm. My hives have crept their way past my elbow, and as much as I want to learn the reason behind Adele’s urgent texts regarding my middle sister, I will be of no use to her or anyone else if I don’t first locate some antihistamines.
I’m rummaging through the medicine cabinets when I hear Adele’s assertive tone barking orders from the living room. She’s using legal jargon I don’t understand, yet it comes as no surprise that she’s on the phone after summoning me here. Benjamin Franklin had it wrong; death and taxes aren’t the only two things that are certain in life.
Hiding behind the Pepto Bismol is a box of expired Benadryl tablets. I down two with a tall glass of water just in case expired equals less potent, then go in search of answers. Where is Hattie? I stride down the hallway from the kitchen toward the formal sitting room and library, listening for Mama’s low hum or the light sweep of her rhinestone slippers against the hardwood floors. Maybe she can shed some light on whatever drama happened today. But the only thing I hear is the low rumble of Adele’s stern voice echoing in the quiet.
As I round the corner into the parlor, the blood in my veins chills. Hattie—almost eleven years my senior and three years Adele’s junior—is passed out on the sofa, where three bulky black garbage bags are parked near her feet. Her snores are light, but the thick, dried rivulets of mascara on her cheeks are not. The rare sight of her disheveled appearance keeps my eyes locked on her still form as I move to tuck a throw blanket over her bare feet and legs, all the while searching my brain for a narrative that makes sense.
“Apparently,” Adele says from somewhere behind me, “Hattie’s custody appeal hearing was moved to this afternoon. And she went alone.”
I spin to face her. “What?”
“And she lost.”
“No, no,” I repeat while shaking my head, as if that action alone might force either the circumstances or the verdict to make sense.
Adele tips her head to the hallway and leaves the room. I follow her lead, lowering my voice when I say, “How did that happen? I didn’t know anything about a reschedule.”
When we stop, Adele studies me in a way that says it’s-your-literal-job-to-know, Raegan. “The judge granted him the full six weeks he requested this summer with the children, starting today since this is their usual weekend.” Adele almost never uses our ex-brother-in-law’s name in conversation. As far as she is concerned, Peter San Marco’s name, or Cheater Peter as I refer to him in my head, takes up far too much real estate in our lives as it is. Adele is still dealing with the scandal he caused nearly two years ago at Farrow Music Productions.
Adele’s gaze cuts to Hattie’s sleeping form in the den. “Imagine my surprise when I was minutes away from walking into a meeting with our legal team when my phone alerted me to Hattie’s location. I texted you and called, but it went straight to voicemail.” She searches my face. “Where were you this afternoon?”
“I took an hour to have coffee with a friend.” I keep my tone even as I supply an answer, but my heart is an erratic drumbeat in my chest. I push aside her clear frustration with me and instead process the injustice for my nephew Aiden and niece Annabelle. And then, with a clenched jaw, my sister Hattie. “How can he do this to her? She’s their mother.” I’ve never come so close to hating anyone in all my life. “He can’t just ... he can’t just take them from her, can he? The longest they’ve spent apart is three nights, per their agreement.”
“I’m well aware of the previous arrangement, Raegan. I was the one working with her lawyers. Which is why I was shocked to discover she’d gone to the appeal hearing alone and represented herself. You and I both know she was nowhere near ready for something like that.” Adele sighs and straightens her skirt. “It appears the cheater struck a compromise the judge favored. He gets them for six weeks this summer, and in turn, Hattie will have the same schedule next summer.”
I shake my head. “But why is he so insistent on six weeks? They’re only eight and nine.”
Molten fury ignites my sister’s gaze. “Because he wants them to meet Francesca’s family in Greece.”
I open my mouth only to shut it again. There are no words for this kind of revulsion. Francesca is not only the twenty-something Cheater Peter left our sister for; she was also the top-grossing female artist at Farrow Music Productions right up until Peter—the former legal advisor at the label—amended Francesca’s contract to include an escape clause that allowed her to walk away without penalty not long after he walked out on his family.
Sympathy compresses my next breath as I think of the pain Hattie must be in tonight.
Once upon a time, Hattie was the life of the party, the one who planned events and holidays, family excursions, and weekly dinners at our folks’ estate. But that version of Hattie feels almost as foreign as the version we’d been introduced to after she married Peter San Marco.
“How is she?” I ask.
“Mama said she took an anti-anxiety pill the minute she walked through the door. She fell asleep here about twenty minutes later.”
I gawk at Adele. “But Hattie doesn’t like taking pharmaceuticals.”
“Yeah, well, she also doesn’t like having her kids taken away from her.”
There’s no argument for that.
We both crane our necks and peek in on her together. If Adele and I are unified on one thing, it’s our mutual disdain for Hattie’s ex and his manipulation skills for obtaining whatever he wants at any cost. If not for the surprise resurgence of “Crossing Bridges,” the family label would be in a world of trouble. Adele has been tight-lipped on the details, but I do know that shortly after she exposed Peter’s affair and fired him, Peter went public with outrageous claims regarding the mismanagement of our artists and the poor morale inside the studio. Naturally, he painted himself an innocent bystander-turned-hero instead of a con man. He sued Farrow Music Productions for wrongful termination and won. After that, Adele tightened everything that could be tightened. Finances. Personnel. Interviews. Nondisclosure agreements. Mama’s public appearances. And the choke hold on her two younger sisters.
Adele lowers her voice. “You and I need to discuss how these next six weeks will play out in order to keep Hattie out of the media.” She says this as if discuss is something we Farrow sisters do. Only, I can’t even recall the last time she invited me to be a part of any decision—much less the ones involving our family. “That goes for Mama, too. I need her to stay focused on her appearance at the Watershed Festival next month. She’s one of the main headliners on one of the biggest stages for country music. There’s a lot riding on her performances there for the label.”
I glance down the hall behind me. “Where is Mama? Is she home?”
“She left with Jana a few minutes before you showed up. I was on a work call when Jana dropped Hattie’s bags off, and the next thing I knew, Mama was saying something about needing to run a quick errand before the family meeting tonight.”
Though Jana is technically on Mama’s payroll as her house manager, she’s been more of an extension to our family than a Farrow employee. She was the one responsible for teaching me my alphabet and taking me to the library when my parents worked tirelessly to build the label and Mama’s career from the ground up.
My gaze catches again on the giant trash bags in Mama’s parlor.
“Are those bags filled with ... Hattie’s belongings?”
“Jana couldn’t find Hattie’s luggage set anywhere.” Adele shrugs absently. “So I told her to be resourceful and bring her stuff in whatever she could for now.”
“Jana didn’t need to do that. I can stay with Hattie until she gets settled into a routine at home and—”
“No.” Adele shakes her head. “We can’t risk that. Hattie doesn’t do well on her own; you know that. It’s best she stays here until the kids return. It will be easier for you to keep an eye on her if she’s across the hall. Maybe you two can find some hobbies to pass the time.” So this is how Adele planned to discuss Hattie’s next six weeks with me: by making all the plans and then informing me about them later.
It’s not that I’m not supportive of Hattie; I am—and I have been. But to just throw a live-in roommate on me without consideration to any plans of my own breeds a special kind of annoyance reserved for bossy older sisters.
“There is no amount of arts and crafts that’s going to distract her from missing her kids for six weeks, Adele.” I draw in a breath, then slowly let it out. “Plus, don’t you think six weeks is a long time for you to assume I have nothing else going on?”
She raises one perfectly groomed eyebrow. “I checked the family calendar. Your schedule looked plenty open to me—is that not accurate?”
If there is one advancement in technology I wish I could go back in time and smite, it would be the invention of the shared family calendar. I loathe it. And unlike Adele, who doesn’t get questioned about adding secret meetings without contact information, I get questioned about everything.
“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 words Drama Mama scrolled 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. Always a 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’s only 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.”
“You ... what?” Adele chokes on the words. “Why on earth would you do that?”
“Because it makes no sense to travel to a festival honoring my legacy in country music on a bus that holds no legacy.” Mama’s smile broadens. “Which is why I paid Eddie to revive Old Goldie from her long slumber and give her a much-needed facelift. I adore how the gold shimmers in the sunshine, don’t you? Eddie said it’s called metal flake paint. It’s even better than the original and far better than boring black.”
“Old Goldie as in ... as in the old tour bus you’ve been storing since the ’90s?” Hattie asks, coming out of her stupor.
“That’s the one.” Mama beams. “She’s been completely renovated inside, as well—everything feels bright and open, and all the furniture has been replaced for a more comfortable ride and stay. But the best part is all the history on the walls—I had Eddie and his team reframe all the pictures inside for us. I can hardly wait to show you around.” She beams at us. “This will be the best summer we’ve ever spent together.”
I side-eye Hattie, wondering if I’m the only sister out in left field, but it would appear by all three of our slack-jawed expressions that none of us has any clue what is happening right now. As usual, Adele takes the lead before anyone else can. “What are you talking about, Mother? Only I’m going on the road with you to Watershed. Just me and you in a rented tour bus with plenty of space and a private office I can work from inside. Your band is meeting us there, remember?”
Our mother’s face looks as if she’s been waiting for this moment all her life. Never mind all the times she’s stood backstage at the Ryman or the Grand Ole Opry or any one of the hundreds of venues she’s performed at worldwide, waiting for her name to be announced. Every morsel of her anticipation seems to be sitting on the edge of its seat, waiting for whatever comes next.
“Actually, I’ve been working on a new plan—with the help of Jana. She’s been wonderful at sorting out all the logistics.” She scans our faces and speaks as if there’s a drumroll behind her. “Prior to the festival, I want to take my three daughters on a cross-country road trip that will end at one of my favorite places on earth. Just the four of us gals together, plus a driver. I’d like to leave in a week.”
Nobody dares to breathe, much less speak. We just keep staring. At her, the bus, and then at each other.
“Mama,” Adele says as if she’s launching in with one of a thousand reasons why a trip like this can’t work, and for once, I’m grateful for her assertiveness. The four of us on a bus for any amount of time sounds more like the opening of a true crime podcast than a luxury cross-country girls’ trip. “You have several more rehearsals with the band scheduled, as well as choreography, and one with the stylist—”
“I can play and sing those songs in my sleep, just like the band can. And choreography? I’m not Beyoncé. I’ve had the same three moves since before you were born. The four of us can certainly take a couple weeks to meander the country together before the start of the festival. I’ll only need twenty-four hours to rehearse. Tops.”
Adele shakes her head. “While I appreciate your confidence, Mother, I think it would be best to schedule a ... a girls’ trip after the biggest festival of your career. There are just too many variables involved to risk something untimely happening before the show. We simply have too much at stake at the label right now for anything to go awry.” She glances at the three of us for confirmation. “Maybe we can meet for a short getaway in August? A long weekend somewhere, perhaps?”
“No, that’s too close to when my kids come back home. I’d rather go beforehand. I’m not willing to give up a single hour of time with them for anything,” Hattie replies with a directness that surprises me. Despite my role as youngest child, I’m usually the one to play middleman when it comes to the communication between my older sisters.
“Hattie, I assure you, I wasn’t trying to suggest that you...” Adele stops and clears her throat before she begins again in a consoling tone I rarely hear from her. “I know firsthand how difficult the next few weeks will be on you. When Cheyenne left for college, Michael and I—”
“Cheyenne is nineteen. Aiden and Annabelle are eight and nine and about to leave the country for the first time under the care of my cheating ex-husband and his mistress. Don’t try and compare our circumstances. They’re not the same. You and I are not the same.”
“You’re right,” Adele retorts coldly. “We aren’t. I, for one, wouldn’t have dared go to a custody appeal without proper representation or a single member of my family—”
“So I suppose you think it’s my fault I lost, then?” Hattie laughs darkly. “Of course you do. Feel free to add that to the tally of my sins, big sister. Lord knows you’ve kept a record of them.”
“That’s enough, girls,” Mama interjects. “You’re missing the whole point of this trip.”
“What do you think, Rae?” Hattie swivels toward me. “You’re the tie-breaker sister. Are you good with getting out of here for a couple of weeks?”
As much as I want to side with Hattie, my antihistamine-fuzzy mind can easily recall the plans I didn’t add to the family calendar. The one involving Tav asking me to “please hear him outover dinner” once he’s back from his music tour. At the moment, I’m not sure what I’m dreading more about the upcoming conversation—having to come up with a response or reopening a wound that’s barely had time to form scar tissue. It’s a tough call: stay home and meet up with your ex to discuss all the reasons he couldn’t love you as much as you loved him, or live on a tour bus with your two sisters and hope you’re not starring in a reboot of Survivor.
My mother and sisters watch my silent mental debate.
Adele narrows her eyes in that intrusive way of hers. “Please tell me your hesitation doesn’t have to do with Octavian coming back to town.”
“What? No,” I lie and cross my arms over my chest. “My relationship with Tav has nothing to do with this.”
“Wait, your relationship? I thought you ended things for good after what happened on his last tour,” Hattie says, looking first to Adele and then to Mama for answers. “Did I miss something?”
Adele and I eye each other. Hattie has missed more than a few somethings over the last year to be sure, though most of those are what the media has been circulating about the fate of Farrow Music Productions due to the scandal involving her ex-husband.
“We’re not together. Tav just wants to talk through some things, as friends,” I clarify, unwilling to add more. Adele instructed me to keep the details to myself.
“It’s not worth it,” Hattie says flatly. “If you need any inspiration for what begging a cheater to love you looks like, look no further than my train wreck of a life.” Hattie sweeps a hand down her coffee-stained T-shirt and rumpled joggers.
“We were on a break when he—”
“Didn’t you ever watch the show Friends? Spoiler alert: ‘on a break’ is a big neon sign for toxic.”
“He didn’t cheat on me, Hattie.” At least, not technically. “He was up-front with me about ... you know what?” I shake my head. “Forget it. None of this even matters—we’re supposed to be talking about Mama’s trip—”
“That’s right.” Adele jumps in before I can finish my thought. “Bottom line, Mama, a trip of this length needs to be planned much further in advance. It’s clearly bad timing.”
Mama crosses her arms and widens her stance in front of the bottom step of the bus she’s still guarding as the air conditioning blows her hair around her face. “Let me tell you three a thing or two about bad timing. Bad timing is when you’re having a contraction with your first baby mid-chorus of ‘Silent Night’ during a Christmas special on national television. Bad timing is when Hattie decided to chop off her bangs two minutes before she was supposed to walk the aisle as a flower girl in a destination wedding for a band member. Bad timing is when Raegan locked herself in George Strait’s cabana bathroom and we spent the whole night hollering her name only to find her passed out on the floor on top of her Magic Tree House chapter books. Bad timing is what parenthood is made up of; this road trip is a choice. So I’m asking you to choose to make the timing work. For my sake.”
Hattie steps toward Mama. “I’ll go.”
Adele and I aren’t nearly as impulsive as our middle sister, though our reasons for hanging back are not the same. Adele has a corporate calendar she’ll need to contend with, as well as a husband and a college-age daughter to check on. Whereas the majority of my entire world is standing right here in this driveway—as long as you don’t count the characters who live inside a fictional world far away from this one. But they’ve never counted for much in this crowd anyway.
And maybe it’s for this reason more than any other that I step toward the gold tour bus. “I’m in, too.” I smile sweetly at my oldest sister. “Don’t worry, Adele. I’ll make sure to update our road trip on the shared family calendar ASAP.”