Chapter 5
Micah
Thanks to Cinderella, the second thoughts I’ve experienced since boarding that plane yesterday have eased considerably. After Luella and her house manager had dropped me off to get acquainted with the tour bus parked at her grand estate, Garrett’s most recent lecture regarding my impulsivity had started to ring true. “You do realize how ludicrous it sounds to be joining a random family for a two-week road trip in hopes it might solve the origin questions in your own family, right?” Of course I did, and yet it wasn’t enough to stop me from trying.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch the beautiful woman I just met sort and put away each of the prepackaged meals and green drinks inside the fridge and wonder what her actual staff title is around here. If Jana is the house manager, could Cinderella be a personal assistant of sort to the sisters? I wonder how many employees it takes to run a property of this caliber. Definitely more than the grandmotherly Jana who drove ten miles under the speed limit and mentioned her arthritis flare-up at every intersection we approached. Luella, on the other hand, pointed out famous venues and landmarks like she was my personal tour guide. As she talked, it was nearly impossible to drive down Broadway without wondering how many places my mother and Luella had performed at together back in the day. And even more impossible not to think how different her life would have been if Luella hadn’t pushed her from the spotlight all those years ago.
“Have you known the Farrow family long?” I ask Cinderella as I walk the length of the front lounge, which boasts white leather sofas on either side of me.
“All my life,” she replies simply.
“Then can I ask you about these framed pictures on the wall? They look like they’re all from the same time period.” I’ve lost sleep over how I might broach the subject of my true parentage with Luella, but maybe I’ve been overthinking it. Maybe this beautiful brunette with the out-of-control curls, witty mouth, and close family connection will prove an invaluable resource.
She lifts a Greek yogurt out of the cooler with her left hand, and I’m not disappointed to discover there’s no ring on her finger. She glances at me over her shoulder. “They are, actually. They’re all from the last road trip this bus traveled—a music tour. What do you want to know about them?”
At her reply, my mind sharpens. It’s what I’d thought when I studied them alone earlier. I’d recognized a couple of the framed pictures as duplicates of the ones my mother kept in her music office. Again, I’m surprised by how easy this seems. Perhaps God decided to throw me a bone.
“I was just trying to place the people in them. I recognize Luella, of course. She must have discovered the fountain of youth in the last thirty years because she looks the same.”
Cinderella rises from where she’s been squatting in front of the fridge and smooths her palm over the curve of her right hip where her belt loop is frayed from the escapade in the luggage department. I swallow and glance away, though my pulse kicks up considerably as she nears. Her green eyes gleam with unmistakable curiosity.
“That fountain of youth’s name is Elizabeth Harrington, and she’s one of the most highly esteemed aestheticians in the industry.” She smirks at me a bit. “Pro tip, you should really save those types of compliments for when she’s around to hear them. Flattery is anything but overrated where she’s concerned. You’ll be sure to see that reflected in your tip, too. Just don’t let Adele overhear you.”
“Why not?” I muse. “Adele doesn’t like to receive a compliment?”
“Adele doesn’t like a lot of things.”
Whatever hope I had at masking my growing interest in this fairy-tale-like enigma disappears in a blink. Honesty has long been the quality I’m most attracted to in a woman, and this one doesn’t need any extra help in the attractive department.
Her eyebrows bunch puzzlingly as she looks from me to the picture frames and back again. “Wait, how did you know these photos were taken thirty years ago?”
For a second, my mind goes blank. Did I seriously just give myself away on my first question? Real smooth, Davenport. But then I remember the time stamp on the bottom right of the picture of my mom and Luella standing in front of Old Goldie in Amarillo. I know that one well; one just like it was in the oak chest Mom stored in her music office at home. I could only find three pictures of this time period in total. One of my mother and Luella in front of the white chapel at Camp Selkirk at roughly eighteen, this one, and another with Luella and Russell at a courthouse on what appeared to be their wedding day. My mom was the only other person present in the photo outside of the judge.
Thankfully, enough of the time stamp peeks out from the frame to save my hypocritical hide. If honesty happens to be among the qualities she admires most, then I hope my lies of omission won’t completely annihilate my chances of getting to know her better on the road.
“The date on this one here—” I tap on the glass of the photo closest to me and point to the month and year. “I did the math. Thirty years ago this summer.” Consequently, also nine months to my birth date.
“Wow.” She stares at me, blinks. “You have freakishly good eyesight.”
“I wear contacts.”
“Still. That’s ... weirdly observant. You’re not really an undercover FBI agent posing as a driver, are you?”
Though I can tell she means this to come off as a joke, the truth hits a little too close to home for me to laugh it off. Not FBI, just a guy who spent his entire life believing the best man he’s ever known is his father when in reality his father is actually someone’s best-kept secret. Or in this case, possibly two someones’.
I’ll never forget the look on Luella’s face after she left Mom’s bedside—the resolve in her eyes, the fresh tears on her cheeks. Whatever happened behind that closed door had to be more than two friends finding peace after thirty years of fractured friendship and silence. It had to be something significant. Perhaps something that, if outed, would devastate a newly grieving husband and son after all this time. Something that would be big enough to end a childhood friendship and convicting enough to seek amends on a deathbed.
I blink the introspection away as Cinderella points to the furthest frame in the wall timeline, the one hanging above the dining table. “That one there is Luella with Adele and Hattie. I think they must have been around seven and ten—and that’s Frank Davenport with them. He was the bus driver. At that point, he’d been driving them all around for several tours, maybe three or four?” Her finger swings to my mother standing on the opposite side of the frame. She’s leaning against a tree in a long denim skirt and orange striped shirt, and she looks frail—even more so than on the day she died. The bottom of her Taylor guitar rests on the toe of her suede-fringed boot. I’ve played that guitar dozens of times, but I’ve never seen this picture of her before. My gaze automatically dips to her flat midsection, as if I might be able to discern a secret baby inside her womb. But not even the best contact lenses in the world could detect such a thing. “That’s Lynn Hershel, who eventually became Lynn Davenport. She and ... she and Luella were childhood best friends. They started a band together and toured for quite a while after getting signed in Nashville, decades before Luella went out on her own.” She pauses, and I involuntarily hold my breath as she speaks again. “Lynn passed away recently.”
When her eyes draw back to mine, I know this is the moment I should tell her that the Lynn she speaks of is actually my mother, but I care too much about the quiet thoughts lurking behind her eyes to interrupt whatever connections her synapses are making. Interruption is a therapist’s worst enemy; permission their greatest advocate. Not that I could call myself much of a therapist these days. A license is only a piece of paper.
I hold her gaze for three, two, one...
“Sorry, I just...” She shakes her head.
“Did you know her?” I ask softly, ninety-nine percent sure I know the answer, but life has been too full of surprises lately not to ask.
“No, but...” She pauses. “This might sound super weird.”
“Believe me, I’m well-acquainted with weird.”
She sighs. “Drivers probably have more weird conversations than hair stylists.”
I remain strategically quiet.
“I haven’t said this out loud to anyone, but since you’re going on this trip, too...” She bites her plump bottom lip, and I have to fight to concentrate on her next words. “I feel like this road trip is connected to her somehow—to her death.”
“How so?” I ask.
“Closure, maybe? I don’t know, it’s just a theory right now. But I do know grief does strange things to people.”
I wasn’t prepared for her answer, but unlike the tenderhearted beauty before me, I’ve learned how to train my emotions before they have a chance to register on my face. “Theories can often be right.”
“I guess we’ll see.” She points to several other photos, mentioning band members standing in front of memorable venues and national landmarks, but the one face I’m looking for above all the rest appears to be absent from every single photo. I nod along and ask appropriate questions to encourage conversation, but I’m distracted in my search all the while.
Finally, I ask.
“Did Luella’s husband ever tour with her and their children?” I’ve done an exhaustive search on Russell Farrow online, but what’s on the internet is as generic as a Wikipedia page. Birth and death dates, survivors, career focus, and notable contributions to the music industry, net worth, etc. Nothing personal. Nothing that would reveal he was a cheater who had a secret son by his wife’s best friend.
“He did, but he was out of the country during this particular tour.”
Her answer comes so easily and yet it doesn’t compute, which is why my reply is unfiltered. “Out of the country—why? Where? For how long?” I run the math equation in my head again. For me to have a March birthday and be born full-term at eight pounds, six ounces, I had to have been conceived between late June and early July. Russell Farrow would have had to at least be in the same country to have an affair with my mother.
By the questioning expression on her face, it’s clear I’ve tripped too far over the suspicion line. Just when I’m searching for a way to patch my blunder, the bus door opens to reveal a tall, too-thin woman with bright red lips and animal-print sandals. She climbs the stairs and meets us in the main living quarters on the bus.
“Ah, there you are, Sunny Bear. I’ve been looking all over for you.” The woman’s gaze swings from Cinderella to me. “Hello, I’m Hattie. And you must be our driver.”
By the way she says it, I’m a hundred percent certain her definition of driver is not the same as mine. My hypothesis is confirmed when she extends her right hand toward me, grasps mine firmly, and then covers our hold with her left hand. Unlike Cinderella, there’s an indent where a wedding ring used to be on her left index finger. If she wants me to notice, she’s succeeded. Only, the fact that this woman is quite possibly my half sister is enough to make me retract my hand as if she’s been holding it to an open flame.
“Micah,” I supply. “It’s nice to meet you, Hattie.”
“Wow.” Her eyes widen. “Has anyone ever told you how much you resemble a younger version of Ryan Reynolds? Seriously.” She tips her head to the side. “I’m somewhat of an expert on him these days. I’ve been watching a lot of his old movies—The Proposal is my favorite.” When her perusal of my features lingers a bit too long, I’m positive I’ve never felt more uncomfortable in my life.
“Um, I don’t think I’ve seen that one.”
“Really?” She pulls out her phone. “Here, I’ll show you. Apart from your widow’s peak, you two could be brothers. Can I take your picture?”
“Hattie.” An exasperated voice from my right causes my gaze to jump from the middle Farrow sister to the woman beside me—Sunny Bear? Is that what Hattie had called her? If that’s her actual name, it’s no wonder she prefers Cinderella.
“What? I was simply going to do a quick photo comparison of Ryan in The Proposal and Micah here.” Hattie blinks her thick black eyelashes as if she’s not at all embarrassed of her blatant attempts at flirting. “There’s nothing indecent about giving a compliment to a handsome man.”
In this moment, the perspiration gathering at the back of my neck would beg to differ.
“I’m an unattached woman,” Hattie continues, undeterred. “According to ChatGPT, that’s the proper terminology. Free is synonymous with cheap, and I’m definitely not that.”
“Yes, Hattie, but you being an unattached woman doesn’t mean that he’s an unattached man who wants to be ogled. He could be married with four children for all you know.”
I choke on my own saliva at the quick—yet odd—defense from Sunny Bear.
“So are you?” Hattie’s point-blank assertiveness makes me forget the question.
“Am I what?” I ask.
“Married with four children?”
Both women seem to await my answer, which in and of itself is not complicated, but there are other complications that should very much be considered in this strange and awkward conversation. Like the fact that Hattie and I possibly share fifty percent of our DNA. “I’m not married, and no, I don’t have children. Just twin nieces.”
Hattie’s grin is triumphant as she looks to my advocate, but before any more can be said on the topic, the bus door opens again. Adele enters holding a to-go coffee in one hand and a phone to her ear with the other. Luella follows her eldest daughter inside. Though I only saw her an hour or so ago, the surreal feeling I get each time I’m around her hasn’t faded.
Adele halts her stride when she catches sight of Hattie. Her eyebrows raise ever-so-slightly as she scans her outfit, and I get the distinct impression that this is not typical road-trip attire for the middle Farrow sister. Without pausing her conversation on the phone, she continues on through the bunk hall and into Luella’s bedroom at the rear of the bus. She closes the door behind her, leaving the four of us to stare at one another. Unlike her animal-print-wearing daughter, who is likely down one pair of matching unmentionables due to an unfortunate luggage incident, Luella is wearing all white with flashy silver accessories. She holds out a coffee tray with four drinks inside it.
“Forgive me, Micah, I wasn’t expecting that coffee run with Jana to take so long. There was more traffic on this random Saturday morning than before Willie Nelson’s last concert, but I knew I’d need to butter you up before asking you to maneuver Old Goldie through a coffee drive-through line.” Her eyes hold a kindness I don’t expect.
“There’s no need for buttering me up, ma’am. I’m happy to drive wherever you want to go—coffee drive-throughs and all.” I take the flimsy tray from her and allow her to pass out the drinks.
“Ah, what a gentleman you are. Thank you, Micah,” Luella says. “I regret not being back in time to introduce you to everyone myself like I’d planned on, although I know you and Adele were acquainted last week on a call.” She tiffs and shakes her head. “Some days I think she’s forgotten how to communicate face-to-face since she’s on that phone so much.” She hands a coffee to Hattie, then places mine on the table. I’m expecting it when she hands one to Sunny Bear, but instead of leaving the last drink in the tray for when her youngest daughter joins us, Luella takes the last coffee for herself. The drink carrier is now empty.
She blows on the steam swirling out the spout of her coffee even though it’s close to a hundred degrees outside. “Other than Jana requesting a proper good-bye hug from everyone, I think we’re ready to push off.”
Confused, I glance at the two ladies standing nearest the exit and wonder, not for the first time, why nobody has addressed the whereabouts of Luella’s youngest daughter. Had plans changed? Or maybe the pick-up location had changed? “Will your youngest daughter be joining us farther down the road, then? Raegan, isn’t it?”
Luella removes her lips from the coffee lid and shifts her gaze from me to the far end of the lounge.
“Uh, right,” Sunny Bear stammers. “I was going to—”
But Luella cuts her off mid-sentence. “You see, this is why I always say proper introductions are a lost art in today’s world.” Luella tsks and makes a beckoning motion in two directions. Mine and Sunny Bear’s.
“Micah, please allow me to introduce you to my youngest daughter, Raegan. And Raegan, please allow me to introduce you to Micah Davenport, Lynn’s oldest son.”
I was wrong.
This right hereis without a doubt the most uncomfortable feeling I’ve experienced in my entire life. If there was any way I could go back in time and filter every thought I’ve had about Raegan upon meeting her through this one vital piece of information, I would agree to it without hesitation. Because as it stands now, I’m not sure whether to turn myself over for waterboarding or forfeit my license as a therapist.
For reasons I can only guess at, the stunned expression on Raegan’s face morphs into something unreadable. But then Hattie steps between us and blocks my view of her entirely. “I’ve always wanted to meet Lynn’s sons.” I’m so caught off-guard by the spontaneous hug she gives me that I nearly miss when Raegan excuses herself, disappears down the stairwell, and exits the bus.
There’s so much I don’t understand in this moment, but I do know I have to follow her.
As politely as possible, I remove myself from Hattie’s embrace, slip out the exit, and jog to catch up to Raegan before she makes it through the front door of a mansion that could hold at least four of my childhood homes inside it.
“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 been really helpful.”
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.”
“I am an employee of the Farrows,” she says without a hint of spite. “The irony of being a Farrow and working for them is what makes me Cinderella. It’s rare that someone doesn’t know how I’m connected 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 death to 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 die right 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.”
Of all the conflicting feelings I’ve had in the months following my mother’s death, this is by far the most conflicting one of them all. Because even though Russell Farrow was the only lead I had to go on due to the overwhelming circumstantial evidence, if he’s not my biological father, then Raegan Farrow is not my biological half sister.
And I’m one hundred percent certain I’ve never felt more relieved about anything in my entire life.