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“I’m missing something here, I know.” Daddy rubbed his eyes, looking confused. “Not sure I want to know what it is, though.”
Travis grabbed another cookie, threw it up in the air, and tried to catch it in his mouth. It bounced off his nose, but he caught it before it fell.
“Natural talent,” she said. “Daddy, you know what other natural talent Trav has been using? He’s been writing songs with Jace. Some good stuff, too.” She knew Travis was shooting daggers her way but ignored him. “That he could sing.”
“Is that so?” Their father looked at Travis. “Might be that we need to have a talk?”
Travis stared at the cover of the tour folder, the Three Kings logo enlarged with metallic touches. “Where do we start? Music? Or our family?”
“Whatever you have to say, Son, I want to hear it.” Daddy’s voice was gruff.
Emmy Lou heard the plea in their father’s voice. He was extending an olive branch to his son; now all Travis had to do was take it.
Instead, Travis pushed the folder across the counter, to their father, and reached for a cookie.
The bus doors opened, and the click of heels was followed by, “I smell cookies. Hank, you better not be eating any more cookies.” Momma joined them, the scent of her perfume following her into the bus’s compact living and dining space. She tucked a swath of her platinum hair behind her ear, showing off a massive diamond stud, and shifted the oblong box she cradled against the front of her cream linen shift dress. “I won’t be too long. We’re leaving at one?” She waited for Daddy’s nod. “I’ll be back by then.”
“Where are you going?” Travis asked, giving their mother the once-over. “Pretty fancy duds for a visit with your shrink.”
“I am not going to see my psychiatrist, Travis.” She sighed. “I’m having lunch.”
“You look pretty.” Their father smiled. “What’s in the box?”
“Oh, nothing.” Her mother’s smile tightened.
Emmy Lou eyed the box, her blood going cold. She knew what was in the box. She’d picked up the pages off the printer before Momma had rushed in to collect them, tucking them into the box she was currently clinging to. Her mother had typed up the journal pages she’d had spread all over the hotel suite a week ago. Now Momma was dressed to the nines, taking her neatly typed pages to lunch? Even though Emmy’s hands were shaking and something hard and jagged had lodged itself in her throat, she knew what she had to do. “Is it your book, Momma?” She did it, forced the words out and into the open.
“Book?” Travis repeated, sliding back into the booth with a massive glass of milk. “What book?”
Daddy eyed the box with new interest.
Even Sawyer, who’d been silently drinking coffee on the other side of the bus, reacted—the tiniest eyebrow twitch.
“No, no, not a book.” Momma actually blushed. “It’s just my thoughts is all. Part of my therapy.”
“Why are you taking your therapy notes to lunch?” Travis asked, resting his elbow on the kitchen counter.
“Oh, I forgot.” No reason to stop now. Emmy drew in a deep breath and said, “You asked me to find out about Elaine’s Book Club picks. I need to check and see if the production assistant sent me that paperwork. Though the assistant said they rarely pick memoirs for Elaine’s Book Club, she’d consider it—once it gets published.”
“Memoir?” Daddy frowned. “Published?”
“Memoir, as in you?” Travis echoed. “Or memoir as in us?” He pointed at each of them. “And Krystal and Jace?”
“Well…” Momma shrugged. “I’m not an island, sugar. You are my family. And, of course, my family is part of my story.”
“Why didn’t I know about this, CiCi?” Daddy’s tone was sharp.
“What do you need to know?” Her voice rose. “This is something to help me get better.”
“Your notes are.” Daddy nodded. “Publishing them? How is airing our family’s business to the world part of that?”
CiCi’s voice was soft. “I thought you’d want this for me? I thought you’d understand how important this is.” She was shaking, on the verge of tears.
“What is more important than healing? Your mind and body? Healing our family?” He shook his head. “How about we do what we’re supposed to do and protect our family?”
Emmy Lou had never seen her daddy like this: red-faced and tight-jawed—his voice raised just enough to make sure there would be no interrupting. Or arguing. Daddy rarely laid down the law,
especially when it came to Momma. But the set of his jaw told them all that he wasn’t budging.
