The roads we follow, p.1
The Roads We Follow, page 1
Praise for the A FOG HARBOR ROMANCE Series
“Deese is a master wordsmith, deftly weaving a story that readers won’t be able to put down. This latest book has crossover appeal for fans of contemporary romance seeking realistic and endearing characters.”
—Library Journal
“Deese’s novel has good dialogue, vivid description, and plenty of emotion.”
—Booklist
“Sometimes a love story ends in tragedy and a tragedy leads to a love story. And sometimes a hero turns a bit villainous and a villain turns a bit heroic. In this unique story within a story, Deese delivers all of the above with the finesse of a clever storyteller. The Words We Lost is thought-provoking and tender, capturing the transformative beauty of surviving.”
—T. I. Lowe, bestselling author of Under the Magnolias
“A poignant, masterful exploration of the enduring power of friendship and love, and the links that sustain and nurture us through all of life’s complications and losses. Deese once again takes readers on an emotional journey filled with heart and hope.”
—Irene Hannon, author of the bestselling HOPE HARBOR series
“Few things in life can be depended upon as reliably as the magic of a Nicole Deese book. No one breaks my heart and pieces it back together, better than before, quite like Nicole. The Words We Lost more than lives up to the standard of beauty and brilliance we’ve come to expect.”
—Bethany Turner, author of Plot Twist and The Do-Over
Books by Nicole Deese
Before I Called You Mine
All That Really Matters
All That It Takes
The Words We Lost
The Roads We Follow
Novellas
Heartwood from The Kissing Tree:
Four Novellas Rooted in Timeless Love
© 2024 by Nicole Deese
Published by Bethany House Publishers
Minneapolis, Minnesota
BethanyHouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
Ebook edition created 2024
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
ISBN 978-1-4934-4516-5
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Cover design by Susan Zucker Design
Cover images Shutterstock
Baker Publishing Group publications use paper produced from sustainable forestry practices and postconsumer waste whenever possible.
In honor of my father-in-love, Bill Deese,
who enjoyed many cross-country road trips
and all the family bonding time they entailed.
If there are road-trip adventures to be had in heaven,
then I hope you’ll save a seat for me, Dad. I love you.
Contents
Cover
Endorsements
Half Title Page
Books by Nicole Deese
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Lynn and Luella’s Epic Adventure
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
1
Raegan
I breathe in the fresh dopamine hit of a dark roast brewing somewhere behind the coffee shop’s counter and remind myself that turning off my GPS location from the family tracking app is not one of the seven deadly sins. Nor is my decision to keep today’s meeting with the acquisitions editor from Fog Harbor Books off the shared family calendar. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not ashamed of my love for the written word. It’s just that I’ve learned the hard way why some dreams are worth keeping to yourself, especially when those dreams involve seeking a professional’s opinion on the unpublished manuscript you’ve been revising all year. And especially when the world you live in is far more likely to accept an up-and-coming country music artist over a wannabe author who writes in secret under the cover of night.
The thought triggers the same herd of nerves I’ve worked to corral since I first spotted the email in my inbox last Friday. There’s no need to close my eyes to retrieve the message. It’s still right where I left it, burning a hole in my prefrontal cortex.
Raegan,
I’ll be in Nashville for a publishing conference next week. Any chance you might be available to discuss your manuscript while I’m in town? My afternoons are open.
Chip Stanton
Acquisitions Editor
Fog Harbor Books—San Francisco, CA
After a quick adjustment of the claw clip restraining my curls at the back of my head, I rise up on tiptoes to search the few patrons seated inside the memorabilia-heavy Cup O’Country Coffee House. I’ve only met Chip in person once, but his flaxen hair is easy to spot at a corner table near the back. As if sensing my perusal, he shifts his attention from his laptop and offers me a friendly wave. I immediately respond in kind.
Before our first meeting last December, my only reference for acquisitions editors came in the form of a Hollywood stereotype: a grumpy, overbearing stress case who wields their red pen like a dagger and has never cracked a joke in their life. Thankfully, Chip’s demeanor couldn’t be more opposite. He has the kind of smile that instantly sets a person at ease, and even though he looks to be about my age, somewhere in his mid-to-late twenties, his knowledge of books and the publishing industry leaves no guessing as to his life’s passion; he’s living it. It’s an observation I can’t help but be the tiniest bit envious of. And yet, for what feels like the first time in my adult life, the outcome of today’s meeting holds the potential to change that.
I push down my rising hope as I zigzag through the entryway and around country-music display cases scattered through the coffee shop. An editor doesn’t ask for an in-person meeting if he hates the manuscript he read, right? Seems like a brief email would suffice. I’m pondering this line of thought for what is likely the hundredth time when my hip makes contact with a tall object, causing it to teeter. Just as I throw out my arm to steady it, I realize the item in question is a life-size cardboard cutout of a beloved country music legend. Luella Farrow.
My mama.
From her place in the center of the room, she smiles back at me in all her crushed-velvet-jumpsuit-wearing glory. In her right hand she holds up the shiny CMA Award she won for Song of the Year only a few months back, an iconic night for more reasons than one. From her mouth is a speech bubble with text I’ve read a hundred times in a hundred different locations on the internet. But this time I read her words through an entirely different lens. “Don’t confuse your talent with your worth; only one of those is subjective.” Much to my surprise, the timely quote from her award speech serves to boost my confidence in the way only a pep talk from my mama can. Ignoring the niggle of guilt I feel over the secrets I’ve been keeping from my family, I thank her under my breath and set her right.
By the time I’ve reached Chip’s table, he’s standing with his hand outstretched. “Raegan, hello! It’s so good to see you again.”
“You too.” We shake hands. “Thanks for taking time out of your busy conference week to meet with me. I was surprised to learn it was here.”
“We rotate locations,” he says easily. “And it was my good luck that this year’s location was near your hometown.”
Fresh hope buoys to the surface as his words anchor in a tender, uncharted place in the center of my chest. Could that mean he . . . he liked what he read?
He glances around the quiet coffee house. “I think this is the first place I’ve been to in Nashville that doesn’t have a line waiting outside the door or music turned up so loud I can hear the bass line in my sleep. Good recommendation.”
“The summer heat keeps this coffee house pretty low-key during the afternoons.”
He nods and gestures to an empty beverage on the table. “Said heat is why I ordered the iced coffee special. May I order you one, as well?” He leans in and lowers his voice. “In full disclosure, I will be ordering myself a second round. I have absolutely no shame when it comes to caffeine intake.”
I laugh. “An iced coffee sounds perfect, thank you.”
It’s remarkable how in only a matter of seconds Chip confirms he’s exactly how I remember him being last winter—easygoing, personable, real. Wh
en my niece Cheyenne had been hired to sing for an office Christmas party in San Francisco last December, she’d begged me to fly down and spend a long weekend with her and her lively roommate, Allie. I’d agreed without hesitation. Partly because any escape from home is a welcome one, but also because over the course of the year, those girls have played a significant role in my life as a closet writer. Apart from the man ordering me an iced coffee, they remain the only two souls on earth to have read The Sisters of Birch Grove, my only completed full-length novel to date.
At just seven years my junior, my musically gifted niece grew up reading my short stories as a girl, so when I agreed to start a weekly accountability call with her and Allie to aid in our collective creative motivation, I hadn’t expected it to help me as much as it did. Each Wednesday night on video chat I’d read them one chapter of The Sisters of Birch Grove, and in exchange, Cheyenne would sing the lyrics to a song she’d been working on, and Allie would share whatever scene she was revising from her already contracted fantasy trilogy.
Little had I known, however, that this so-called office Christmas party I’d been invited to was at none other than Fog Harbor Books, Allie’s publisher. She introduced me to Chip, and within the hour, she must have told him no less than fifteen times, in fifteen different ways, just how much he’d regret letting me leave the party without asking to review my manuscript. I was both mortified at her forwardness and flattered at her adoration of the fictional world I’d grown to love more than any place I’d visited in real life.
By the end of that night, Chip had asked to review my manuscript. The moment had coaxed all kinds of fairy-tale-like feelings, though it didn’t take long for the fear to set in. I’d spent the next four months tweaking and polishing before I had the courage to send him the novel that took me the better part of two years to write and revise.
Chip now strides back to our table, having made our coffee orders, and his smile takes on a new quality. And unlike I predict, he doesn’t sit down across from me. “So I have somewhat of an unconventional request to make of you before we get started.”
“Oh? What is it?”
He ticks his head left, and for the second time in five minutes, I lock eyes with my cardboard mother.
“My girlfriend is a huge fan of your mother’s. Would you mind taking my picture so I can send it off to her before my brain switches fully over to book mode?”
“Sure, of course,” I say cheerily, even though I feel a twinge of disappointment for Allie’s sake at the revelation that Chip has a girlfriend. When I saw them together last December, their chemistry had been off the charts. I figured it was only a matter of time before they started dating. Guess I was wrong.
“Thanks. Charity’s borderline obsessed with that new remix song—the one about the bridge.”
“‘Crossing Bridges,’” I supply.
“That’s the one.” He points with a grin. “I swear I hear it everywhere—the grocery store, the gym, my dentist’s office, and somehow it’s playing in every rideshare I climb into. Pretty crazy how a song written decades ago has the power to take today’s music fans by storm.”
Due to years of living under the scrutiny of the public eye, I nod politely at his unassuming observation. But it wasn’t only music fans that had been taken by storm with the resurgence of “Crossing Bridges” these past eighteen months. My family had been stunned to watch a song Mama cowrote decades ago with her ex-bandmate soar to the top of the charts—skyrocketing there from the remix version used on a popular mini-series, a show that’s now been streamed millions of times over. Seemingly overnight and without warning, the spotlight on Mama—and our family-run music label—had brightened considerably. Unfortunately, the bright lights of fame aren’t always flattering.
I banish the thought trail before it can gain traction and instead tap into the camera app on my phone to grant Chip his favor. Nothing says icebreaker quite like cautioning a business professional on how to avoid papercuts from posing with a cardboard replica of your mother. Then again, after living nearly three decades as the youngest child of a famous entertainer, this moment ranks low on the weirdest-things-I’ve-been-asked-to-do-for-a-fan list.
Back at our table, I’m halfway through my first sip of iced coffee when Chip abandons all things country and pulls an about-face in conversation. “I loved your book, Raegan. More than loved it, actually. And I sincerely hope I can convince you to let me pitch it to my publishing board next month.”
My straw slowly sinks back into my plastic cup as I blink up at him for a full three seconds. “You . . . you want to publish it?”
He laughs as if this isn’t the most serious question I’ve ever asked another living soul.
“Let me put it this way, I think The Sisters of Birch Grove has the potential to be the modern-day Little Women of our time. It hit all the right notes for me—nostalgic, moving, witty, romantic. It’s an expertly paced family drama and exactly where I suspect the market will be trending by this time next year. Don’t tell Allie I said this, but she was spot-on in her recommendation when she said I’d regret not asking you for your manuscript that night. The entire time I was reading, I kept forgetting it wasn’t yet a published work.” He plants his elbows on the table and drums his fingers. “Please tell me you have ideas for a sequel—and perhaps a book three, as well? I guarantee readers are going to want more from Birch Grove.”
A modern-day Little Women? I bring a trembling hand to my mouth and release a sound that’s something between half sob, half laugh. “I’m sorry, I’m . . . you think readers would want a series of Birch Grove novels?”
He nods demonstratively.
“This is surreal,” I whisper and fall back against my seat.
“In a good way, I hope?”
My eyes turn watery. “In the best possible way.”
His smile softens as he reaches for his laptop. “I have a whole list of questions and comments I jotted down while I was reading, but first, I’ve been dying to know if Birch Grove was inspired by a real town.”
I shake my head and work to regain my composure. “Not unless you count my internet travels. I’ve never actually been that far north.”
“Then that’s even more remarkable.” He opens his laptop and scans whatever document he’s opened. “Before I get too far ahead of myself with story questions, I should ask if you have a literary agent you’d like me to reach out to on your behalf. It’s best I touch base with them as soon as possible so we’re all in the know at the same time.”
“I don’t have an agent,” I say quickly. “I’d like to represent myself.”
He stares at me for a beat before he nods. “Okay, that’s not a problem. We have several authors at Fog Harbor who are self-represented. Typically they opt to use an entertainment lawyer for contract review and negotiations, but if you’d rather use one of your family’s attorneys, that’s understandable. I’ll just need their contact information within the next couple weeks. If my pitch to the publication board goes as well as I hope, things could move pretty quickly after that.”
The euphoria I experienced from moments ago is placed on pause, making way for my climbing anxiety. “Actually, my preference would be to handle as much of this process on my own.” And as far away as possible from certain sisterly opinions.
“With all due respect, Raegan, the legalities involved in a publishing contract can be difficult to navigate, seeing as each contract is drafted for the individual author. Given your unique background and high-profile family, I’m certain your legal team will require specific provisions for your—and their—protection.”
He relaxes into his seat as if I’m a totally reasonable individual who will simply accept his sound logic at face value. Only, it’s not his logic that has my insides churning. It’s the lack of one small, but absolutely critical, detail.
A detail I fear has somehow been lost in translation.
The pulse in my throat moves to my ears, muffling the sound of my own voice. “I’m sorry, but I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I realize now I never should have expected Allie to relay my wishes for anonymity to you but . . . I have no intention of publishing under my own name.”
His brow crimps slightly. “Meaning . . . you were hoping to use a pseudonym?”
“That’s correct.”
At my confirmation, the confusion in his eyes deflates to an understanding I can feel in the depths of my soul. So he didn’t know, then. Chip came here expecting to sign a book deal with a celebrity’s daughter. Not an anonymous nobody.
