“Branson, Missouri.” Our mother’s voice warmed with pride. “Your sister tried out for one of the Christmas shows there.”
“My voice teacher thought the audition would be good practice.”
“Mouse! Good for you! That’s awesome.”
Beth smiled wistfully. “Remember when you used to write those plays for us?”
I nodded. “On the parsonage porch. Meg charged all the neighborhood kids a quarter to watch.”
“You and Meg always got to be the heroes,” Amy said.
“Or the villains,” I said. “Because we were tallest.”
“And I was the golden-haired princess.”
“Because you were too young to remember your lines.”
“Only a year younger than Beth.”
“I was the prince once,” Beth said.
Our Bethie had never sought the family spotlight. I smiled at her affectionately. “You played a selection of kindly retainers.”
“And the prince’s horse,” said Amy.
“And now you’re going to be a star!” I hugged Beth. She was so talented, a voice major at UNC Greensboro. She deserved a chance to shine. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Beth’s cheeks turned pink. “I didn’t think I’d get a part.”
“But you did. She’s an angel,” Mom said to me. “In the chorus.”
“Typecasting,” Amy said.
“It’s not a real part,” Beth said. “I’m only an alternate. They’re not going to call me unless somebody drops out of the cast.”
“It’s all good experience,” our mother said. “Colt Henderson is one of the headliners.”
Country music was one of those things I swore I’d left behind when I fled home, like sweet tea and church homecomings. But even in New York I’d heard Colt Henderson’s music, heartland rock with a country core.
“I’m impressed.” I was, too. And a little hurt I was the last to know. In spite of the four-year gap between us, Beth and I had always been close. She was my baby, the way Amy was Meg’s. “I thought Branson just did big family acts. The Trapp Family Singers. The Osmonds.”
“He has a new Christmas album,” Beth said.
“Nice,” Amy said.
“Your sister got to rehearse with the cast in September,” Mom said.
“Very cool.” I frowned. “How far away is Branson?”
“Fifteen hours,” Beth said.
“You have to follow your heart,” Mom said. “No matter where it leads.”
I managed not to roll my eyes. “Right.”
Our father was the one who had pushed me in school, who had encouraged my writing, who told me there was a whole wider world out there for me. He had taught me, by example and sometimes with praise, to follow in his footsteps. To pursue my own vocation, while my mother stayed in the background.“You could always come home,”Momma said.“To save money,”after I graduated.“To figure out your next step,”when I got laid off from the paper.
She wasn’t wrong, just practical. But her constant offers of support made me feel like she was waiting for me to fail.
