“I’m getting a copy of that season of the show.”

“You haven’t already? Seriously? I thought that would’ve been in the background check.”

“If it was, then Cannon didn’t share it with me. Shit.”

I don’t know why I didn’t do it sooner. My need to see the pre-famous Holly grows exponentially with each ring of Cannon’s phone.

“Not a good time, Crey,” Cannon says, his voice rough.

“Jesus, Cannon. If you’re fucking someone, don’t answer the goddamn phone then.”

“We’re in DEFCON 5 right now, so I figured it had to be important. If it’s not, I’ll get back to Rachel, and we can discuss this in the morning.”

“Guess I’m impressed you actually know her name. And yeah, it’s important, but you can finish up with Rachel first. I want the season of Country Dreams that Holly starred on.”

“You interrupted me for that?”

“It’s important,” I say, my tone clipped and no bullshit.

“And you already have it in your e-mail. Go look for my e-mail from New Year’s Day, after you told me her name. I compiled the report and sent you everything.”

“Thanks. Enjoy your night,” I reply, and hang up.

Greer is grinning. “Told you.”

“Did you listen to the whole damn conversation?”

“Hard not to.”

I shake my head. “I need to get home. I’ve got some TV to watch.” I lift my glass and down the rest of the liquor.

“Fine, leave your little sister to drink alone.”

The server was just returning with her G&T. I pull out my wallet and toss a hundred on the table before grabbing Greer’s hand and pulling her out of the chair.

“You’re not drinking tonight. You’re going home and getting a decent night’s sleep before you go back to the office.”

“I don’t think so, Crey. I’m going to sit down, relax, and enjoy my drink. You run along and watch your wife before she was your wife. I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll be the one running around with partners snapping orders at me.”

“At least tell me you’re taking a cab home and not walking.”

“It’s like six blocks. Cab not required.”

I sit back down. “I guess I’m waiting until you finish your drink then.”

After walking my sister to her door, I walk back to my place. As soon as I’m in the door of my penthouse, I head for the office and pull out my laptop. It only takes a few minutes to dig through my e-mails and pull up the one that Cannon sent.

I start with the audition episode. To say I’m entranced would be an understatement.

I marvel at the roundness in Holly’s face that she’s since lost, and the polish that seems to smooth over her with every episode. I feel like I’m watching the making of a star, but the part that bothers me most? They didn’t need to change a damn thing about her, because she was perfect from the moment she stepped onstage. Pink plaid shirt, jeans worn by time and wear rather than a designer’s dictates, a pair of battered cowboy boots, and the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on her face.

I won’t rest until I put that smile on her face again.

Today is surreal. Not surreal in the way it was to stand on the stage of the Grand Ole Opry and perform, but still surreal all the same. If you were to google the definition of surreal, the Wickman mother-daughter heart-to-heart should pop up.

Mama showing up, all tanned, buffed, and polished from her vacation, isn’t something I expected . . . but I guess I should have. After she called me from jail, I knew she didn’t have a man in her life, although that’s a situation that doesn’t generally last long.

My bullshit detector immediately springs to life when she hugs me and says it’s good to see me looking so happy.

Is this really my mother?

I’m so stunned and amazed that she wants to talk and find out how I’m doing—and not about how much money I can get my hands on—that I practically hang up on Crey when he calls. But the fact that she hasn’t mentioned a single thing about walking away with Gran’s jewelry the last time she was here reminds me that she still is my mother, and puts me on the defensive.

When I set aside my phone, she says, “You could’ve talked to him, you know. You must miss him like crazy, being that he’s not here and you’re newlyweds still.”

“Uh, I’ll catch up with him later.”

“If you’re sure.” She looks around the kitchen. “How about I make us some sweet tea and we can sit and talk a spell? I’m planning to head over to B&B tonight to catch up with some friends.”

Ah. That sounds more like Mama.

“Okay.”

I don’t think I’ve ever turned down sweet tea, and I’m not about to start. It’s actually one of the things my mama kicks ass at making. Considering it’s one of the only things she’s ever made me—forget Rice Krispie treats and grilled cheese and Jell-O and the stuff other kids’ moms make for them—I guess it’s a good thing she’s good at it.

She moves around the kitchen easily, still knowing where everything is . . . just like she knew where the jewelry was. While she’s pulling out the same mauve Tupperware jug Gran has used for this purpose as long as I can remember, I try to think of how to bring up the subject. But instead, she catches me off guard.

“You look happy, Holly. Is he making you happy?”

“Wha—what?”

“Happy. Is he making you happy?”

My mother being concerned about my happiness is so shocking that it knocks the truth from my lips before I can think to edit it. Or maybe it’s the naive hope that she may actually care about the answer. Either way, I speak from the heart.

“I am. We had a bit of a rough start, but I think we’ve finally got our feet under us. Me walking out and coming here was probably the best thing I could’ve possibly done.”

The Tupperware lid bounces off the counter and lands on the floor.

Mama looks at me, one hand cocked on her hip and the other raised to her lips. “You walked out on that man? Please tell me that isn’t true.”

My old defensiveness rises fast, and once again, I don’t think before I speak.

“What would you have done if your husband’s first wife cornered you at a benefit, telling you you were lucky number three and not the second wife like you’d thought, and sent you into a panic attack, making you realize you had to get out of that concrete jungle of a claustrophobic nightmare before you lost your friggin’ mind?”