Leanne and Nora stared after him, maybe in shock, before their gazes met, their lips pressed together to hold in their laughter.
“Do you think…?” Nora’s skeptical tone softened into awe.
Leanne looked out at the crowd, at the swaying bodies and the shimmer of heat on the stage. At the way Tina Turner had just kicked off her heels and was dancing like fire itself.
“Before now?” she said. “I’d have said no.”
She turned to her daughter, the beat of the music thudding beneath her feet like a second heartbeat.
“But we just drove across the country chasing Grandma…and now we’re standing in the middle of a field, high-fiving wizards and listening to Tina Turner.” She laughed, shaking her head. “At this point, anything’s possible.”
Nora beamed, eyes full of something close to wonder.
Leanne glanced back toward the stage—imagining Eleanor there, hair loose, hips swaying, voice rising. Imagining her mother not lost or slipping away but soaring—belting notes next to a rock star like she’d been born to be.
If the Grandma the wizard-man mentioned was her mom—and it sounded like she was—then Eleanor was fine. Safe. Having a good time, even.
Leanne wasn’t sure what her vision or the strange festivalgoer’s words meant, or the sudden sense of calm that overtook her.
But surely, they meant something.
Chapter Twelve
“Are you thirsty?” Nora brushed her sweaty hair off her forehead. She and her mother had been dancing for nearly an hour, swept up in the music, the heat, and the sheer strangeness of it all.
The panic her mother had over finding Eleanor had tempered somewhat when they learned that she’d been here, that she’d been singing, and that she was apparently safe. Nora was grateful for that bit of information, not only because knowing her grandmother wasn’t in a ditch somewhere was of course good news but also because her mother had finally let loose a little.
Leanne nodded, lifting her hair away from her damp neck. “Want me to grab us sodas?”
“I’ve got it,” Nora said quickly. “You keep an eye on the stage in case Grandma makes another appearance.”
Her mother smiled, wistful and soft, her gaze lingering on the crowd. Nora followed it for a second, wondering what it would feel like to find out your mother had disappeared…only to reappear onstage with a guitar and a rock legend beside her?
Was that something that even the nonconformist Eleanor Bell would do?
And yet—if not her, then who?
Nora wove through the press of bodies, sweat sliding down her spine, the sun sharp on her shoulders. She’d definitely be pink with sunburn by evening, maybe even peeling in a few days. Not that she cared. Sun was part of the story now. She couldn’t wait to tell Kelley all about this. While she was still sad to miss out on the weekend at the lake, it seemed like they were going to be headed home soon with her grandmother, and she wasn’t going to miss the whole summer like she thought.
She passed a couple kissing in a hammock strung between two trees. A girl with a daisy-chain crown offered her a sip from a jug of something amber colored. Nora shook her head politely and kept moving. Her sandals kicking dust with every step.
And to think Grandma might be the story’s main character.
She remembered her grandmother playing the guitar when she was little. A silly song about pancakes and pirates. She must have been six, maybe seven, dancing barefoot on the carpet while Eleanor strummed and sang in her smoky alto voice.
The memory felt blurry around the edges—like an old photograph, forgotten until it resurfaced and one realized it was important all along.
Growing up, she’d never really understood her grandmother. Eleanor was half elegant, half nonconformist. Pearls around her neck and bare feet. Her house smelled like lemon polish and sandalwood some days, like incense the rest of the time. She kept issues ofVogue,Good Housekeeping, andRolling Stoneon the same coffee table.
Nora used to think it was eccentricity.
Now she wondered if maybe it was just…expression.
She reached the row of food stands and vending carts, the air thick with the smell of popcorn, grilled onions, and something fried.
Somewhere behind her, music rose again—a new set, a new voice. But she could only think about her grandmother’s hands on the guitar. The way she used to hum while pushing Nora on a swing. The way her voice had a rasp to it that made even the word “Tuesday” sound like the beginning of a ballad.
Maybe Nora didn’t know her grandmother as well as she thought.
