“I’d be okay if you let that one fly off in the wind.” Leanne fluttered her hand toward the sky with a laugh.
“Oh no. This one’s getting pride of place on my dorm room wall.” Nora waved the photo in the air. “A reminder of my many responsibilities.”
“Which don’t include a wedding ring,” her mother added firmly.
“Right. I’m not going to Yale to meet a husband,” Nora said, more serious now. “I’m going to be part of something bigger. A shift in America. I want to graduate from an Ivy League, with honors. I want to start my life right.”
Leanne didn’t answer at first. Looking at her mom out of the corner of her eye, she noticed her lips pressed together, the corners twitching slightly, fighting emotion.
“I’m really proud of you, Nora,” Leanne said finally.
Nora felt something warm rising and expanding inside of her. It wasn’t that she didn’t know her mother was proud of her before this moment, but more often than not her mom was closed off. There was something comforting about hearing her mom open up—it lifted Nora like a helium balloon. Nora smiled, staring at the slowly filling parking lot of the scenic overlook, her hand still wrapped around the warming Polaroid.
“Thanks, Mom.”
Glancing at her again, Nora caught the soft look that slipped across her mother’s face. Nostalgic. A little far away. An expression that might’ve led to tears if she let it.
Then her mom’s expression went back to business. She clearly didn’t want to end the conversation in a puddle of feelings. Pulling the keys from the ignition, she said, “Let’s take some pictures.”
As they climbed toward the fenced-off area, Nora said. “So…did I tell you about the hot writer I met at the festival?”
Leanne blinked. “Sounds like that could be an opening line for the sequel ofThe Love Machine.”
Nora burst out laughing. “Maybe it could, but no. He was young—like, my age—and the pickup lines? Some of the worst I’ve ever heard.”
Leanne raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Do tell.”
For the first time in maybe ever, Nora felt her mother’s openness, and she was excited to spill her secrets.
Chapter Sixteen
Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising” crashed like a wave over the amped-up crowd. John Fogerty’s voice rasped into the microphone. Sweat trailed down his shirtless chest and dampened the hair at his temples. Behind him, drums thundered. Guitars growled.
Eleanor tapped her foot at the brilliant storm of rhythm and heat and sound.
Eleanor stood just offstage, her fingers moving in the air, strumming an invisible guitar, reflexes guiding her along with the beat. She couldn’t help herself—she knew the chords by heart, even if her hands weren’t holding anything but the moment.
Up next was Shep’s band. Which meantshewas next.
They’d rehearsed her song all morning. One she’d written years ago and nearly forgotten until this tour brought it roaring back. Shep had insisted she take the lead, treating her like she was the headliner and he was just the backup.
It was sweet. Almost unbearably so.
The last chords of “Bad Moon Rising” rang out, the crowd surging, shouting for an encore. The sound hit her like a gust of wind,and Eleanor’s nerves lit up—not like the first time onstage, but still…sparks.
That familiar buzzing at the tips of her fingers, across her shoulders. Warning bells, maybe. But warning her of what, she couldn’t say.
A tug at her elbow pulled her out of the nervous spiral. Shep’s assistant, Megan, a willowy girl in bell-bottoms and a crochet top, held out Eleanor’s Gibson L-00.
“Here you go.” She tilted her head, studying Eleanor. “You okay?”
“Oh, I’m fine, deary.” Eleanor brushed a hand through her hair before sliding the strap over her shoulder.
The guitar settled against her like a memory, the weight comforting. Familiar. Safe.
Like holding baby Leanne.
She hadn’t expected to think that, but it came to her all at once—how her daughter had felt in her arms, heavy and warm. And how, the second she’d laid her in her crib, her arms had ached. Like she was putting part of herself down, even just for the night.
