The question opened up a vacuum in her chest, a swirl of disorientation and dread. Her hands shook, and the motion jostled the little animal in her lap. The dog’s eyes blinked open and she cocked her head to the side, the little mop of hair flipping to one side. Eleanor had a feeling she should know this weird little dog. A tug at the corner of her brain, too weak to pull back the curtain.
She touched its tag.Roxy.
And with that one name, her mind began to reassemble itself, piece by fragile piece.
She was Eleanor Bell once more.
She was at a concert.
She was—God help her—the Dame of Rock and Roll.
She let out a long breath, her free hand fluttering to her chest,steadying herself. These moments seemed to be coming quicker, and she feared that the time on the road away from familiarity was the cause.
Outside, the uproar was fading, replaced by laughter and song. Shep would return soon. Roxy snorted and nestled back in.
Eleanor stroked the tiny dog’s back, whispering, “I’m still here.”
This was a van.
A van owned by her…what, exactly?
Friend? Companion? Beau?
Sometimes, Eleanor saw Shep as the man she’d lost all those summers ago—his laugh familiar, his touch even more so. Other times, she saw him as he truly was—a stranger, two decades her junior, wrapped in rhythm and smoke, cloaked in youth and dreams he hadn’t yet given up on.
But what she preferred, what she needed, was to think of him as a chapter. A chapter namedNow.
Because this trip, this music, this fleeting blur of smoke and song and memory wasn’t about reinvention. It was about reclamation.
Eleanor Bell had come here to live the life she never dared claim. The one she’d tucked away with her guitar behind chiffon blouses and silk scarves. The one she’d handed over in pieces. First to duty, then to love, then to motherhood, and then to the silence that came after.
And soon, she’d have to go back.
Back to New York. Back to being just regular Eleanor Bell Strickland. Widow. Mother. Grandmother. Housekeeper of memories and maker of casseroles.
She hadn’t grown up imagining she’d be defined by titles with such hollow rings. Somewhere along the way, she had deemed herself unworthy of ambition, of artistry.
And when she did, Eleanor Bell, the musician, disappeared like the wisps of cigarette smoke on a windy night. And in her place stood Mrs.Strickland, somebody’s something—someone’s mother, someone’s wife, someone’s something else, but no longer someone’s dreamer.
Closing her eyes, she tilted her head back against the van door. She wished she could fall asleep and wake up in some beautiful elsewhere, free of the weight of memory.
But if she forgot the life she’d lived—the good, the hard, the music that had carried her through—how could she fully honor this chance to feel it again?
Opening her eyes, Eleanor glanced down at Roxy, who gazed at her with lazy affection, her head cocked and tongue cockeyed. That little tuft of hair still made her laugh.
Eleanor patted her silly dog on the head, then eased the van door open.
The air was cooler now. In the distance, music mixed with laughter. Gone was the disorder of the night. A hot dog stand flickered in the sun like a lighthouse, surrounded by people.
Eleanor Bell—musician, widow, goddess of second chances—tucked her hair behind her ears and went in search of a hot dog and the chapter she was living.
Chapter Twenty
The local diner buzzed with a charged energy. The air was thick with the scent of burned coffee, fried onions, and sweet maple syrup and clung to Leanne’s clothes as she stepped inside.
A slight tremble still buzzed in her fingertips, and every now and then she found herself gasping for air. There were places on her shoulders, arms, back that ached like bruises, and she was sure when she finally undressed for bed tonight, she was going to see the marks of people’s shoes and hands on her body.
Every booth, every counter stool, and every syrup-sticky table was crammed with concertgoers seeking refuge from the smoke and sirens still drifting up from the stadium. They looked as worn out as she did. It was an ironic energy when compared to the panoramic scene of the mountains out the window. A few patrons sported torn band T-shirts, either on purpose or from people grabbing hold of them while trying to stay upright.
