Funny, but right then, Eleanor Bell, widow, mother, and grandmother—sweaty, sunburned, and sleep-deprived—felt like shewasforty-five years younger. The exhaustion that had been consuming her only seconds before vanished and was replaced with the energy she’d been hoping for.
“Care for a sandwich?” She reached into her handbag like a magician pulling out a trick. She’d tucked an extra ham sandwich in there earlier, just in case. On this trip, she’d often found herself forgetting to eat and being hungry without access to a meal. This was a survival tactic, she’d told herself. Or maybe a grandmother’s intuition.
She held out the sandwich to Jimi like it was a peace offering or maybe a gift to a god.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “No, ma’am. I’m good, thank you.”
Jimi accepted an ice-cold soda from Shep instead, popping the cap off with a flick of his thumb.
“Damn, it’s hotter than a Marshall amp after a three-hour set.” Jimi took a long swig.
Eleanor grinned. “Hot? Honey, this isn’t hot. This is just the oven preheating.”
Jimi laughed, the sound bright and easy, like a guitar riff sliding into the air.
She watched him over the rim of her sunglasses, still pretending she wasn’t fazed even though her heart pounded a rhythm faster than the drummer onstage. Jimi Hendrix was drinking a soda in her tent. Of all the things… Nora would flip out, as the youths said.
“When was the last time you sat still and just let the world happen?” Eleanor settled deeper into her folding chair, doing that herself, her tone curious but edged with something softer.
Jimi paused, tapping his cigarette against the arm of the chair before lighting it. He took a drag and exhaled a lazy cloud.
“Man, that’s a real question,” he said. “I try, you know? Sometimes,I’m not even there when I play. Just floating, letting the notes talk instead of me. But sitting still? Just letting it all happen? I don’t know… The world moves too fast. People want to put you in a box, tell you what you got to be. And me? I just want to play, keep moving, keep searching.”
Then he turned to her, that same smile back.
“But maybe I ought to try it right now. Think I could learn a thing or two from you, Mama Lightning.”
Eleanor chuckled, the breeze ruffling through her silver-streaked hair like a whisper. “Dangerous game you’re playing, Mr. Hendrix. You sit too long with me, you might not be able to get up.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Then I better only stay until my next set, huh?”
The hum of festival fervor faded into the background, replaced by the rustling of canvas in the wind and the distant thump of a bass line rolling. The heat shimmered around them in slow, thick waves, and Eleanor breathed it all in. Sweat clung to her collarbone. Dust clung to her sandals. But none of it mattered.
She watched him tip his head back, eyes half lidded, staring up at the sky as if the clouds were speaking to him. The cigarette dangled forgotten between his fingers. And for one silent breath, neither of them was an icon, rebel, or a story waiting to be told—they were just two souls caught in the middle of a sticky Georgia afternoon, letting the world turn without them.
When he drained the last sip of his soda, he glanced at her sideways, that crooked grin unwavering.
“I like you.” His words weren’t a flirtation but a fact. “What should I call you?”
She grinned. “I’ve had a lot of names.” She brushed a crumb from her lap. “Eleanor. Ellie. Mama Lightning. The Dame of Rock and Roll.”
There was another name too, one she hadn’t said aloud in decades—a stage name from a past life. A version of her that once sang under carnival lights, barefoot and invincible. But that girl was tucked away, folded like a love letter at the bottom of a drawer. For now.
“Well, Ellie,” he said, standing with a lazy stretch. “It was real good meeting you. I hope I see you out there again. You sing like you mean it.”
“That’s the only way I know how,” she replied, watching him turn toward the sunlight, guitar slung across his back like a sword.
Eleanor drew in a deep breath as Jimi disappeared beyond the tent flap, and as she let it out, her world started to wobble, until Shep came into view, his hand on her shoulder as he stood in front of her and gave her a gentle shake. She blinked at him, blinked at the empty tent around them. Jimi Hendrix had been a dream conjured by heatstroke and too much smoke in her lungs.
“You must have been having one hell of a dream.” Shep’s grin was teasing.
“A dream.” She shook her head, trying to right herself. “Jimi seemed so real.” A cinematic quality, like the flickering edge of a film reel right before it flies off the wheel. The doctor had warned her she might soon not know the difference between what happened in her dreams and when she was awake. Was this the start? A shiver passed through her at the thought.
“Hendrix?” Shep raised a brow.
“Yeah, me and Hendrix having a cigarette.” She let out a soft laugh, hiding her disappointment.
“Wouldn’t that be a hell of a thing?” Shep wiped a hand down his face. “He’s up right now. Must have heard him playing.”
