“Not bad,” she whispered to no one in particular. “But I’ve had better sets.”
And then, just behind her, a familiar voice said, “Well, hell. I was hoping to find you.”
She turned slowly, heart leaping. But there was no one there.
In sharp contrast to the dreamers and romantics swaying under the rain, a pack of rebel concertgoers stomped through the puddles like soldiers on parade. Their cigarettes drooped, half-smoked and waterlogged, clinging to lips with defiance. They shouted over the storm, “Who needs the sun when we’ve got this?” as they splashed recklessly, letting thick mud cake the bottoms of their bell-bottoms like badges of honor.
Onstage, one of the bands had refused to yield to the downpour. They played on, guitars slick with rain, curls plastered to their foreheads,amps hissing with the threat of shorting out. Eleanor cringed. All that water soaking the instruments, a sin if ever there was one. But the music was beautiful in its ruin. The distortion added texture, like a memory half remembered but still deeply felt. There was something unfiltered in how the sound rattled through the sodden air. Imperfect. Honest. Settling into her chest like an old tune she hummed under her breath when no one else listened.
And then she saw her.
A face in the crowd so familiar it struck like lightning, a branching of memories spreading like a wild oak before her eyes.
At first, Eleanor thought she was hallucinating. One of those disorienting flashbacks her doctor had warned her about was a memory bleeding into the present. The face looked so much like her own—strong chin, wide-set eyes, and that unmistakable Bell scowl. She blinked hard, hoping that might adjust her focus.
But in the misty view of tents, that familiar face suddenly reminded her of the circus. Eleanor sank into the memory, which flickered back to a long-ago summer night at Madison Square Garden when the skies had opened above the great striped tent. The air had smelled of popcorn and elephant sweat, the heavy scent of damp tent canvas and crushed peanuts thick as shag carpet. The ringmaster had cracked his whip through the thunder like a bolt of sound itself, but Eleanor had had eyes only for the trapeze girls—swanlike and sequined, bodies glistening, muscles taut and graceful as they sliced through the air with musical precision. What would it be like to fly?
The cymbals crashed onstage, jolting her back into the now.
And that’s when she realized the face wasn’t a memory.
Leanne.
As she marched through the storm-washed field like she had a mission carved in her spine, her wet hair clung to her face, and her eyes locked onto Eleanor like a heat-seeking missile. Determined. Intent.Unafraid.
A breath caught in Eleanor’s throat, equal parts awe and dread.
My girl.
She hadn’t seen her daughter like that in decades. Not as a housewife, a mother, or even a dutiful daughter, but as a woman. Fierce. Unraveling. Finding something, maybe even herself, in the rain.
And she was coming straight for her.
No! Absolutely not. She wasn’t going back home. Not today. Not yet.
Seattle was next. Then Woodstock. Woodstock, for God’s sake. Eleanor was going to end this mad little joyride there with flower crowns and feedback loops, maybe even a stage dive if the spirit moved her and not a moment sooner.
Eleanor spun on her heel, boots squelching in the mud, the hem of her blouse plastered to her back. Behind her, a voice rang out through the storm—shrill, urgent, familiar.
“Mom! Eleanor!”
She didn’t stop. She didn’t look back. Not even for a heartbeat. Especially not for a heartbeat.
Her heart galloped against her ribs, as she ducked and weaved through a line of wet bodies, darting past a shirtless man screaming something about peace and pudding.
“Ellie, where ya headed?” Shep’s drawl cut through the clamor like a lighthouse through fog. Eleanor zeroed in on it, veering toward his voice, her relief practically visible in her shoulders as she ducked into the tent—her sanctuary from motherhood and the monsoon.
“I got a little lost.” She smoothed her rain-drenched curls and offered him a sheepish smile. Her cheeks ached from trying to make it look effortless. If he noticed the tremor in her hands, he didn’t say a word.
“Lost?” he chuckled. “Looked like you were outrunning the devilhimself.”
“Something like that.”
“Well, I got good news and better news.” Shep tugged off his sopping wet bandanna and wrung it out. “Good news is that reporter is back and wants to interview you for a bigger piece. Megan thinks it’s a brilliant idea.”
“Oh, does she now?”
“Better news is…I told the reporter to come back after the set. Figured you’d want to keep your mystery intact before blowing their minds with that voice.”
