“Not gloomy,” she said, shaking her head. “Moody, maybe. Mysterious. Like the sky knows something the rest of us don’t.”
Then she slipped her arm around his waist, leaning into him without thinking. They’d grown closer over the last few weeks, and she was glad to have met him. To have him sharing this summer of love and music with her. “You’re a good boy, Shep Moon.”
He feigned offense. “You make me sound like a golden retriever. I’ll have you know I’m a forty-three-year-old man.”
Eleanor laughed. “You don’t look at day over twenty-nine.”
Nestled in her satchel, Roxy let out a yip of protest—reminding them who the real golden girl was.
“Don’t worry, girl; he’s not going to take your place,” Eleanor said with a laugh, stroking Roxy’s peach-fuzz head while the dog gave Shep another side-eyed glare.
“One of these days, I’m going to win her over,” he said, holding out a tentative hand.
“She’s particular.” Eleanor arched a brow. “Just like her mama.”
“Well, that explains a lot,” Shep said, grinning. “Particular’s my favorite kind.”
They ambled across the grass, the stage still a distant hum behind them, the smell of festival food mingling with the scent of damp bark. The strumming of guitars and harmonica wails had become a constant backdrop for Eleanor. And she worried when she returned home that she’d keenly feel the loss of music. Worried too, that when she returned to New York, her final stop wouldn’t be home at all but somewhere else. An institution. Wherever they put aging people who were slowly losing their minds.
On the whirlwind of music and road-tripping, it was easy to brush off the little things. A loss of a word. Forgetting where she was. But in her own environment, people would notice.
“Tell me about him,” Shep said after a quiet beat. “The man you loved, that you were here with.”
Eleanor closed her eyes, the past flickering behind her eyelids like an old home movie. The hem of her skirt lifted in the wind. The tinny pitch of a slightly out-of-tune upright piano. The press of someone’s hand on the small of her back. The summer heat had been a thick blanket. The music, everything.
“The clothes were different,” she said, voice low. “The hair. The pace of things. The way you kissed someone felt…earned. And the instruments were all heavier. Except for the guitars. And the drums, of course.”
She tilted her head, watching a pair of imaginary young lovers slow-dance in the grass.
“Actually, maybe not much has changed at all,” she murmured. “Just the people.”
“You think you’ve changed all that much?” Shep asked gently.
Eleanor looked at him, her expression unreadable. “I wouldn’t call it changing,” she said. “I’d call it burying.”Or getting lost.
Shep’s brow furrowed.
“I buried myself. Buried my voice. Buried people I loved and pieces of myself I didn’t think anyone would want.” Her hand curled protectively around Roxy. “Then, one day, I woke up and didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me. And learned that pretty soon I wouldn’t remember the woman I was.”
There was a pause. Even the birds seemed to hush. That was the thing with aging. The years passed in a blur, and the little bitch suddenly stole your youth.
“Is your old flame still alive?” Shep asked, his voice quiet.
Eleanor shrugged, the motion halfhearted. “I don’t know. After that summer… I left with a note from him in my hand that said,Until next time.I went back to marry the man I was supposed to. The man who was safe. I didn’t keep up with the other one. Couldn’t. The letters stopped. The silence stretched. And then there was Leanne. And laundry. And casserole dishes. A depression. A war. Suddenly, there wasn’t any room for wondering.”
“You’re lucky to have loved more than once.” Shep’s words were faint.
“What about you? Have you ever loved anyone?” Eleanor asked.
“I’m loving someone right now.” He grinned wickedly in her direction.
Eleanor pinched him in the side. “You’re a devil.”
“Anything to please,” he said, rubbing his ribs.
She looked away toward the trees, where the light filtered through the moss as if it were stained glass. Her heart ached in that familiar, distant way.
“Well,” Shep said, his voice softening, “maybe we dedicate our next song to him.”
