She turned in a slow circle, disoriented, Roxy trembling inside her shoulder bag. The pup’s plucky head popped out, eyes scanning, perhaps hoping to spot a familiar face.
“Mrs. Bell?”
Eleanor didn’t register it at first. She was Mrs. Strickland, formerly Miss Bell. But being called Mrs. anything sounded too formal, too far removed from the woman she’d become.
“Mrs. Eleanor Bell?”
Eleanor Bell… That was her name. Once. She turned.
A young man stood there, maybe in his early twenties, holding a notebook in one hand and a pencil tucked behind his ear like a cigarette. His dark hair curled slightly from the heat, and he was dressed in that half-casual, half-collegiate way that reporters often wore when they were trying to blend in. But there was no mistaking his intent.
“Can I help you?” Eleanor kept her voice guarded but polite.
“I don’t know if you remember me, but I interviewed you a few weeks back. I’m Joe.” He was a little breathless, and his wide-eyed expression was the same one she’d used when she gazed at Jimi Hendrix onstage. “Your family’s been looking for you. They’re, uh…well, they’re really concerned.”
Eleanor’s stomach clenched. She resisted the urge to bolt. She didn’t know where she was. And she didn’t know who he was. Didn’t recognize him at all. Barely remembered every reporter who’d drilledher with questions this summer. But she knew she didn’t want to be found, even if lost.
Instead, she lowered a hand to Roxy’s head, stroking her soft skin. A calming habit she’d developed on the road. The little dog gave a reassuring yip and lick to her palm.
“There’s nothing to be concerned about.” While Eleanor whispered the words to Roxy, they were more of a reassurance to herself.
“I believe you,” the young man replied, jarring her that he was still there. “But still…they’ve been out here for weeks. I think—well—I think they’re in awe of you.”
“Awe?” Eleanor lifted an eyebrow. “You sure you’ve got the right family? My daughter was born buttoned-up. If she’s feeling awe, it must be at the absurdity of it all.”
“I’m guessing she’s not the same woman you left in New York,” the reporter said, tilting his head slightly.
That gave Eleanor pause. There was always the possibility for change for anyone, even Leanne. Hadn’t she witnessed it firsthand, Leanne in bell-bottoms and sandals?
He smiled just a little. “I can take you to say hello. If you’d like.”
Eleanor didn’t move. Not yet. Her eyes scanned the crowd again—colors, drums, voices, guitars.
She’d been so sure that coming out here meant reclaiming a piece of herself. But maybe it wasn’t about reclaiming. Maybe it was about sharing.
Her hand flexed over Roxy’s head, needing the grounding of her dog’s presence.
“How do you know Leanne?” Eleanor asked, squinting at the young man. “Are you from Ossining?”
“San Francisco, actually,” he said, voice gentle. “I’m a friend of your granddaughter’s. Nora. We met on the road. And you and I had an interview a while back.”
Eleanor raised a brow, weighing his words. He’d mentioned that a few minutes ago, but she failed to place him. “Is that so?”
He nodded, earnest as a puppy. “Nora and Mrs. Miller have been looking for you. For weeks. Crisscrossing the country all summer. All the way from California to here.”
Eleanor exhaled slowly, pressing her lips into a thin line. The weight of those words, that journey, sank in, but she wasn’t ready to hold them. Not yet. Her heart fluttered in her chest like a bird trying to escape a cage.
“Well,” she said, smoothing Roxy’s ears, “you tell them I’m okay. And that I’m not ready to talk. Not just yet. I think I need to go lie down.”
“Do you want me to walk you back to your tent?”
She turned her head to glance around the sea of bodies—half a million people spilling across a muddy hillside, shirtless and barefoot, flowers in their hair, music drifting on the breeze like incense. There were no signs. No directions. Just endless canvas tents, all blending together like melting Popsicles.
She suddenly remembered that she had no idea where her tent was. Or if there even was one anymore. The concerts were starting to blur together. California, Denver, Atlanta, Seattle, now here. Her memory was a swirling kaleidoscope, missing pieces falling through the cracks.
But pride was a nasty little companion.
“I can find it,” she said, chin lifting with stubborn dignity. “On my own.”
