And that’s when she saw her.
Right near the front of the crowd, impossibly close, stood Leanne.
But not the Leanne she remembered. Not the pressed-pleated, pearl-buttoned version who lived in the suburbs of Ossining with a calendar full of PTA meetings and roast dinners. This Leanne was different. Her jeans were cutoffs, threads fraying at the edges over the bare skin of her thighs. Her top was loose, bohemian, swaying in the breeze. Her hair was down, her skin flushed, kissed by a summer of wandering.
And her eyes were wide and wet, her cheeks streaked with tears. Not grief. Not fear. Joy. Pure, radiant, unfiltered joy.
Eleanor’s throat tightened. She hadn’t realized how much she needed that look. That permission. That recognition. That love.
She strummed the next few chords like they were breathing for her daughter. When the chorus swelled, she pointed directly at Leanne—let the crowd see her, let Leanne feel her mother’s love.
Standing beside Leanne, Nora was impossible to miss.
Eleanor’s heart gave a heavy thud against her ribs as if the strings of her guitar had found a way to pluck her from the inside out.
She opened her mouth, sang the next line—those familiar, aching lyrics—and something sharp tugged against her thumb. She glanced down. Her finger was tangled in the guitar cord. Odd. How had that happened?
Her gaze traveled to the microphone, hovering just in front of her mouth like a floating question. She blinked. The lights felt too bright. The stage felt too high. Her own voice was too loud in her ears.
“Leanne,” she said aloud, barely a whisper into the microphone. She stared down at the woman in the crowd who looked so much like her daughter—and yet not like her at all. The Leanne she remembered had a stiff posture, lips pressed thin. This Leanne was barefoot in the grass. Hair wild. Eyes bright. Wearing joy like a badge of rebellion.
The music didn’t stop. The crowd kept singing. They knew the words, had memorized the rhythm, and had absorbed the song into their bones over the summer.
Another jolt rolled through Eleanor’s body, like her mind catching up to her mouth, and suddenly, it clicked back into place.You’re onstage, Ellie. This is your song. These are your people.
She laughed, full-throated, into the mic, and sang again—this time louder, with a wink in her voice. “Guess I’ve got a fan in the front row today.”
The crowd roared.
No one looked at her strangely. No one leaned in with worry. No one whispered, “Is she all right?”
Only cheers. Only support. Only love.
And then, just as the bridge began to build, she watched Leanne be lifted into the air. Palms pressing her upward. The crowd passing her like a note in class, delicate, full of secrets, handled with care.
Eleanor’s instinct flared—Be careful with her; that’s my baby—but it passed quickly. Nora was laughing, cheering, hands raised. The two of them aglow like living sunshine.
And then she was there. Leanne. On the edge of the stage. Forty-five years old, eyes shimmering like they had when she was four and Eleanor used to sing this very song to lull her to sleep.
Except this time, Leanne wasn’t drifting off.
She was awake.
And Eleanor, guitar steady in her hands, strummed a chord so true it made her knees go weak.
This—this—was the moment she’d been singing toward her whole life.
Chapter Forty-One
When she was a child, Leanne had believed her mother was immortal.
Not in the comic book sense, but in the steady, unshakable way parents seemed to exist. Always there. Always reachable. An ever-present feminine spirit who knew how to fold sheets just right and who sang lullabies even when she was tired. Even as an adult, Leanne had taken it for granted that Eleanor would arrive if she called and asked her mother to come over for Sunday dinner. If she wanted to walk the promenade at Orchard Beach, her mother would lace up her shoes and go.
But now, watching Eleanor onstage—losing the lyrics, blinking like she wasn’t sure where she was—Leanne had felt a cold realization tighten in her gut.
One day, her mother wouldn’t be there. That familiar face, those eyes that had seen her through every version of herself, might someday look right at her and not recognize a thing.
Before she could dwell on the ache forming behind her ribs, hands lifted her into the air.
