Chapter Twelve
“Are you thirsty?” Nora brushed her sweaty hair off her forehead. She and her mother had been dancing for nearly an hour, swept up in the music, the heat, and the sheer strangeness of it all.
The panic her mother had over finding Eleanor had tempered somewhat when they learned that she’d been here, that she’d been singing, and that she was apparently safe.
Nora was grateful for that bit of information, not only because knowing her grandmother wasn’t in a ditch somewhere was of course good news but also because her mother had finally let loose a little.
Leanne nodded, lifting her hair away from her damp neck. “Want me to grab us sodas?”
“I’ve got it,” Nora said quickly. “You keep an eye on the stage in case Grandma makes another appearance.”
Her mother smiled, wistful and soft, her gaze lingering on the crowd. Nora followed it for a second, wondering what it would feel like to find out your mother had disappeared…only to reappear onstage with a guitar and a rock legend beside her?
Was that something that even the nonconformist Eleanor Bell would do?
And yet—if not her, then who?
Nora wove through the press of bodies, sweat sliding down her spine, the sun sharp on her shoulders.
She’d definitely be pink with sunburn by evening, maybe even peeling in a few days.
Not that she cared. Sun was part of the story now.
She couldn’t wait to tell Kelley all about this.
While she was still sad to miss out on the weekend at the lake, it seemed like they were going to be headed home soon with her grandmother, and she wasn’t going to miss the whole summer like she thought.
She passed a couple kissing in a hammock strung between two trees. A girl with a daisy-chain crown offered her a sip from a jug of something amber colored. Nora shook her head politely and kept moving. Her sandals kicking dust with every step.
And to think Grandma might be the story’s main character.
She remembered her grandmother playing the guitar when she was little. A silly song about pancakes and pirates. She must have been six, maybe seven, dancing barefoot on the carpet while Eleanor strummed and sang in her smoky alto voice.
The memory felt blurry around the edges—like an old photograph, forgotten until it resurfaced and one realized it was important all along.
Growing up, she’d never really understood her grandmother.
Eleanor was half elegant, half nonconformist. Pearls around her neck and bare feet.
Her house smelled like lemon polish and sandalwood some days, like incense the rest of the time.
She kept issues of Vogue, Good Housekeeping, and Rolling Stone on the same coffee table.
Nora used to think it was eccentricity.
Now she wondered if maybe it was just…expression.
She reached the row of food stands and vending carts, the air thick with the smell of popcorn, grilled onions, and something fried.
Somewhere behind her, music rose again—a new set, a new voice. But she could only think about her grandmother’s hands on the guitar. The way she used to hum while pushing Nora on a swing. The way her voice had a rasp to it that made even the word “Tuesday” sound like the beginning of a ballad.
Maybe Nora didn’t know her grandmother as well as she thought.
Maybe none of them did.
As she stood in line for a soda, craving that crisp bite of Coca-Cola against the back of her throat, a boy—maybe her age, maybe a year or two older—turned around in front of her.
He had white teeth and a small chip to his incisor that made his smile more interesting than perfect.
“Great concert, right?” His voice was easy and warm.
Nora looked at him more closely. He wore a white button-down like what her father wore with his suits, only rumpled, and this guy’s sleeves were rolled to his elbows.
It was tucked into slim-fitting jeans that weren’t quite bell-bottoms but nodded in that direction.
A leather satchel hung across his chest. Unlike most of the festival crowd, he wore no fringe, no face paint, no visible flower crowns—but somehow, he still fit.
Like someone who knew who he was without needing a costume to say it.
In his upper shirt pocket, a harmonica popped out beside a notebook and pencil.
“Yeah, so far.” Nora brushed hair from her face. “We got here about an hour ago, but I’m loving it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So you missed Grandma, huh?”
There it was again—that nickname. That strange, reverent tone everyone used when they said it.
“We did,” she admitted. “But I heard she was amazing?”
“Maybe even the act of the day,” he said, laughing. He patted the notebook in his pocket. “Got it all written down. Front-row view.”
“Are you a journalist?” she asked, intrigued.
“Hoping to be. Right now, I’m an intern for the summer at the San Francisco Chronicle. Out here chasing a story on the next wave of musical stars. And I think I might’ve just found one.” He held out a hand. “Name’s Joe.”
“Nora.” She shook it—firmly, confidently, and quickly.
He grinned again, cocking his head like he was sizing her up.
“You strike me as the kind of girl who drinks black coffee and reads Sylvia Plath.” He tapped his lower lip, eyes scanning over her with studied practice. “But here you are…waiting in line for a soda. Is this your plot twist?”
Nora lifted an eyebrow, trying for nonchalant even as her belly was filling with butterflies. “Impressive guesswork. What does my soda order tell you about my tragic backstory?”
“Ah, that depends.” A twinkle entered his eyes, mesmerizing her, and Nora had to straighten herself up or risk falling for his charm.
“Oh, yeah?” she asked. “On what?”
“Well, if you order root beer, you’re nostalgic.
If you order Sprite, you’re avoiding commitment.
And if you order a Coke, you secretly long for Parisian cafés but are stuck in a world of diner booths—and I would know.
Je suis en partie francais, mademoiselle.
” He winked. “Or maybe you just really wanted a soda, and I’m overanalyzing. But where’s the fun in that?”
Nora didn’t answer. Instead, she stepped forward in line, smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“Three Coca-Colas, please,” she said to the vendor. The teenager in a tank top handed her the first sweating bottles of soda from a galvanized tub packed with ice.
Nora could feel Joe watching her as she took the next two and the glass bottles clinked together in her hand. She handed over the money, grabbed the drinks, and turned just enough to throw him a glance over her shoulder.
“What does this say about me?” She held up the three sodas.
“That you’re here with someone.” He narrowed his eyes for a moment, then smiled when she didn’t reply. “And that you’re a mystery I’ve already started writing about.”
“For the sake of accuracy in your exposé?” Nora said, with a challenging lift of her brow. “I prefer Woolf to Plath.”
Joe’s grin widened, and he said, “Ah-ha.” He made the phrase sound as if he’d just discovered a significant secret.
Reaching into his shirt pocket with dramatic flair, he pulled out a stubby pencil and worn notebook.
As he eyed her, he licked the tip of the pencil with exaggerated seriousness and began to narrate while he scribbled.
“Developing story: Subject prefers Woolf. Possible influence of stream-of-consciousness on worldview. Coca-Cola preference remains unexplained. Mystery deepens. Must investigate further.”
Nora rolled her eyes, thrusting one of the ice-cold bottles toward him. As he took it, their hands brushed. Cool condensation slipped between their fingers—briefly, but long enough to send a jolt up her arm.
“Careful, Joe the Journalist,” she said lightly. “Some mysteries don’t want to be solved. For example, Woolf is only my preference in classics. Right now, I’m digging Mario Puzo.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t break eye contact.
“That just makes this a mystery more worth chasing.”
Something about the way he said it—low and casual like he hadn’t even meant to charm her—made her pulse spike in her throat.
Without another word, Nora turned away and waded back into the sea of strangers. Her heart pounding louder than the music, sharper than the sunlight bouncing off the Coca-Cola label.
Of all the boys she’d met in high school—yearbook committee boys, football players and honor society boys, and the boy who’d kissed her at junior prom with a mouth full of ginger ale—none of them had made her feel this way.
Like she was the interesting one. Like someone had seen inside of her, not past her.
Joe the Journalist.
The name stuck in her mind like the hook of a song. She didn’t turn around to see if he was watching her go. But she hoped he was. And she couldn’t help but wonder…
Would she see him again?