Chapter Thirteen
“Eleanor?”
Her eyelids fluttered at the sound of her name.
Sitting cross-legged on the grass, Roxy curled in her lap like a warm little snuggle bug, Eleanor had drifted somewhere else—halfway between memory and music.
The bodies swaying around her were moving like waves, smoke curling in the air, the sun smudged behind a veil of cigarette haze.
The music was loud, something bluesy and familiar, but it came in muffled—like hearing through water.
She looked down and noticed her cigarette—burned halfway through, the ash long and curling like a gray snake. One wrong move, and it would tumble onto her skirt.
“Eleanor?” the voice called again, closer now.
She squinted up, half blinded by the sun.
A man stood over her, body haloed in golden light. His face was flushed, and he looked a little breathless, smiling at her in that startled, unbelieving way—like he’d found something precious he thought he’d lost.
There was something so familiar about him. The curve of his jaw. That thick, unruly hair. The bow-shaped lips.
“Is it really you?” Eleanor wiped her eyes. “Jet?” she asked softly.
A name she hadn’t spoken aloud in decades.
Jet was the boy she’d met one summer at a music festival near her hometown.
The way he’d played the banjo had been soul exposing, and the way he’d kissed her had been a high note.
They’d sung together onstage once—just once—before she’d gone back to her last year of high school and he went wherever boys like him went… everywhere.
“Jet’s my uncle,” he said, laughing. “Did you know him? Wouldn’t that be something. He was a great musician.”
Eleanor wrinkled her brow at the sound of his voice. Husky, deep, and sensual. But different. Memories unfolded in her mind like a movie reel. Jet’s face blurred in the recesses, fading out. Uncle? What was he talking about?
She stared at the man in front of her, a buzz of unease under her ribs.
He extended a hand.
She hesitated, then slowly unwrapped Roxy’s leash from her wrist and placed her hand in his palm. Roxy squirmed a little as Eleanor set her gently on the ground.
With a gentle tug, he pulled her to stand on uncertain legs. Their hands lingered for just a fraction longer than friends’ would before he let go.
The man—she wasn’t convinced he was Jet anymore, as he looked a bit older than she first thought—let out a low whistle. “That performance of yours was impressive, Ellie.”
Ellie. She hadn’t been called that in years.
“You’ve seen me do it a thousand times.” The words slipped out before she realized what she was saying.
The man beside her looked puzzled, his head cocking to the side, brows drawn together, mouth opening just slightly. There was no recognition in his eyes. Just confusion. And now concern.
And that’s when she knew for certain.
This wasn’t Jet.
And she wasn’t nineteen.
This wasn’t the county music festival just outside her hometown. Nor was she dressed in her school uniform after having snuck off to perform. Worst of all, she wasn’t in love for the first time.
Instead, Eleanor was standing in the middle of a field in… Where were they? Her knees ached. Her hands—she looked down at them—were thin and veined and spotted with age.
Only a few days ago she’d missed the celebration for her sixty-ninth birthday because she’d run away.
The realization came down like a soft collapse, deflating the hope she’d felt just seconds before.
“Oh,” she whispered, her voice caught on the wind.
The last lines of “Proud Mary” faded from somewhere in the distance, followed by the crowd cheering for the next act. A girl danced by in a yellow fringe vest, a tambourine trilling with each bounce against her palm.
“I don’t remember the mountains being so tall,” Eleanor murmured, squinting at the hazy, jagged horizon.
The young man turned, following her gaze. “Denver caught you by surprise?” There was a bit of surprise in his tone too.
She nodded absently. Denver… They weren’t in California anymore.
Eleanor suppressed a shiver at not remembering how she’d gotten here or where she was.
Her mind flashed to the appointment with her doctor.
To his prognosis. The words had tumbled from his mouth in a cloud of nonsense that she still hadn’t parsed.
More than Denver caught her by surprise. So did time. But she didn’t say this part aloud. There were some things she needed to keep to herself. Yet somehow her expression must have conveyed her confusion.
“We’re in Mile High Stadium,” the stranger said gently. “Remember? You rode here with me in the van. Me and the band.”
“Oh,” she said, laughter softening her slipup, she hoped.
She shook her head lightly like she was brushing off a cobweb.
As if it were just a silly, momentary lapse.
Not the reality, that she couldn’t remember any of the drive.
Couldn’t remember climbing into his van. Couldn’t even recall his name until—
Shep.
Yes. That was it. Shep.
The resemblance to Jet was uncanny, but she wasn’t about to confess to knowing Shep’s uncle. That would break two of her rules. One, a lady never kisses and tells, and two, a lady never reveals her true age. At least she’d come back to the present.
But the rest? A haze.
“You okay?” He studied her, his voice lined with something like worry.
Eleanor tried to brush off his concern with a pat to his arm, her touch warm and practiced.
The same pat she’d given Henry, Leanne, and Nora when she was proud of them, comforting them, walking past. The same one she gave Roxy when the little dog was twirling in a circle.
A touch that spoke louder than words. A touch that held depth.
“I’m doing just fine, honey.” She mustered a smile, hoping it stuck.
His hand covered hers, brows wiggling, giving her a cheeky, teasing look. “Oh, you’re flirting now? Don’t hold out on me, Ellie. Give me all you’ve got.”
Heat filled her cheeks, and she playfully swatted his hand away.
Ellie. The nickname still made her heart hiccup. Two syllables, so personal, echoed from a time when someone else used to say it—whispered behind a stage curtain, wrapped in the sweet heat of summer and possibility.
But she didn’t want to think about that.
She didn’t want to think about the part where she had forgotten—again—where she was.
Or the sharp, terrifying emptiness that opened up when a name or a thought slipped away like it had never existed at all.
The truth was, Eleanor hadn’t been completely honest with her daughter or the doctor about how things were progressing with her.
She’d told them the bare minimum too afraid to face the truth of how fast she appeared to be slipping away.
“Want to sing with me again?” Shep asked. “Last time, we were a real hit. Got the crowd going.”
Eleanor looked past him to the field, the heat warping the distance, bodies packed in tight.
The late-June sun pulsed against a chaotic wash of sound—drums, shouting, someone tuning a guitar far too loudly.
Tie-dye bled into camouflage. Shirtless men threw Frisbees across clusters of half-pitched tents.
This wasn’t like California. There, the festival had felt dreamy.
Loose and golden and strange in a beautiful way.
Here, there was tension beneath the joy. Electricity. Like something might crack open at any second.
Still, she nodded. “Yes.”
Shep took the cigarette from her fingers, flicked off the long, crumbling ash, and handed it back to her with a quick glance. His expression said what he didn’t: You okay with doing this?
“Don’t want to burn yourself,” he murmured.
Eleanor nodded again, more to herself this time.
She had to focus. The forgetting was getting worse.
The doctor had warned her that there was no telling how quick or slow the progression would be.
And she didn’t want to tell anyone she felt like she’d been caught in a rip current—one minute standing in the surf, the next yanked under.
Her doctor had stressed the importance of rest and nutrition, both of which she wasn’t getting enough of.
But she wasn’t going to let some diagnosis pull her away. Not yet.
She had things to sing. A story to finish. A life she wanted to leave her way—with music, with meaning, with fire.
Shep handed back Roxy’s leash.
Automatically, Eleanor slipped her hand into her skirt pocket, fingers brushing over the familiar rustle of dog treats. She pulled one out, crouched slowly, steadily, and fed it to Roxy, whose tiny tongue gave an enormous lick against her palm.
Her memory might be dependably undependable, but she hoped her instincts weren’t. She was counting on that.
“We’ve got about an hour before our set,” Shep said, checking his watch. “Want to take a nap in the tent? I know I’m exhausted.”
Eleanor was surprised at how heavy her limbs felt at the suggestion. As if she’d walked all the way from New York to California to Denver. But then her stomach gave a hollow growl.
“I could really use a sandwich,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve eaten all day.”
“And a coffee,” he added. “I could use one of those.”
She followed him toward the tent, his hand warm and solid around hers.
Shep looked every inch the rocker—denim vest, guitar pick necklace, fingers calloused and ink-stained—but he was far from the wild type Eleanor might’ve expected in this world of late nights and hazy clouds.
He didn’t drink. Didn’t smoke marijuana, even when he passed it around to others.
He smoked cigarettes, sure, but in moderation, like it was more rebellion than habit.
She liked that about him. That he was steady. That he noticed things, like when she hadn’t eaten.
He reminded her of Jet—not the blurry version from her slipping memories but the real one. The one who’d carried her guitar across gravel lots and always remembered how she liked her tea—two lumps of sugar and a splash of cream.
Inside the tent, the air was cooler, dimmer. A folding table had been set up with prewrapped sandwiches, bottles of cold Coca-Cola sweating in a metal bin of ice, and a tin of mismatched chips and cookies.
“No coffee, I guess,” Shep said with a chuckle. “Will a Coke do?”
“That’ll do just fine,” she said, coughing gently into her fist. Her chest felt a little tight—just enough to make her notice her breath.
“You’ll get used to the altitude soon.” Shep cracked open a bottle and handed it to her. “I had the same thing the first time I played here last year. Thin air messes with you.”
“Groovy,” Eleanor said the way Nora did, then smirked. “So, how long until I stop feeling like I’m in the middle of a space race but forgot my oxygen tank?”
Shep barked a laugh, biting into his roast beef sandwich, a bit of horseradish sitting at the corner of his mouth until he wiped it away.
“Is that where you’re headed next, Ellie? Leaving the music world for a life in space?” He grinned, lopsided. “Didn’t peg you for an astronaut groupie.”
“And I didn’t peg you for a grandma groupie,” she shot back without missing a beat.
That got him. His grin widened around a mouthful of bread and roast beef. She took a long sip of the cold soda, the bubbles fizzing sharp at the back of her throat. With each swallow she started to feel a little more like herself. A little more here in the present.
Her laughter surprised even her. It felt good to laugh like that again. Her chest still ached faintly. But her heart? Her heart felt clear.
“What can I say, doll?” He swallowed. “I dig a gal with a little experience and a lot of charm. Some guys are chasing the hopeful moon landing. I’m just over here appreciating you’ve already been to the stars.”
Eleanor’s mouth nearly dropped open—would have if she hadn’t just taken a sip of Coca-Cola.
She swallowed, the bubbles popping over her tongue.
“Oh, you devil. Keep teasing like that, and I’ll forget my manners.
” She kept her voice low and playful. Where had that come from?
This flirtatious side she hadn’t felt in years…
It was like a spark jumping from an old wire.
Shep winked at her, slow and shameless, enough to make her already weak knees wobble.
“Well, now,” he said, leaning in just a little, “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for that…or would I?”
Before she could respond, a voice called out behind them.
“Shep, it’s time.”
Eleanor turned, blinking into the dimmer light of the tent—and recognized Megan. Her heart lifted.
The same young woman who’d picked her up at the hotel in California.
The one with the too-fast van and the floaty tank top.
Eleanor remembered gripping the dashboard while Megan raced through traffic like a game of chicken.
At one point she’d taken a turn so hard, the dice had come right off the rearview mirror and hit the drummer in the forehead.
“Any chance,” Eleanor said, squinting with mock suspicion, “you drove us from California all the way here to Denver?”
The girl laughed and wagged a finger. “You’re funny, Ellie. You know I did.”
Eleanor chuckled, smiling wide—covering the flicker of anxiety in her chest. She didn’t know. Not really. But she remembered how the van fishtailed onto gravel and how Roxy had whined the whole drive like she’d been on a roller coaster.
Maybe it wasn’t that she’d forgotten.
Maybe she’d just blocked it out.
No wonder the memory had gone missing—self-preservation, plain and simple.
“You’re a menace behind the wheel, you know that?” Eleanor said, lifting her soda bottle in salute.
The girl grinned and gave a proud shrug. “Only when I’m awake.”