Chapter Sixteen
Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising” crashed like a wave over the amped-up crowd. John Fogerty’s voice rasped into the microphone. Sweat trailed down his shirtless chest and dampened the hair at his temples. Behind him, drums thundered. Guitars growled.
Eleanor tapped her foot at the brilliant storm of rhythm and heat and sound.
Eleanor stood just offstage, her fingers moving in the air, strumming an invisible guitar, reflexes guiding her along with the beat. She couldn’t help herself—she knew the chords by heart, even if her hands weren’t holding anything but the moment.
Up next was Shep’s band. Which meant she was next.
They’d rehearsed her song all morning. One she’d written years ago and nearly forgotten until this tour brought it roaring back. Shep had insisted she take the lead, treating her like she was the headliner and he was just the backup.
It was sweet. Almost unbearably so.
The last chords of “Bad Moon Rising” rang out, the crowd surging, shouting for an encore. The sound hit her like a gust of wind, and Eleanor’s nerves lit up—not like the first time onstage, but still…sparks.
That familiar buzzing at the tips of her fingers, across her shoulders. Warning bells, maybe. But warning her of what, she couldn’t say.
A tug at her elbow pulled her out of the nervous spiral. Shep’s assistant, Megan, a willowy girl in bell-bottoms and a crochet top, held out Eleanor’s Gibson L-00.
“Here you go.” She tilted her head, studying Eleanor. “You okay?”
“Oh, I’m fine, deary.” Eleanor brushed a hand through her hair before sliding the strap over her shoulder.
The guitar settled against her like a memory, the weight comforting. Familiar. Safe.
Like holding baby Leanne.
She hadn’t expected to think that, but it came to her all at once—how her daughter had felt in her arms, heavy and warm. And how, the second she’d laid her in her crib, her arms had ached. Like she was putting part of herself down, even just for the night.
The Gibson was like that. A part of her. Something she loved beyond words. Something that remembered her, even when she forgot herself. And every time she’d had to put it away, she’d itched to go back and pick it up if only to hold it a little longer.
The band onstage launched into their encore, the lead singer whipping the microphone stand in the air like a lasso.
For a split second, Eleanor thought he might actually toss it into the crowd and knock someone senseless.
But instead, he planted it on the stage, raised a fist to the roaring audience, and shouted a final thank-you before disappearing with the rest of his band.
The emcee’s voice boomed overhead, announcing Shep Moon and his band.
Eleanor hesitated on the side of the stage, a bolt of nerves making her whole body go rigid and causing her to forget how to walk.
Shep’s drummer and guitarists ambled onto the stage and began tuning their instruments, adjusting amps, and tapping cymbals.
A cacophony of sound that was familiar and exhilarating.
She wasn’t sure if she should follow or run away. Did she really belong here?
The energy shifted inside her—less a feeling of being unmoored and more of being anchored. She had been invited. She wasn’t an impostor here. Yes, she did belong.
Beside her, Shep rested a hand lightly on her arm, the pads of his fingers trailing to the small of her back. His voice was low and warm, and he leaned in close, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“You ready for this, Ellie?”
A thrill zipped up her spine—from the music, his touch, and the fact that this was real. The open mic had been exhilarating enough, but now… Eleanor sucked in a heady breath.
“I was born ready.” A soft laugh escaped her, and she gave her shoulder a little toss like she was twenty again.
Shep lingered a beat longer, leaning into her, then murmured, “Do you how much I like you, Eleanor?”
Suppressing a shiver, she raised an eyebrow instead. This young man was such a flirt. “Enough to let me hijack your band for a night?”
His chuckle was low and gravelly, curling under her skin. “I must like you a whole lot, then.”
Shep gave her hand a gentle squeeze—warm, grounding—and then he was gone, striding out under the lights to a wave of applause and cheers.
Eleanor stayed in the wings for a breath longer than she meant to.
Something held her there.
A memory flared—brief but bright. Another man. Another stage. Another lifetime. A voice whispering encouragement, a calloused hand tugging hers into the spotlight. Her heart thudded, not from nerves but from something more profound. A tether between then and now.
With a shake of her head, she smiled. This was a new stage. A new hand. She stepped forward at the same time Shep lifted his mic and grinned at the crowd.
“Folks,” he called, “I’ve got a very special guest joining me tonight.”
He extended his arm in her direction. And Eleanor Bell, guitar slung at her side, stepped tentatively, almost shyly, under the stadium lights, which cast a golden haze over her. At first, she hovered near the edge of the spotlight, blinking into the crowd.
But then she looked up. The sea of people, the swell of sound, the beating pulse of music—this was her shot.
A second chance.
A chance to reclaim a life she had once set aside.
A chance to honor herself, her voice, her art.
To be reborn, and live the dream she’d given up, if only for a moment.
Somewhere along the line, she’d been taught that a woman’s worth was measured by what she did for others. How well she kept a home, how selflessly she raised her children, how patiently she supported a husband. And those things were important.
But she’d learned, sometimes painfully, that when a woman gave and gave and gave—and forgot herself in the process—no one truly saw her. Not even herself.
If she was going to love others well, she had to first love herself.
And so tonight, Eleanor Bell was loving herself—through song, through courage, through presence.
The drums behind her kicked into rhythm. The bass thumped steady. Shep stood at her side, smiling like he had all the faith in the world.
Eleanor’s fingers found the familiar placement on the Gibson’s strings, and she began to play. Words rose in her throat, shaped by melody, by memory. She and Shep sang the lyrics they’d practiced, their harmonies folding into one another like a heartbeat.
And then—it happened.
A note in her throat faltered. Her mouth stilled. Her fingers stumbled on the chords.
A single moment. A breathless pause.
Her mind went blank.
Her gaze on Shep, panic set in, making her hands go slippery. But his eyes were steady on hers. Eyes that reminded her of someone from long ago. Another life. Another man. Another stage.
She’d forgotten. Forgotten the words. Forgotten the chords. Forgotten herself.
But Shep kept playing. He deftly carried the next line, his voice wrapping around hers, guiding her back.
And just like that—it returned.
The lyric.
The chord.
The memory.
The song’s inscape caught before it slipped away completely. To the audience, it was nothing. A hiccup in rhythm. A slight variation. But she knew. So did he. And for a second, fear bubbled in her chest. Had she disappointed him?
But then Shep stepped closer, their shoulders brushing, and gave her the softest nod. Not of pity. Of respect. Understanding.
And Eleanor kept singing.
At the song’s end, Shep beamed down at her, eyes shining with joy. Not a flicker of doubt or disappointment in them. Whatever blip had happened mid-song, he’d either forgotten it or forgiven it. Maybe both. And she needed to do the same.
He leaned in and kissed her cheek, a soft graze of his lips, then raised her hand above their heads to the cheer of the crowd.
Eleanor curtsied low, then waved, smiling so wide her cheeks ached. She backed offstage, still riding the dizzy pulse of the performance, the guitar warm against her.
At the base of the stairs, Megan stood waiting, holding out a glass of water.
“Great job out there,” she said. “There’s someone who wants to talk to you.”
A flicker of panic cut through Eleanor’s euphoria. Had her family found her? Was this it? The end of her freedom?
The fear came fast—tight in her chest. Because she couldn’t go back. Not yet. Not when she’d just remembered who she was. She couldn’t say exactly why, other than she feared they would make her go home. Feared they’d make her give up what she’d already spent a lifetime missing.
But it wasn’t Leanne or Nora waiting for her. Instead, it was a young man with a notepad, a press badge, and a spark in his eyes.
“My name’s Joe, ma’am,” he said, extending a hand.
“Nice to meet you, Joe.”
Joe had an easygoing nature about him, putting Eleanor at ease. “I’d love to ask you a few questions—about your music, your story, all of it.”
Megan handed Eleanor a glass of water, which she accepted with her free hand. “I’d be happy to answer.”
“Do you ever watch Johnny Carson?” he asked.
She nodded, unsure of where this was going. “I have. On occasion.”
“Well, you might want to tune in tonight. When I was watching last night, you came up.”
“Me?” She couldn’t help the surprise in her voice. “Why on earth would Johnny Carson be talking about me?”
Joe grinned, flipping open his notebook and skimming his finger over the page before tapping. “They’re calling you the Dame of Rock and Roll after your performance in California. And surely after tonight, it’s a name that will stick.”
Stunned, Eleanor stared at him for half a beat. Maybe this was a dream, a hallucination. Any second now, she would wake up, sprawled on her purple velvet couch at home. But someone coughed a few feet away, and in dreams, did people ever cough?
Eleanor laughed softly, her fingers tapping against her arm as if it were her guitar. “‘The Dame of Rock and Roll’?” She let the name roll off her tongue, feeling out the syllables. “I guess that’s better than ‘Rocking Grandma’.”
Joe’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “So, you like ‘the Dame of Rock and Roll’?” he asked.
A sense of pride filled her, and she lifted her chin slightly. Despite the ache in her joints, the heat in her throat, there was a spark in her chest that hadn’t been there in years.
“I think,” she said with a smile, “it has a damn good ring to it.”
“Good, because I gave it to them.” He chuckled. “You hungry?” Joe tucked his notepad back into the pocket of his jacket.
“Famished.”
“Well then,” he said, already half rising, “what do you say I find you something to eat?”
Eleanor narrowed her eyes at him, amused. “If this is you trying to butter me up for questions, you don’t have to. I’m happy to answer.”
“The Dame of Rock and Roll is feisty,” Joe teased.
She smirked. She’d never thought of herself that way, but now that he’d mentioned it… “You could say that.”
Her gaze drifted to the cigarette in his hand—unlit, forgotten.
“Are you going to smoke that?” she asked.
He looked down as if he hadn’t even realized he was holding it between his fingers. “No,” he said. “Would you like it?”
“I would.” She hoped doing something as simple as puffing on a cigarette would bring her back to earth.
He passed it to her without hesitation.
“Got a light?” she asked.
Joe struck a match, shielding the flame from the wind with his palm, and she leaned in.
Eleanor took a long drag, the cherry flaring red in the low light.
She held the smoke in her lungs for a beat, then exhaled slowly, watching the grayish curl drift toward the stars and seeing something different in her mind.
Memories of other nights when she’d sung, followed by a cigarette and a boy with a match.
Her body still buzzed from the performance. Her voice still felt warm, alive. The music was still in her blood.
Joe watched her with the cautious awe of someone who knew they were witnessing something more significant than a good story.
“So,” he said, voice soft, “what does your family think about you starting a singing career this late in life?”
Eleanor took another drag, the edge of her lips quirking into a smile. She thought of her daughter. Her granddaughter. The house. The years she’d spent in silence.
Then she looked him square in the eyes.
“I wouldn’t say it’s so much a new beginning as a return,” she said. “And I believe it’s never too late to do what you love.”