Chapter Twenty-One
“I hope your mom’s okay.” Joe chomped down on his toast like it owed him money.
The butter glistened on the corner of his mouth, and for a split second, Nora considered telling him, but then decided to let him wear it.
There was something charming about a boy who could be both confident and unaware.
Nora glanced toward the pay phone. Her mother held the receiver to her ear, one toe tapping anxiously like she could tap a conversation into existence.
“She took a pretty bad tumble,” Nora said quietly. “People just kept stepping on her. It was”—she swallowed—“kind of awful.”
Joe’s brows lifted. “Yeah. People lose their minds the minute tear gas hits the air. Understandable, but still. Their primal instincts kick in, and things turn into a deranged stampede. Your mom’s lucky she didn’t come out with anything broken. And you’re lucky you weren’t pulled under.”
Nora’s shoulders were still tense, expecting the horde to come crashing through the diner doors to repeat the stampede. “I’m glad as hell you turned up. I really hope my grandma is okay.”
“The action was mostly near the gate, well away from where your grandma was. From what I understand, all the bands went out the back way in their vans. She’s been traveling with Moon’s entourage, so I’m pretty sure she is safe.”
“Good, that’s a relief. We’ve been so worried about her and to think she could have been in all that chaos.
” Nora drew in a deep breath and then let it out, her shoulders relaxing, knowing that her grandmother was most likely safe.
This entire thing was just crazy. Boy, was she going to have some stories to tell her friends back home.
Then, wanting to change the subject, Nora shook her head, narrowed her eyes, teasing. “So, Joe Dumas, are you following me?”
Joe flushed pink from his cheeks to his ears.
He scratched the back of his neck as if it might have helped him find a response other than “yes.” “Swear I’m on assignment.
Scout’s honor.” He held up three fingers in a Boy Scout salute.
“But, you know, if I were tailing you, it’s only because your drink orders are incredibly intriguing. ”
“There’s more to me than a soda order.”
He tilted his head. “Challenge accepted. If I wanted to get to know you, what would I have to ask?”
Warmth spread through Nora’s chest. “That’s your job to figure out, journalist.”
Joe leaned closer. “Okay. Then what do you want to do after college, Miss Yale-bound mystery?”
The question hit differently than all the others.
She felt the weight of it like someone had set her leather-bound notebook—currently tucked deep inside her bag—onto her chest. That prized possession since junior year, with its cracked cover, worn like an old baseball glove, the edges thinned from the number of times she’d flipped the pages.
Inside were bits of her soul scribbled in blue and black ink.
Half-finished poems, lines of overheard dialogue, pages of messy, untamed story ideas that had never made it past paragraph three.
She carried the journal everywhere but never talked about it. Not even with her best friend, not even with her mother. That notebook was her proof. Her secret. Her almost-belief that she could be a writer.
“I told my parents I wanted to get a business degree, a minor in English, and maybe go into marketing like my dad,” she said slowly. “You know. A practical career. Something clean. With desks.”
“But…?”
“But what I really want to do is major in English and write.” It was a confession she hadn’t meant to make. “Not just copy for toothpaste ads. I want to create stories. Whole worlds. Characters that feel real. Dialogue that cuts to the bone. Stories that move people.”
Joe’s face lit up like she’d just handed him the Pulitzer. “I knew it.”
“You knew nothing,” she said, smiling in spite of herself.
“You have the eyes.” His tone was sincere and serious.
“What eyes?” Suddenly she wished for a mirror so she could look into her own eyes and try to discover what he might mean.
“The kind that people have who eavesdrop on others in diners and write down what they said later. The kind of eyes that see details—notice how the waitress’s earrings don’t match, but she keeps wearing them like she doesn’t care, or maybe like she does care but wants you to think she doesn’t.”
Nora’s mouth twitched. “Okay. That’s…scary accurate.”
“Reporter’s instinct.” His gaze held hers.
She stared back at Joe. This tousle-haired, harmonica-carrying, leather-satchel-wearing boy, asking her questions.
Actually listening to her answers. His elbows rested on the counter like he had nowhere else to be, and his gaze didn’t dart past her to scout the room.
He looked at her and talked to her like what she said mattered.
Not too many people did that. She wasn’t sure a guy ever had.
“I’m just not sure my parents would accept me as a writer,” Nora said, her voice low, self-effacing. This was the first time she’d spoken her truth out loud to someone other than herself or the pages of her notebook. Not even Kelley knew this part of her.
She supposed she kept it hidden because there’d been plenty of comments at home about starving artists, and Nora didn’t want to give her parents reason to think she’d live in their house until she retired.
Yet now she’d confessed it to someone she hardly knew.
She moved her eyes back to her mom at the pay phone then reconnected her glance with Joe’s, feeling self-conscious for being so vulnerable and open with him.
There wasn’t even a hint of a smirk in his gaze. Instead, he nodded, his expression suggesting that she’d told him she was going to fly to the moon and had asked if he would like to pack snacks for the ride.
“You never know; you should talk to them about it.” From his serious air, she could tell he meant what he said, but the idea of doing so was terrifying.
She didn’t respond because she couldn’t think of what to say.
Joe must have sensed she was stuck because he went on. “So, you’re getting your business degree at Yale, even though you wish it were English?”
“That’s the plan.” She lifted her mug and swallowed a sip of bitter coffee gone cold.
She really didn’t like coffee, but she didn’t want to answer his implied question either.
“Assuming we find my grandmother before the semester starts. I don’t know if I could leave my mom alone to keep up the search. ”
“Your mom would let you bail on college?”
“Oh, no.” Nora shook her head, the ends of her ponytail bouncing against her spine as if it wanted to add an exclamation point to her reply.
“She wants me there. She’d pitch a fit if I said I was staying behind, but part of me would definitely feel guilty about leaving her to find my grandmother alone. ”
“Well, good thing you’ve already found her. It’s just about catching up now.”
She nodded and took another look at the phone booth where her mom stood, a long cord stretching from her ear to the receiver’s base like an umbilical tether to the life she’d left behind in New York.
Even from across the diner, Nora could see the subtle shift in her mother’s shoulders when she hung up—disappointment again.
“He’s not home,” Nora murmured. “He never is.”
Joe followed her gaze but didn’t say anything. She appreciated that. Most people rushed in with a silver lining or a bad joke. Joe just saw her. That alone felt special—precious.
“Sometimes I wonder… I don’t know. When I leave for college, what’s she going to have? My dad practically lives at the office. I just—”
“You’re worried about her.” Joe’s voice was gentle.
Nora shot him a look, half glare, half surrender. “You’re annoyingly good at this, you know.”
“At what?”
“Being an investigative journalist.”
He grinned. “You’re only mad because I’m right. But also, you practically said it out loud.”
“Okay, maybe. I wish I knew where to start.”
“I think you mean at being human.”
Nora didn’t know what to say to that, so she pivoted back to the search. “I shouldn’t be thinking about myself anyway. I need to think about catching up to my grandmother. I just wish I knew how.”
“I might,” Joe said. “You’re not the only one who wants to be face-to-face with the Dame of Rock and Roll.”
Nora let herself smile then, the kind that tugged at the corners slowly and settled in her cheeks.
“I’ll request an official interview with her. My last one was a quick chat as she walked offstage,” Joe said. “You come with me, and we can both talk to her.”
“You mean like a real press pitch?”
“Yeah, why not?” Joe leaned forward, that spark of excitement lighting his eyes like a backstage bulb. “What musician after a contract can resist a good spotlight? Might work better than showing up with a guilt trip and a suitcase. Plus, your grandma kinda likes me.”
Nora wasn’t surprised. It was hard not to like Joe. “You’d really let me come along?” Her fingers started to tingle at the prospect.
“Of course.” Joe shrugged. “We’re coconspirators now.”
“Journalistic partners in crime. And,” she added, “if it doesn’t work, we’re no worse off than we are now.”
He raised his mug like a toast. “To catching grandmothers…and maybe ourselves in the process.”
Nora clinked her mug against his. “And to bylines.”
“The next festival is in Atlanta. Starts in a few days.” Joe glanced at the tab he was folding in half.
“It’ll take that long just to get there.” Nora blinked. Being on this road trip felt like tripping down the highway always a day behind.
He nodded, unfazed by her dramatics. “I’m actually heading out after this. Figured I’d get a jump on the road so I can be there before it kicks off. I’ve got a hunch your grandma is doing the same. Might be able to meet up with her for the interview before the festival.”
“I hope we make it in time,” Nora said, dismayed. Driving to Atlanta would take days. “We’ve still got to get gas, check out tires, pack, maybe breathe for five minutes—”
“You could always fly with me.”
Nora glanced at him like he’d just offered her a backstage pass to meet the Rolling Stones. “Let me guess—you have a private jet stashed off the highway, and it’s called The Dumas.”
“I wish.” Joe chuckled, showing off his dimple. “Just a generous pilot uncle who has a deep affection for his charming and underpaid nephew.”
“Think our car will fit on the plane?” she teased.
Before Joe could answer, her mother returned, sliding onto the stool beside her and immediately digging into a syrupy stack of pancakes like she was in a competitive eating contest.
Joe tossed a ten-dollar bill on the counter, the edge curling from being tucked in a sweaty wallet too long. “That should cover all three,” he said. Then he looked at Nora, his fingers brushing her arm. Just a squeeze. Gentle, sure. But her whole chest lit up like a pinball machine.
“I’ll see you ladies in Atlanta, and if I secure an interview, I’ll try to make it closer to when you arrive. Otherwise, I’ll ask the Dame for a meeting for you both.”
And then he was gone—vanishing out the door and into the warm, chaotic hum of postconcert escapees like a character exiting stage left in one of her short stories.
She stared at the swinging diner door and smiled.
She’d been waiting for an idea to write about.
And maybe, just maybe, her story had finally started.
“Very generous of him to help. He seems like a nice young man,” her mother said between bites, eyes on the pancakes like she was trying to absorb them into her bloodstream.
“I think he is.” Nora tried to play it cool though her cheeks warmed.
“And he’s cute,” Leanne added, in a singsong voice that mothers have been using to torture their daughters since the dawn of time.
“Mom!” Nora gasped, rolling her eyes with dramatic flair, but her insides had gone all soft, syrupy, like the pancakes Leanne was devouring.
She pictured Joe’s dimple, that teasing smirk, the way he looked at her like she wasn’t just another girl in a crowd but a character in a story he wanted to write an article about.
“I’m so glad he’s going to help us get to Grandma in Atlanta.”
“Atlanta, huh?” The way her mom asked mid-chew was like Nora had casually suggested driving to Havana rather than Georgia.
“Yup.”
Leanne exhaled and sat back. “Then we better get a good night’s sleep.”
Nora agreed. With all the adrenaline flushed from their bodies after the race to get out of the stadium, exhaustion was setting in deep. “We only have a few chapters left of The Godfather. We should finish that up tonight, and tomorrow, I’m cracking open The Love Machine.”
Leanne crunched a piece of bacon between her teeth. “Don’t get any ideas about Joe Dumas being Robin Stone.”
Nora pushed back her unfinished coffee, wishing she’d ordered a Coca-Cola instead. “Who’s Robin Stone?”
Leanne wiggled her brows in a teasing way that seemed natural at the same time it was foreign. Leanne wasn’t the teasing type, yet she’d opened up so much on this trip since they’d left New York. “He’s the Love Machine.”
“Mom!” Nora’s mind flashed to the cover of her mother’s risqué novel, and she couldn’t help teasing. “But what if he is?”
Leanne gave a theatrical gasp, and Nora pressed her hand to her mouth just in time to keep from spraying coffee out her nose. Across the booth, her mom actually laughed—like, really laughed—and for the first time in forever, everything felt light.
Just two women, some bacon, a possibly magical boy, and a road map to Atlanta to find the woman who’d put them on this journey.