Chapter Twenty-Five
Sitting in the shade of a canvas tent under the sweltering Atlanta sun, Eleanor wiped a bead of sweat from her brow and handed Roxy the last bite of her ham sandwich.
The diva dog nuzzled into her lap like royalty, tongue lolling, belly full, and wholly unbothered by the heat or the noise.
Around them, the festival throbbed like a living, breathing creature—drums pulsed in the distance, bass lines vibrated the dirt beneath her sandals, and the air smelled of patchouli, beer, and the occasional illicit smoke.
She would have thought she’d feel energized after the excitement of sleeping in a van for a week and spending the past few days bouncing from one backstage to the next.
Refreshed. Reinvigorated. But no—she felt like a suitcase with a broken handle.
Lugged along. Half open. On the verge of spilling its contents into the dirt.
Still, she smiled, one hand absent-mindedly stroking Roxy’s spine.
How long had it been? Two weeks since she’d left New York?
Already it felt like a month or more. And today was the Fourth of July.
Back home, after the town parade, Leanne would be preparing a strawberry and blueberry Jell-O mold while Dean fired up his Weber barbecue for burgers and hot dogs.
Kids would be lighting off firecrackers, and Eleanor would have been sitting back to watch it all.
“Ellie.” Shep’s voice was syrup-slow and sun-drunk. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
She glanced up, squinting through the halo of sunlight bleeding into the tent.
Shep glided toward her, flanked by a young man who practically shimmered in the heat.
A rolled red bandanna crowned his dark curls, hair spilling out like a halo of effortless rebellion.
A turquoise stone caught the sun from where it hung on a beaded necklace.
His white fringe shirt was unbuttoned, framing a sinewy brown chest that gleamed with sweat, and his bell-bottoms hugged his hips like they were sewn on.
Silver rings adorned his fingers, a cigarette tucked between them, and when he smiled—full lips, a glint of teeth—she swore the temperature climbed ten degrees.
Jimi. Goddamn. Hendrix. A name she was certain never to forget.
Eleanor stilled.
If she were forty-five years younger, she might’ve screamed, begged for an autograph, and thrown herself at his Converse. But she was sixty-nine. Did sixty-nine-year-old women swoon over rock stars?
Well. Maybe they should.
She caught Shep’s eye. His smirk said, I know.
“I hear you’re the Dame of Rock and Roll,” Jimi said. That voice could melt the ice in a drink before he finished the sentence.
Eleanor straightened her spine just slightly, offering her hand with practiced grace.
“Nice to meet you, young man.” The corner of her mouth twitched into a wry smile. “They call me Mama Lightning too sometimes. But that one’s a little more scandalous.”
Jimi threw his head back and laughed. Roxy barked once, punctuating the reaction.
Funny, but right then, Eleanor Bell, widow, mother, and grandmother—sweaty, sunburned, and sleep-deprived—felt like she was forty-five years younger. The exhaustion that had been consuming her only seconds before vanished and was replaced with the energy she’d been hoping for.
“Care for a sandwich?” She reached into her handbag like a magician pulling out a trick.
She’d tucked an extra ham sandwich in there earlier, just in case.
On this trip, she’d often found herself forgetting to eat and being hungry without access to a meal.
This was a survival tactic, she’d told herself. Or maybe a grandmother’s intuition.
She held out the sandwich to Jimi like it was a peace offering or maybe a gift to a god.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “No, ma’am. I’m good, thank you.”
Jimi accepted an ice-cold soda from Shep instead, popping the cap off with a flick of his thumb.
“Damn, it’s hotter than a Marshall amp after a three-hour set.” Jimi took a long swig.
Eleanor grinned. “Hot? Honey, this isn’t hot. This is just the oven preheating.”
Jimi laughed, the sound bright and easy, like a guitar riff sliding into the air.
She watched him over the rim of her sunglasses, still pretending she wasn’t fazed even though her heart pounded a rhythm faster than the drummer onstage. Jimi Hendrix was drinking a soda in her tent. Of all the things… Nora would flip out, as the youths said.
“When was the last time you sat still and just let the world happen?” Eleanor settled deeper into her folding chair, doing that herself, her tone curious but edged with something softer.
Jimi paused, tapping his cigarette against the arm of the chair before lighting it. He took a drag and exhaled a lazy cloud.
“Man, that’s a real question,” he said. “I try, you know? Sometimes, I’m not even there when I play.
Just floating, letting the notes talk instead of me.
But sitting still? Just letting it all happen?
I don’t know… The world moves too fast. People want to put you in a box, tell you what you got to be.
And me? I just want to play, keep moving, keep searching. ”
Then he turned to her, that same smile back.
“But maybe I ought to try it right now. Think I could learn a thing or two from you, Mama Lightning.”
Eleanor chuckled, the breeze ruffling through her silver-streaked hair like a whisper. “Dangerous game you’re playing, Mr. Hendrix. You sit too long with me, you might not be able to get up.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Then I better only stay until my next set, huh?”
The hum of festival fervor faded into the background, replaced by the rustling of canvas in the wind and the distant thump of a bass line rolling.
The heat shimmered around them in slow, thick waves, and Eleanor breathed it all in.
Sweat clung to her collarbone. Dust clung to her sandals. But none of it mattered.
She watched him tip his head back, eyes half lidded, staring up at the sky as if the clouds were speaking to him.
The cigarette dangled forgotten between his fingers.
And for one silent breath, neither of them was an icon, rebel, or a story waiting to be told—they were just two souls caught in the middle of a sticky Georgia afternoon, letting the world turn without them.
When he drained the last sip of his soda, he glanced at her sideways, that crooked grin unwavering.
“I like you.” His words weren’t a flirtation but a fact. “What should I call you?”
She grinned. “I’ve had a lot of names.” She brushed a crumb from her lap. “Eleanor. Ellie. Mama Lightning. The Dame of Rock and Roll.”
There was another name too, one she hadn’t said aloud in decades—a stage name from a past life. A version of her that once sang under carnival lights, barefoot and invincible. But that girl was tucked away, folded like a love letter at the bottom of a drawer. For now.
“Well, Ellie,” he said, standing with a lazy stretch. “It was real good meeting you. I hope I see you out there again. You sing like you mean it.”
“That’s the only way I know how,” she replied, watching him turn toward the sunlight, guitar slung across his back like a sword.
Eleanor drew in a deep breath as Jimi disappeared beyond the tent flap, and as she let it out, her world started to wobble, until Shep came into view, his hand on her shoulder as he stood in front of her and gave her a gentle shake.
She blinked at him, blinked at the empty tent around them.
Jimi Hendrix had been a dream conjured by heatstroke and too much smoke in her lungs.
“You must have been having one hell of a dream.” Shep’s grin was teasing.
“A dream.” She shook her head, trying to right herself.
“Jimi seemed so real.” A cinematic quality, like the flickering edge of a film reel right before it flies off the wheel.
The doctor had warned her she might soon not know the difference between what happened in her dreams and when she was awake.
Was this the start? A shiver passed through her at the thought.
“Hendrix?” Shep raised a brow.
“Yeah, me and Hendrix having a cigarette.” She let out a soft laugh, hiding her disappointment.
“Wouldn’t that be a hell of a thing?” Shep wiped a hand down his face. “He’s up right now. Must have heard him playing.”
Eleanor grinned, nodding, watching a bead of sweat drip down Shep’s temple.
Off in the distance, she could hear Hendrix finish up “Foxy Lady,” and then his guitar started playing a familiar tune, “The Star-Spangled Banner,” in honor of today’s holiday.
“Met a lot of musicians back when ragtime was the thing. But Jimi Hendrix would take the cake.”
“You’ve sure lived a life.” Shep’s voice was half awe, half whiskey.
Megan flipped the tent flap open, and Eleanor squinted into the sun. “A life, I sure have.”
But only half of one, if she was being honest.
Because for the past few decades, she hadn’t really been living.
She’d been existing—cooking dinners, folding sheets, showing up to church with lipstick on and teeth clenched.
She’d smiled through grief. Through boredom.
Through invisibility. The spotlight had moved on, and she’d quietly packed up her guitar like a guilty secret and buried it beneath her sweaters and sacrifices.
She remembered when it had all started—New York City, 1918.
She was eighteen, shaking like a leaf in her borrowed boots, her guitar strapped across her body like armor.
That first open mic night, she’d played chords no one understood.
Not jazz, not folk—something new. Something too loud, too fast, too alive.
She remembered how the polite silence in the room had felt like rejection.
The way the applause had come a beat too late, too tepid.
Like the crowd was clapping just to be polite, not because they felt a connection with her music.
And so she’d changed the tune, gave them the Bell of Wartime Music like they wanted.
But she’d kept coming back to original sound.
Week after week, heart thudding in her chest, she’d returned to the stage. The regulars began to notice. Heads tilted. Fingers tapped. One man leaned over his gin and said, “That girl plays like a fuse about to blow.”
And then someone told… What was his name? Will? Ben? Willy Ben?
No, it was Billy Murray. They told him to come hear her.
The Billy Murray. Star of the phonograph. America’s golden-voiced crooner back then. He’d come backstage after the show, still in his camel coat, smelling of whiskey and money.
“Where’d you learn to strum like that?” he’d asked, eyebrows raised.
Eleanor had shrugged, nonchalant, even though her knees were jelly.
“Just how it came out of me.” Despite her nerves, she’d been able to play it cool.
He’d asked her to show him the chords. And she had. Right there in the hallway of a smoke-filled speakeasy, she’d handed him her guitar and taught him her rhythm, her pulse. He’d invited her onstage for a show the very next week.
She never forgot the look in his eyes. Like he’d stumbled onto something before the world was ready for it.
Eleanor glanced over at Shep, who was watching her like he had just discovered something rare.
If only she could explain to him what it had cost her to tuck that girl away for so long.
But instead, she reached down to scratch Roxy’s ears.
The little dog blinked up at her, blissed out and half asleep.
“You ever miss it?” Shep asked.
Eleanor looked out at the sunbaked horizon where the stage waited, where the crowd pulsed like a heartbeat.
“Every day I didn’t pick up the guitar,” she said softly, “I missed her.”
And for once, she didn’t mean the music but herself.