Chapter Twenty-Seven
They’d been at the festival for hours, and still no sign of Joe or her grandmother.
Nora tried to keep her eyes peeled, scanning every mop of dark hair and every harmonica-stuffed shirt pocket in the crowd for Joe, and every silver-haired, guitar-wielding woman for Eleanor.
Eventually, the search gave way to surrender.
The sun was high and harsh, baking the international raceway until the ground steamed and the people glistened.
The southern air clung to her skin like syrup—thick, heavy, sweet with the scent of barbecue smoke, sweat, stale beer, and a whisper of something earthier drifting from the crowd in rolling plumes. Everyone smelled like rebellion.
Up onstage, beneath a cloudy sky, the young superstars of Led Zeppelin tore into “Whole Lotta Love,” and the field erupted.
Bare feet stomped in the dirt, bodies pressed close, arms flung in the air like surrender flags to the gods of rock.
The band was relatively new and had risen quickly to the top.
There weren’t really barriers here. Just people. Thousands of them. A lawless, barefoot sea of denim and fringe. People danced like they didn’t have spines, throwing their heads back and air-guitaring with conviction.
Someone bumped into Nora and sloshed beer down her arm.
She didn’t flinch. Just rubbed it in like it was part of the ritual.
Her skin was already sticky anyway, freckled and pink from days under the sun, and her hair curled against her neck like ivy.
A layer of grime dusted her shins, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn shoes. She also couldn’t remember caring less.
Then she saw her mother standing not far off, smiling at a stranger with shaggy sideburns and a vest but no shirt. He handed her a square of something wrapped in foil. Leanne unwrapped it with polite curiosity, already lifting the brownie to her mouth.
Nora’s reflexes kicked in like a cat spotting a bird.
“Wait!” Nora cried, lunging through the crowd and snatching the dessert from her mother’s hand just a fraction of an inch before it hit her lips.
“What in the world—?” Leanne pressed a hand to her chest.
Nora held the treat up, sniffed once, and then flung it dramatically into the grass. “That is not a church potluck brownie.”
Leanne frowned at first, not understanding, and then her eyes widened. “Was that…?”
“Pot. Weed. Jazz cabbage. Whatever you want to call it.” Nora planted her hands on her hips. “Do you want to hallucinate a talking dog? Because that’s how we get a talking dog.”
Leanne stared for a beat—then burst into laughter. Genuine, wheezing, shoulders-shaking laughter.
“You’re enjoying this,” Nora accused, but she was laughing too. It was ridiculous. The whole summer was ridiculous.
And perfect.
A line of Hula-Hoop dancers traipsed by and Nora cheered them on.
Even the clouds overhead roiled and darkened with a threat to break up the fun, but no one seemed to care. Thunder cracked like a bass drum, and still, the people danced.
Nora closed her eyes. Let the sound wash through her bones.
Let the beat settle into the hollows of her chest. She didn’t think about Yale.
Or home. Or the fact that in less than two months, she’d be surrounded by ivy-covered buildings and boys in blazers trying to argue about politics and philosophy. None of that mattered right now.
Right now, her feet were on the earth. Her voice was belting the chorus. Her mother was beside her, singing off-key. And her heart beat louder than the music.
This wasn’t how she’d expected to spend the summer before college.
And she’d been bitter at first about missing the lake days with her girlfriends, mourned the loss of a few flirty kisses with someone who smelled like Coppertone and ambition.
She thought she’d ease into adulthood like dipping toes in a pool with one last carefree, friend-filled summer.
But instead, she’d been catapulted through late-night motel rooms, jukebox diners, surprise rock concerts, and emotional-whiplash conversations with a mother she was only just beginning to see as human.
And despite what she’d been sure would happen—endless disappointment and resentment—the opposite had.
Nora was alive in a way she hadn’t been before. Unguarded. Unfiltered. Unfolding.
And somewhere in this massive crowd, Joe was out there. With ink-stained fingers. With something clever to say. And if she saw him again, there was a good chance she’d tell him that she’d started to write too. That she had a notebook full of lines she hadn’t yet dared to read aloud.
But for now, she sang. Danced. Let herself be young and infinite.
Thunder clashed overhead as if the sky had started its own rock band, the clouds on drums pounding out a beat so fierce it made the real band hesitate for just a breath. The electric hum of the amps buzzed through the heavy air, waiting for someone—anyone—to call it.
But no one said a word.
And then, as if the sky itself couldn’t help but join the chorus, the heavens opened wide.
Rain poured down in sheets, fat and relentless, turning hair into wet ropes and shirts translucent.
Nora might’ve sprinted for cover in New York, shrieking about her mascara and her hair.
Her mother too—prim, polished, poised—probably would’ve insisted they find shelter before a single drop ruined her perfectly ironed clothes and sensible shoes.
But not here.
Not now.
They just looked at each other and smiled like fools. Full-body, soul-bursting smiles that started in the chest and worked their way out. Together, they tilted their faces toward the sky, arms raised, mouths open.
The crowd whooped and cheered collectively like they’d all decided getting drenched was the most liberating experience they’d ever had. Some of the guys stripped off their shirts—some of the girls too—and used them as flags. Mud squelched underfoot, toes digging into the earth.
Nora’s feet sunk into the saturated lawn. The grass squished between her toes, warm and messy and wonderful. There was something raw and elemental about it, like touching the skin of the world.
She looked over and saw her mother—Leanne, who vacuumed in pearls—twirling. Actually twirling. Her damp linen blouse clung to her torso, her hair darkened by rain and dripping, and her face lit up like she’d just remembered what it meant to feel.
This wasn’t just rain but a release.
After a few more songs, the band, half out of breath, half afraid their instruments would short-circuit from the weather, announced a break. The crowd roared their approval, already anticipating the next set.
“We should get something to eat and look around for Grandma,” Nora shouted over the noise, her voice bright with adrenaline and joy.
Leanne nodded, pushing her hair off her face and laughing as water sprayed from her fingertips. “God, I could eat a whole funnel cake right now.”
Nora grinned. “Who are you?”
“Someone who’s finally hungry.” Leanne looped her arm through her daughter’s. “Let’s ask for extra powdered sugar.”
They trudged through the sloshing crowd together, slipping and sliding but never letting go.
People were dancing in puddles, passing bottles, howling at the sky.
A couple kissed like they were the last two people on earth, water slipping between laughing lips.
A man with nothing but denim shorts and a cowboy hat balanced a hot dog on the brim.
Nora laughed until her ribs hurt.
For just a heartbeat, she forgot about college, the pressure to grow up, and the carefully packed life waiting for her back home. And hopefully Leanne forgot about dinner at five, her full calendar, and about the epic let down of the unanswered phone.
There was no past, no future. Just now. A girl and her mother in the rain, chasing music and magic.
“This is the best.” Nora was breathless, turning to her mom, rain still dripping from her lashes.
“It really is.” Leanne’s voice was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “And we have your grandmother to thank.”
“I hope we see her soon.” Nora hugged her damp arms to her chest. Wild how her mother had gone from being afraid Grandma was in a ditch to supporting her summer of song. “I kinda miss her.”
“Me too. And I want to know what she was thinking…coming out here. What her whole goal was.”
“Me too—” But Nora didn’t get the rest out. Her foot snagged on the thick rope of a nearby tent, slick with mud and rain, and before she could blink, gravity yanked her forward like a rug pulled out from under her.
She hit the ground face-first in a cold, wet splat that squelched louder than any of the amps onstage.
When she lifted her face, sputtering mud from her mouth, she found herself staring up into the amused eyes of Joe Dumas.
“Breaking news,” he said, crouching beside her with a grin. “Festivalgoer takes an unexpected dive—emerges with a new appreciation for mudlarking in the wild.”
“Mudlarking?” Nora groaned, reaching up for his hand, blinking rain and mud out of her eyes.
He grasped her hand, but the mud had other ideas, and his hold slipped. She flailed. He staggered. Eventually, after enough slipping and laughing to draw attention from three passing drummers, he got her upright.
“Usually done along riverbanks in London,” he said, brushing mud off her shoulder with a too-casual hand. “People hunt for buried treasures—old coins, lost trinkets, clay-pipe stems. But with all this festival sludge? I’m part French, so I’d say this counts.”
Nora gave him a look. “Last time I checked, London wasn’t in France.”
He tipped his chin, smug. “Depends on the year and the king. As the descendant of the great Dumas, I’m allowed to improvise historical metaphors.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“But unforgettable,” he added with a wink.
She glanced down at herself—mud from hair to shins, a clump of grass stuck to her knee, mascara no doubt smudged near her earlobe. She didn’t look unforgettable. “I look like a swamp creature.”
“Where’s your camera?” Joe asked.
From behind them, Leanne held it up like a trophy.
“Mom—no!” Nora lunged, but Joe already had it.
Click.
He waved the Polaroid through the humid air.
“So you’ll never forget the moment you became a literal rock goddess from the bog.
” Joe grinned at the photo. “I think I’ll call this one ‘Perfection Takes a Day Off,’ and I’ll include it in my exposé on a college girl discovering the joys of spontaneous mud therapy. ”
“You’re ridiculous,” Nora muttered, snatching for the photo.
“Who knew a little mud could make you even more unforgettable?”
Nora tried to snatch the photo again, but he stepped back.
“I’ll give it back to you on one condition.” Joe eyed her with a challenge in his gaze.
“What?” She folded her arms, trying to look intimidating, which was difficult when you were dripping like a soggy sandwich. “You’ve already met my grandmother, so, not sure I have anything else to offer up.”
Joe grinned. “You’ve got a lot to offer. Here’s the deal: Don’t edit the mud out of this memory. Don’t try to rewrite it later to make it more palatable. It’s perfect exactly how it happened.”
She paused, eyeing him. He wasn’t teasing anymore. There was something real in his eyes. Something that said he liked her messy, wild, unguarded. “Fine,” she said slowly. “But if anyone asks, I fell like an angel.”
Joe chuckled. “A perfect angel.”
She shook her head, smiling despite herself, and turned to toss a look at her mom—ready for her to tease them both, but Leanne wasn’t there.
Nora’s smile faltered. “Mom?”
She scanned the shifting crowd, a wave of festivalgoers dancing through the mist. Leanne had vanished.