Chapter Thirty-Four
Gold Creek Park, nestled just outside Seattle, hadn’t changed much since the last time Eleanor had gazed beyond the field at towering pines.
Nearly fifty years had passed, yet the air still carried that same loamy scent of moss and damp earth.
Breathing it all in, she was relieved that it was all so familiar.
Her brain had given her one more gift to savor.
A hush hovered beneath the clouds, the quiet that existed only in places where time had kindly slowed its march.
Even the trees on the periphery seemed to remember her, their branches spreading wide, beckoning her in for a hug.
Shep’s arm slung casually around her shoulders, warm and anchoring. The park was filled with concertgoers, and a stage had been erected for the Seattle Pop Festival.
“What are you thinking about?” His voice was low, as if he knew she was somewhere else entirely and didn’t want to startle her from her reverie.
“I’m thinking about the last time I was here,” she murmured, scanning the tree line. “I’d just fallen in love.”
He glanced down at her with a crooked grin. “And now?”
“Now I’m thinking about how this park, unlike me, hasn’t aged a day.
And somehow, I feel like I’ve stepped straight through a crack in time.
Like the air here has a memory, and it remembered me.
” She bumped him gently with her hip. “Standing here with a handsome musician, his arm around my shoulder, the sun playing hide-and-seek with the clouds… Looks like déjà vu is at it again.”
“We’re in Seattle.” Shep squinted at the sky. “I don’t think the clouds ever let the sun win.”
“Hmm.” Eleanor’s mouth curved into a smile. “Seems like there’s a full-on custody battle up there.”
He laughed, but it was soft, full of affection. “Was it this gloomy when you were here last?”
“Not gloomy,” she said, shaking her head. “Moody, maybe. Mysterious. Like the sky knows something the rest of us don’t.”
Then she slipped her arm around his waist, leaning into him without thinking. They’d grown closer over the last few weeks, and she was glad to have met him. To have him sharing this summer of love and music with her. “You’re a good boy, Shep Moon.”
He feigned offense. “You make me sound like a golden retriever. I’ll have you know I’m a forty-three-year-old man.”
Eleanor laughed. “You don’t look at day over twenty-nine.”
Nestled in her satchel, Roxy let out a yip of protest—reminding them who the real golden girl was.
“Don’t worry, girl; he’s not going to take your place,” Eleanor said with a laugh, stroking Roxy’s peach-fuzz head while the dog gave Shep another side-eyed glare.
“One of these days, I’m going to win her over,” he said, holding out a tentative hand.
“She’s particular.” Eleanor arched a brow. “Just like her mama.”
“Well, that explains a lot,” Shep said, grinning. “Particular’s my favorite kind.”
They ambled across the grass, the stage still a distant hum behind them, the smell of festival food mingling with the scent of damp bark.
The strumming of guitars and harmonica wails had become a constant backdrop for Eleanor.
And she worried when she returned home that she’d keenly feel the loss of music.
Worried too, that when she returned to New York, her final stop wouldn’t be home at all but somewhere else.
An institution. Wherever they put aging people who were slowly losing their minds.
On the whirlwind of music and road-tripping, it was easy to brush off the little things. A loss of a word. Forgetting where she was. But in her own environment, people would notice.
“Tell me about him,” Shep said after a quiet beat. “The man you loved, that you were here with.”
Eleanor closed her eyes, the past flickering behind her eyelids like an old home movie.
The hem of her skirt lifted in the wind.
The tinny pitch of a slightly out-of-tune upright piano.
The press of someone’s hand on the small of her back.
The summer heat had been a thick blanket. The music, everything.
“The clothes were different,” she said, voice low. “The hair. The pace of things. The way you kissed someone felt…earned. And the instruments were all heavier. Except for the guitars. And the drums, of course.”
She tilted her head, watching a pair of imaginary young lovers slow-dance in the grass.
“Actually, maybe not much has changed at all,” she murmured. “Just the people.”
“You think you’ve changed all that much?” Shep asked gently.
Eleanor looked at him, her expression unreadable. “I wouldn’t call it changing,” she said. “I’d call it burying.” Or getting lost.
Shep’s brow furrowed.
“I buried myself. Buried my voice. Buried people I loved and pieces of myself I didn’t think anyone would want.” Her hand curled protectively around Roxy. “Then, one day, I woke up and didn’t recognize the woman staring back at me. And learned that pretty soon I wouldn’t remember the woman I was.”
There was a pause. Even the birds seemed to hush. That was the thing with aging. The years passed in a blur, and the little bitch suddenly stole your youth.
“Is your old flame still alive?” Shep asked, his voice quiet.
Eleanor shrugged, the motion halfhearted.
“I don’t know. After that summer… I left with a note from him in my hand that said, Until next time.
I went back to marry the man I was supposed to.
The man who was safe. I didn’t keep up with the other one.
Couldn’t. The letters stopped. The silence stretched.
And then there was Leanne. And laundry. And casserole dishes.
A depression. A war. Suddenly, there wasn’t any room for wondering. ”
“You’re lucky to have loved more than once.” Shep’s words were faint.
“What about you? Have you ever loved anyone?” Eleanor asked.
“I’m loving someone right now.” He grinned wickedly in her direction.
Eleanor pinched him in the side. “You’re a devil.”
“Anything to please,” he said, rubbing his ribs.
She looked away toward the trees, where the light filtered through the moss as if it were stained glass. Her heart ached in that familiar, distant way.
“Well,” Shep said, his voice softening, “maybe we dedicate our next song to him.”
“I think I’d rather let bygones be bygones,” Eleanor said softly, her voice like the slow strum of a guitar string after the chord has faded.
“Well, if you change your mind…” Shep leaned in, brushing a kiss to her temple. “You let me know, darlin’.”
The opening notes of “Light My Fire” filtered through the park like smoke—velvety, intoxicating, impossible to ignore.
Eleanor straightened, mischief back in her spine. “Enough of this melancholic moping,” she said. “Dance with me.”
“You got it.” Shep didn’t hesitate. He caught her hand like a spark, twirled her once, and pulled her in close.
And for one blissful, untethered moment, Eleanor forgot about her aching joints, her fraying memory, and the looming return to New York.
Her world became this music, this man, this dance.
The cool breeze kissing her cheeks, the grass tickling her ankles, the drums vibrating through the soles of her sandals.
She was twenty again, reckless and laughing and dizzy with possibilities.
“Come on, baby, light my fire,” Shep sang into her ear, low and teasing. “You can pretend I’m him if you want.”
Eleanor scoffed. “Thousands of much younger women would be thrilled to help you with that little fire of yours.”
“Sure,” he said with a shrug, “but I don’t want to be put on a pedestal. I don’t want to be worshipped. Well…” He grinned. “Not in the way they want to worship me.”
“Oh, poor you,” she teased.
“You’re the first woman I’ve met in a long time who didn’t give a damn about all that. You saw the music. You heard it. And you shared it. That means more to me than anything.”
“Musicians are people too, you know.”
“Exactly,” he said, like she’d just solved a puzzle no one else could crack.
Eleanor shuffled her feet in time with the beat, her hips giving a playful sway as she winked at Shep. He mirrored her move, letting out a deep laugh that made her cheeks warm.
“Careful now, Ellie,” he warned, twirling her again. “You keep that up, and you’re liable to break my heart.”
She flashed him a grin full of life and sass and something dangerously close to love. “I was breaking hearts before you were even a thought.”
They were drawing attention now —festivalgoers slowing, forming a loose circle around them. Some clapped along, while others simply stared, their smiles wide.
“We’re being watched,” she murmured, breathless.
“Then let’s give ’em something to talk about.”
Before she could so much as arch a brow, Shep dipped her low and kissed her.
And not just a stage kiss. Not a chaste little peck for show. No—this was a kiss. One that short-circuited thoughts, silenced years, rewrote history in one molten, unapologetic press of lips.
Eleanor froze. Startled. Stunned. But then she felt the slide of his fingers through her silver-streaked hair, the warmth of his hand against her spine, and the unmistakable truth of his mouth: bold, unhesitating, hungry in the most humble of ways.
She remembered that kind of kiss. Not from her husband. His had always been polite, gentle. As if he was afraid to let his passion show. But this…
This was the kind of kiss she’d once believed in. The kind that made her toes curl in her sandals. That reminded her she was still here, still worthy of desire, still made of heat and hunger and every damn note in a musical line.
Shep kissed like he played guitar—reckless in all the right ways. Fingers dancing with instinct, rhythm in his bones, soul in every motion. And Eleanor, caught between memory and electricity, kissed him back with everything she had left to give.
When they finally broke apart, the crowd erupted in whoops and applause. A whistle cracked the air, and there came a shout. “Get it, Mama Lightning!”
Shep grinned like a fool, dazed and delighted. “Who-eee,” he breathed, eyes glassy. “Now that was some kiss.”
Eleanor’s fingers lingered at the collar of his linen shirt, steadying herself. She wanted to say something witty that reminded him she wasn’t just an old lady playing pretend—but the words tangled in the warmth still radiating through her.
So she let the silence hold.
Finally, she exhaled a smile and said, “Thank you for letting me relive my younger days, Shep.” She met his gaze, softer now, something almost solemn beneath the sparkle. “I’ll never forget it.”
Except…she knew she would forget. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week, but one day.
And that, perhaps, was the most heartbreaking part of all. Knowing she’d lived an experience worth remembering, and still, it would slip through her like water through her fingers.
Not because it didn’t matter. But because even the most beautiful memories couldn’t outrun the storm gathering in the labyrinth of her brain.