Chapter Forty-Three
Eleanor never did care much for goodbyes. That was part of why she’d slipped out of her house weeks ago without leaving a single note for Leanne. Goodbyes were tidy, clinical, expected. But a real, messy, music-filled life was never that neat.
Henry had known that about her too. Maybe that’s why he’d died the way he did—quietly, in his sleep, no warning, no hospital beeps, no tearful farewells. Just there one night and gone the next. A part of her had always wondered if he’d done it on purpose, sparing her the weight of a goodbye.
That familiar heaviness filled her chest, watching from the edge of the tent while the last stragglers of Woodstock rolled up their lives into bedrolls and duffel bags.
The festival was winding down, the music fading into memory.
Shep and his band were buzzing about Colorado, their next stop. Another gig, another town.
They’d asked her to come.
And oh, how tempting it was. To keep riding the high of late nights and impromptu jams, of being known not as someone’s mother or someone’s wife but as Mama Lightning, the Dame of Rock and Roll.
But her bones ached in places she’d forgotten existed, and her mind was starting to slip more than she wanted to admit. Faces blurred. Time blurred. Sometimes, so did her name.
No. It was time for her to go home. Time to face the diagnosis her doctor had given her. Time to plan out what the rest of her life would look like before she lost the capacity to do so.
Shep didn’t know it yet, but this was goodbye.
Eleanor slipped Roxy into her worn leather bag and tightened the strap across her chest. The pup nestled in without a fuss, like she knew and also was resigned to their fate.
Eleanor stepped out into the maze of tents and faded flags. The old Irish goodbye—no fuss, no fanfare. Just a quiet exit stage left.
She picked her way through the colorful sprawl, the patchwork quilts and daisy-chained teenagers, the smell of lingering weed smoke, and extinguished campfires. Her sandals crunched against discarded bottle caps, wrappers, and crushed grass.
The air was different now. No longer did it hum with bass guitars or crooning voices or crackle with energy. Soft. Mellow. Like the closing notes of a perfect song. Eleanor refused to cry, walking away from the stage, from the band, from the wild and beautiful thrill that had defined her summer.
Because she refused to believe that this was an ending. Rather, it was an encore.
Scanning the crowd, Eleanor realized she wasn’t exactly sure where to meet Leanne and Nora. She was certain someone had told her—Leanne, probably—but the memory had floated away, soft and slippery, like a lyric she was sure she once knew.
Panic made her heart skip a beat. But then, the world appeared to have finally done her a favor. She glanced up to see Leanne standing right there, arms crossed, eyes a contradiction between relief and wariness.
“I wasn’t sure you were going to come,” Leanne said.
“Why not?” Eleanor kept her voice light though she already knew the answer.
Leanne’s smile tilted gently. “You looked awfully comfortable out here on the road. That rock star of yours didn’t seem too eager to let you go.”
Eleanor followed her daughter’s gaze, glancing back toward the tent where Shep was still playing with his bandmates, head thrown back in laughter, completely unaware that she’d slipped away. He probably just thought she’d gone off to the restroom.
“All good things must come to an end,” she whispered.
Leanne cocked her head. “Do they really have to?”
Eleanor hesitated. “I suppose not. But for this old gal…” She smiled, a half lie on her tongue. “I’m ready for the next stage.”
Her throat tightened around the syllables, the finality of her statement. The next stage—what a cruel phrase for what was waiting. Not a stage with lights or applause. No encores. No set list. Just the slow, inevitable erasure of everything she knew. Everything she was.
She took Leanne’s hand between both of hers.
The softness of her daughter’s skin startled her.
Youth was so easily forgotten when wrapped in an aging body.
Her own hands looked foreign sometimes. The thinning skin, the map of blue veins, the delicate brittleness of bones that used to strum a guitar without effort.
And then Nora was there, slipping into place like a missing puzzle piece. Joe Dumas was with her, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning the crowd like he’d already written this scene in one of his articles.
Three generations reunited at the end of a summer that had changed them all.
“Hey, Grandma,” Nora said, and that word didn’t sting quite as much anymore.
Eleanor gave her a soft smile. “Hey, sweetheart.”
She looked at Nora and Leanne—her girls—and let the moment root inside her.
Even if she forgot it one day, she hoped this summer would live on in them.
Her eyes shifted to Joe, standing tall beside her granddaughter.
They made a sweet-looking pair, Eleanor thought.
Nora with her hopeful eyes, Joe with his tangled curls.
They had that electric energy about them that could be spotted a mile away, one that burned hot and fast. Still, Eleanor hoped her granddaughter wouldn’t tether all her dreams to just one boy.
College was coming and, with it, a wide-open world Nora had only just begun to taste.
“Joe,” Eleanor said, pausing beside him, “didn’t you say you had one more question for me?”
He grinned. “Was it everything you dreamed of?”
Eleanor looked out over the fields, now dotted with tents being folded, guitars being zipped into cases, the last notes of music still drifting faintly in the warm air.
“It absolutely was, young man,” she said. “And more.”
They began walking, the crowd flowing around them like a river with no beginning or end. And somewhere along that winding path, Eleanor leaned into her daughter.
“You’ve spent so much of your adult life being something for everyone else,” she whispered. “Don’t forget to be something for yourself too, honey.”
Leanne blinked fast. For a second, Eleanor thought she might argue. Her daughter had always had that defensive streak. But instead, she just nodded and gave Eleanor’s hand a squeeze. Her throat bobbed like she was swallowing something too big for words.
Then Eleanor turned to Nora and whispered, “And you, young lady… Don’t be afraid to leave. But don’t be afraid to come back either.”
Where her mother had reacted quietly, Nora threw her arms around her grandmother, giving her a tight hug.
“Thank you, Grandma,” she said, pulling back with a grin. “You’re a living example of that.”
Eleanor smiled so hard she felt it all the way through her bones. This new outlook on life might have taken her a lifetime to figure it all out, but she’d finally gotten there. And now she got to leave a few truths behind, tucked in the hands of the two women who mattered most.
They reached Joe’s car first.
“A pleasure meeting you, Joe,” Eleanor said, her voice laced with warmth.
“Likewise, ma’am,” he replied, his grin boyish, his eyes full of something like hope.
“Take care, Joe,” Leanne added.
“You do the same.”
Nora shifted on her feet, glancing sideways in that unmistakable please don’t embarrass me kind of way that only teenage girls could master.
Eleanor caught the cue and turned to Leanne without missing a beat. “Come on, darling,” she said with a wink. “Let’s give them a minute.”
Leanne laughed, falling into step beside her mother, and for once, didn’t argue.
Eleanor leaned into her daughter as they ambled a little farther down the road, leaving Nora and Joe behind in the soft, golden light of the afternoon. The crowd around them moved in a lazy tide, the festival winding down into quiet hums and goodbye hugs.
“He seems like a nice young man,” Eleanor said, nudging Leanne gently.
“I think he is,” Leanne said with a soft sigh. “I just hope this doesn’t end like every other relationship Nora’s had. She falls hard, fast…and then it’s heartbreak city.”
Eleanor chuckled, a knowing twinkle in her eye. “Well, if she truly wants to be a writer, a broken heart will give her enough material to fill volumes.”
Leanne tilted her head, surprised. “How did you know she wanted to be a writer?”
Eleanor glanced up at her, squinting against the setting sun. “Isn’t it obvious? That notebook is practically glued to her hand. She’s been scribbling stories since she could form a sentence. She’s always lived half in the real world, half in some imagined one.”
Leanne smiled, a swell of emotion catching her unprepared. “She just told me this summer. Said she doesn’t think she wants to go into marketing after all.”
Eleanor nodded with approval. “That’s a dream worth chasing. The real ones usually are.”
They walked in companionable silence, the breeze tugging gently at the fringe of Eleanor’s shawl.
“Joe, on the other hand…” Eleanor mused, breaking the quiet. “He’ll probably fade.”
“Maybe,” Leanne said with a shrug. “But maybe not. You never know with these things.”
“No, you don’t. But either way, he’s a chapter. And those matter too. And what about you and Dean?” Eleanor’s voice was gentle, almost like she was afraid of pushing too far.
Leanne’s smile faltered. Her features shifted, sobered. Eleanor immediately wished she could pull the question back into her mouth.
She had tried so many times over the years to broach the subject of Dean and Leanne’s marriage, but it had always felt like knocking on a door no one wanted to open.
“Things are going to change,” Leanne said finally. “I just don’t know how yet. I know what I want. And I know I’m going to tell him what I want. It’ll be up to him what happens next.”
“Or,” Eleanor said softly, “you could tell him what happens next.”
Leanne let out a surprised laugh. “No one tells Dean anything.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.” Eleanor’s voice was edged with just enough bite to get her point across. “No one ever has. Maybe hearing what he needs to hear—from you—might finally wake him up.”
There was a pause, like something delicate was shifting.
Eleanor sighed. “The doctor telling me I was in the early stages of dementia wasn’t what I wanted to hear. But it…it forced me to stop putting things off. To stop pretending I had all the time in the world.”
Leanne looked at her mother then, truly looked. “Music?”
“Yes. Art. Creation. Expression. Doesn’t matter what form it takes—singing, writing, painting, baking a cake… If it stirs your soul, that’s what you’re meant to do. That’s how you leave your mark.”
Leanne’s face lit up, the spark of realization flaring in her eyes. “I love to bake, and I’ve won many contests with my confections. But I’ve been thinking of going on strike when I get back home.”
Eleanor gave a knowing smile. “But that would only punish you.”
“Yeah,” Leanne murmured. “Yeah, you’re right.” She glanced down at her hands, then back at her mother. “Thank you, Mom.”
Eleanor nodded, her smile small but steeped in something deeper. Pride. Sorrow. Hope.
“Go live your life, sweetheart. Or it will keep living you.”