Systems Check, Hearts Connect (Bean There, Done That #9)

1. Arrival

Arrival

Nora

The engine died with a wheeze that sounded exactly like Nora’s career.

She gripped the steering wheel of her ancient Honda Civic, watching steam curl up from under the hood. The car shuddered once more and went silent, leaving her stranded on Maple Street.

“Come on,” she whispered, turning the key. Nothing. Not even a click. “Come on, you piece of—”

Her phone buzzed against her thigh. She’d turned it back on twenty minutes ago—a mistake. Another notification she didn’t want to see.

She silenced it without looking and leaned back against the headrest, staring at the familiar street through her windshield.

God, nothing had changed. The same oak trees lined the sidewalks, heavy with August green, their leaves hanging limp and dusty in the heat.

Craftsman houses sat behind neat little gardens and American flags, lawns gone the pale gold of high summer.

There was a sense that time moved differently here—slower, heavier, like honey poured over everything she used to be in such a hurry to escape.

When she was little, this town had been huge, but once she’d left—once she’d seen LA, and New York, and cities where a person could disappear completely—she’d come to realize that this was just a mid-sized nowhere-town.

In the backseat, wrapped in an old towel like something fragile, was Gramps’ guitar.

She’d grabbed it from her apartment before leaving LA, along with a duffel bag of clothes and nothing else.

The apartment had felt like a trap—her brother Daniel calling every few hours, her manager Adrian leaving increasingly tense voicemails, neighbors she barely knew knocking to ask if she was “okay” after seeing the footage.

The footage. God, the footage.

Her phone buzzed again, insistent. This time she looked.

Instagram: Cam posted a new story.

She shouldn’t. She knew she shouldn’t. But her thumb moved before her brain could stop it, and there Cam was—golden curls catching stage lights in the video, guitar slung across her shoulder, crowd cheering in the background.

The sound came through tinny and compressed, Cam’s voice flattened into something almost unrecognizable—Nora knew that voice at full volume, had stood beside it for two years and felt it resonate through a room, and this phone-speaker version barely resembled it.

The caption read: Back where I belong. Music heals everything.

Of course she was playing the Portland venue. The one Nora was supposed to play.

There was more. Nora swiped, hating herself. Cam’s arm around someone new—a girl with dark hair and an easy smile. The sort of smile Nora used to have, before.

8 weeks together and she makes every day brighter <3

Two months. Gramps died four months ago.

How fast things could go to complete crap.

Nora screenshotted it before she could stop herself, then immediately wanted to throw her phone out the window.

A Google alert popped up—the alert for her own name. She tapped it, because apparently she was a masochist.

Singer-Songwriter Nora Carter: Gone AWOL

There was a photo from the venue, blurry but unmistakable. Her, on stage, hand pressed to her chest, eyes wide and terrified. The moment right before she’d run. The article speculated about mental health struggles and the price of fame and whether she’d ever perform again.

The comments were worse.

so dramatic lol

this is what happens when u try too hard to be deep

my cat has more stage presence

She should stop reading, but her thumb kept scrolling.

Her phone rang, making her jump. Daniel.

She declined it. Not now.

A text came through immediately.

Daniel

Just tell me you’re alive.

Nora

Alive. Car dead. Redwood Hollow.

I told you to take the new car.

I wanted my old one right now.

It was never going to take you all the way from LA to Redwood.

I know.

But she had wanted to feel like her old self for just a little while, and the Honda Civic was definitely old self.

Mom will tell you what she thinks of that.

Don’t tell mom.

She already knows you left LA.

Nora closed her eyes. Of course her mom did. Marjorie had probably been waiting by the phone, ready to deploy that careful, gentle voice that made Nora feel like she was sixteen and fragile.

Another text from Daniel.

Proud of you for going home. Seriously.

She didn’t feel proud; she felt like a coward. Like someone who’d run out of places to hide and defaulted to the one place that couldn’t turn her away—and the one place where, technically, she had business to attend to. There was the land, after all.

The guitar in the backseat caught her eye again.

You’ve got something special, Nora-girl, Gramps had told her many times over. Don’t lose it, he’d said.

She’d lost it anyway.

A tap on her window made her jump. An older woman with silver hair and a concerned expression peered down at her.

Nora shoved her phone in her pocket and rolled down the window. Warm air swept in, dry and smelling of cut grass and sun-baked asphalt.

“Car trouble, dear?”

“Yeah, it just…” Nora gestured vaguely at the dashboard. “Decided that living was for other engines.”

“Oh, that’s no good. You’re Nora Carter, aren’t you?”

“I—” She didn’t want to be recognized now. She didn’t want to be Nora Carter, she just wanted to be Eleanor Nobody.

But the lady continued, “I saw your parents at the farmer’s market last weekend. They’re so proud of you.” The woman’s smile was warm and genuine, and it made Nora feel like a fraud. “I’m Patricia Livingston. I live just down the street.”

Proud. Right.

“Nice to meet you,” Nora said, mustering what she hoped was warmth. “I don’t suppose you know a good mechanic?”

“The best.” Patricia beamed like she was personally responsible. “My daughter Morgan runs Livingston Auto. She’s brilliant with cars. Want me to give her a call?”

Before Nora could answer, Patricia was already dialing, moving a few steps away. Nora caught fragments: “…right in front of the Hendersons’ place… Car just died, poor thing… Oh, I didn’t ask…” A pause. “It’s Eleanor Carter—you know, the Carters’ daughter, the musician? She’s back in town visiting.”

Nora’s stomach tightened. The musician.

“She’ll be right over,” Patricia said, returning. “Should just be a few minutes. Morgan’s very reliable.”

“Thank you so much.” Nora meant it. At least this was a problem with a solution.

“Of course! We take care of each other here.” Patricia’s expression softened. “I hope you’re planning to stick around for a while, Eleanor. It would be lovely to have some live music in town again.”

The suggestion made Nora’s chest constrict. “Just a quick visit,” she said quickly. “But thanks.”

Patricia nodded, then disappeared into a flower shop on the other side of the street.

She pulled out her phone, needing the distraction. Scrolled Instagram without really seeing it. More musicians she used to know, living the life she’d thought she was building. Playing festivals. Signing contracts. Not freezing on stage while two thousand people watched and filmed.

Cam’s story was still there at the top, that little rainbow ring mocking her. She tapped it again—couldn’t help it—and watched Cam laugh at something the new girlfriend said. The sound was tinny through her phone speaker but clear enough. Easy. Unbroken.

I hope you figure yourself out, Cam had said when she’d ended things. I really do. But I can’t be the one who waits around while you do it.

Daniel’s voice in her head: She wasn’t right for you, anyway.

But what if the problem wasn’t Cam?

Her phone buzzed. A notification from one of the big gossip sites—someone had posted a thread about indie artists who’d flamed out. She was number three, right between someone who’d gotten a DUI and someone who’d plagiarized their entire album.

She should delete the apps, turn off the alerts… but she didn’t. Just sat there in her silent car, listening to the tick of the engine cooling, the afternoon heat thickening around her, watching the cursor blink on a text to Daniel she didn’t know how to finish.

A truck turned onto Maple Street—white, with “Livingston Auto” painted on the side in neat blue letters.

It pulled up behind her car, and Nora caught a glimpse of the driver through the windshield.

Dark hair pulled back, strong jawline, navy coveralls.

She was tall, and when she climbed out, the movements were efficient, grabbing a toolbox from the bed like this was just another Friday.

This must be Morgan.

Nora checked her reflection in the rearview mirror and immediately regretted it.

Her pink-streaked hair was doing something unfortunate after three days of hotel shampoo, and there were dark circles under her eyes that no amount of concealer could fix anymore.

She looked like exactly what she was—someone who’d been hiding in a car for too many hours.

But there was nothing to be done about it now. The truck door closed with a sound like a cabinet latching, and footsteps approached.

She took a breath and rolled down her window completely, preparing to deploy whatever charm she had left.

Time to meet her savior.