Eleanor’s brows lifted, surprised. She eased the scrapbook closed and stood, crossing the room slowly, her knees protesting just a little. She opened the door to find a young delivery man standing on the porch, a bouquet of roses cradled in his arms.
“Delivery for Eleanor Bell?”
She nodded, her voice caught somewhere behind her ribs. “That’s me.”
He handed over the bouquet with a polite smile, tipped his cap, and turned back down the steps.
Eleanor didn’t need her glasses to read the little white card tucked into the petals. The handwriting was unmistakable, rough and looping from someone who held a pen like a guitar pick.
Until next time.
Her breath caught. The roses were pale pink, edged in crimson. Familiar.
She lingered in the doorway, one hand clutching the blooms, the other pressed lightly to her chest. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t need to.
Because she knew exactly who they were from.
Memories are delicate, fragile things—needing to be nurtured and loved, conjured when the longing to relive the most wonderful chapters of a life is overwhelming.
And Eleanor was reliving all of hers, then and now, and she was beyond grateful that time had gifted her that much.
A second chance. A final chorus. A song that would echo forever in her heart.
Chapter Forty-Seven
The Lincoln Continental rumbled to a stop in the familiar gravel driveway, its engine ticking as it cooled beneath the setting sun. The air smelled of cut grass and warm earth, thick with the sweetness of the massive magnolia tree that stood in the yard. Leanne sat still, hands gripping the steering wheel, feeling the weight of what waited beyond the front door.
They’d made sure Eleanor’s house was tidy and her refrigerator and pantry fully stocked before leaving. Leanne wanted to see her mother taken care of, but she was also procrastinating the inevitable.
The past few weeks had been a dream. One of those rare, golden stretches of time where reality bends just enough to let in the light. Giggling late into the night over shared secrets and sweet pie with Nora. Eleanor, vibrant and sharp, singing into microphones and dancing barefoot in the grass. There had been music and laughter and quiet revelations in the early morning haze. A disappointing number of years had gone by since Leanne had felt that tether of belonging, years since she’d allowed herself to feel anything at all.
And now, she was parked at the edge of her life again. As if this summer had not existed at all.
She exhaled, resting her forehead briefly against the steering wheel, the cool, stitched ridges pressing into her skin. A fleeting stillness. A breath before the plunge.
“Mom? Are you okay?”
No more running. Leanne glanced up, forcing a grin her daughter was sure to see through. “Exhausted. But I’m okay.”
Nora nodded, eyeing her skeptically but accepting Leanne’s answer.
When Leanne stepped out of the car, the heat greeted her, both familiar and unwelcome. The uncomfortable feeling wrapped around her shoulders and pressed against her back, trying to guide her inside. The outside of the house looked different and the same all at once. The white clapboard siding was maybe a little more weathered now. The porch swing swayed slightly in the breeze, still groaning that tired creak. The windows blinked back at her like half-lidded eyes—watchful, waiting.
She’d walked up those steps a thousand times, yet her legs felt heavier today. Every step would carry a decision she hadn’t quite made.
Through the window, she saw the flicker of movement. A figure—tall, broad-shouldered—crossed the kitchen. Dean.
Her stomach tightened. They hadn’t exactly been on good terms when she left. The cold silences, the look he’d given her before she shut the door behind her, the phone call where she’d said they needed to make a change. It all sat between them now like a wall neither of them had been willing to climb. Maybe time apart had softened the edges. Or maybe it had carved the distance into something permanent.
Leanne reached for her and Nora’s suitcases in the trunk, the scent of sun-toasted leather rising to meet her like a ghost of old travels. A cicada buzzed in the trees above, its long, rattling cry a kind of unraveling—thin threads of her resolve slipping through her fingers.
And then, the front door creaked open.
She froze, one hand still on the handle, when Dean stepped out onto the lighted porch.
Her breath caught in her throat.
He was…barefoot. A white T-shirt clung to him, soft and wrinkled from the laundry basket or maybe from being worn too long. His jeans were loose at the waist, riding low on his hips like he didn’t care how they fit anymore. This was not the Dean she remembered. Not the polished, tailored man who wanted his shirts ironed twice and buttoned his cuffs even on Sundays.
