“My teacher said the inclusion of the quote was a critique of capitalism.”
“Hmm.” Leanne adjusted her grip on the steering wheel. “I can see that. Maybe Balzac meant that enormous wealth—the kind that builds empires—usually steps on someone along the way.”
“He was French,” Nora added, half grinning. “And they did have that whole revolution thing.”
Leanne laughed. “True. But he might also have meant that success where no account is offered of how it was earned can conveniently hide a crime. Depends on the translation, I guess.”
Nora tilted her head, a little surprised. “That’s…actually a good point.”
Leanne shrugged, giving a half smile. “Actually? But thanks. And since we’re diving into a Mafia novel, let’s just say for the purposes of examining the quote in context, that we’re talking high-stakes crime.”
Nora grinned. Her mom actually seemed excited about the book. Maybe even…interested.
“All right, Mrs. Miller,” Nora said with mock formality. “Let’s do this.”
Leanne glanced sidelong in her direction. “All right, Miss Miller. Proceed.”
Nora cleared her throat, sitting up straighter. “‘Amerigo Bonasera sat in New York Criminal Court Number 3 and waited for justice; vengeance on the men who had so cruelly hurt his daughter, who had tried to dishonor her.’”
The words spilled from her lips effortlessly—she’d read this page so many times it had practically imprinted on her brain.
She didn’t say it out loud, but every time she read that line, she wondered what it would feel like to have a father who wanted vengeance for her. Who burned with fury at the thought of her being harmed. Who couldn’t stand the idea of someone touching her without love.
She knew her father loved her. That wasn’t the issue.
The issue was…sometimes she wondered if she existed to him when she was out of sight.
And worse—if her mother did either.
Chapter Seven
The hot, dry California sun beat down on Eleanor’s shoulders, baking the dust into her skin and warming the crown of her scalp through her wide-brimmed straw hat. She’d chosen a sundress that morning—white cotton, patterned with faded yellow flowers. She wanted to fit in a little more with the crowd.
They meandered the dirt path, Roxy trotting on a thin leash at her side, her petite, hairless but fabulous body full of spunky energy. Eleanor’s guitar was slung over her shoulder, strap pressing into her collarbone with a familiar weight—like an old friend leaning against her after too many years apart.
A thrill traveled through her limbs as she stepped on the free stage erected for impromptu jams. Her fingers itched. Her chest lifted. Decades had passed since she’d been in front of a crowd, felt the rush of anticipation ripple across her skin like an applause. The nerves she’d thought would freeze her throat didn’t show up, thank goodness.Like old times, Eleanor. You’re the Bell of Wartime Music.
The audience wasn’t an audience yet—just clusters of young people sprawled across the grass, their feet bare, denim bell-bottomsgrass-stained, cigarette smoke curling above their heads like question marks. They laughed with the loose easiness of the young and unburdened.
Eleanor wished, for a beat, that she could have laughed like that in her twenties—after she’d given up on her dreams. That she hadn’t spent so much time stitching herself into the tight hemline of duty. That she’d let her soul sing rather than bottling it up.
But she’d tried, hadn’t she? Her husband had always known music was in her—had even encouraged it initially. But over the years, his encouragement turned into tolerance, and then expectation took over. Housework. Dinner. Shopping. Childcare. Manners.
Here, though, no one knew her name.
Just an old lady with a guitar and Roxy and no responsibilities except for keeping herself and her dog fed and in the shade.
Her flight had landed late the night before. By the time she’d taken a cab to the motel and collapsed onto the bed, she was too tired to do anything but sleep. Despite the time difference from New York to California, she still woke up long past her usual hour, but she didn’t feel guilty about it as she usually did at home. She felt…rested. Recharged. Even the motel’s stale continental breakfast—lukewarm coffee, a blueberry muffin, and a hard-boiled egg—had tasted better than any breakfast she remembered having for a while. Someone on the plane mentioned the open mic sign-up happening on the festival grounds that morning.
More than one person had to give her directions as she kept getting lost, but she eventually she found the right tent. The woman at the sign-up table hadn’t even blinked at her age.
That, in itself, was its own kind of grace.
And now here she was, stepping out onstage. It wasn’t a prime-time slot. Just a chance to perform for the early birds staking out their patch of grass before the three dazed days of “real” concerts began.
Eleanor stepped up to the microphone, her fingers grazing the cool metal, the weight of it familiar and foreign all at once, like being in the spotlight—with both the excitement and the dread that accompanied performing for a crowd.
“How’s everybody doing this morning?” she asked, her voice slightly higher than she intended.
