The Gibson was like that. A part of her. Something she loved beyond words. Something that remembered her, even when she forgot herself. And every time she’d had to put it away, she’d itched to go back and pick it up if only to hold it a little longer.
The band onstage launched into their encore, the lead singer whipping the microphone stand in the air like a lasso. For a split second, Eleanor thought he might actually toss it into the crowd and knock someone senseless. But instead, he planted it on the stage, raised a fist to the roaring audience, and shouted a final thank-you before disappearing with the rest of his band.
The emcee’s voice boomed overhead, announcing Shep Moon and his band.
Eleanor hesitated on the side of the stage, a bolt of nerves making her whole body go rigid and causing her to forget how to walk. Shep’sdrummer and guitarists ambled onto the stage and began tuning their instruments, adjusting amps, and tapping cymbals. A cacophony of sound that was familiar and exhilarating. She wasn’t sure if she should follow or run away. Did she really belong here?
The energy shifted inside her—less a feeling of being unmoored and more of being anchored. She had been invited. She wasn’t an impostor here. Yes, she did belong.
Beside her, Shep rested a hand lightly on her arm, the pads of his fingers trailing to the small of her back. His voice was low and warm, and he leaned in close, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“You ready for this, Ellie?”
A thrill zipped up her spine—from the music, his touch, and the fact that this wasreal. The open mic had been exhilarating enough, but now… Eleanor sucked in a heady breath.
“I was born ready.” A soft laugh escaped her, and she gave her shoulder a little toss like she was twenty again.
Shep lingered a beat longer, leaning into her, then murmured, “Do you how much I like you, Eleanor?”
Suppressing a shiver, she raised an eyebrow instead. This young man was such a flirt. “Enough to let me hijack your band for a night?”
His chuckle was low and gravelly, curling under her skin. “I must like you a whole lot, then.”
Shep gave her hand a gentle squeeze—warm, grounding—and then he was gone, striding out under the lights to a wave of applause and cheers.
Eleanor stayed in the wings for a breath longer than she meant to.
Something held her there.
A memory flared—brief but bright. Another man. Another stage. Another lifetime. A voice whispering encouragement, a calloused hand tugging hers into the spotlight. Her heart thudded, not from nervesbut from something more profound. A tether between then and now.
With a shake of her head, she smiled. This was a new stage. A new hand. She stepped forward at the same time Shep lifted his mic and grinned at the crowd.
“Folks,” he called, “I’ve got a very special guest joining me tonight.”
He extended his arm in her direction. And Eleanor Bell, guitar slung at her side, stepped tentatively, almost shyly, under the stadium lights, which cast a golden haze over her. At first, she hovered near the edge of the spotlight, blinking into the crowd.
But then she looked up. The sea of people, the swell of sound, the beating pulse of music—this was her shot.
A second chance.
A chance to reclaim a life she had once set aside.
A chance to honor herself, her voice, her art.
To be reborn, and live the dream she’d given up, if only for a moment.
Somewhere along the line, she’d been taught that a woman’s worth was measured by what she did for others. How well she kept a home, how selflessly she raised her children, how patiently she supported a husband. And those thingswereimportant.
But she’d learned, sometimes painfully, that when a woman gave and gave and gave—and forgot herself in the process—no one truly saw her. Not even herself.
If she was going to love others well, she had to first love herself.
And so tonight, Eleanor Bell was loving herself—through song, through courage, through presence.
The drums behind her kicked into rhythm. The bass thumped steady. Shep stood at her side, smiling like he had all the faith in the world.
Eleanor’s fingers found the familiar placement on the Gibson’s strings, and she began to play. Words rose in her throat, shaped bymelody, by memory. She and Shep sang the lyrics they’d practiced, their harmonies folding into one another like a heartbeat.
