And then—it happened.
A note in her throat faltered. Her mouth stilled. Her fingers stumbled on the chords.
A single moment. A breathless pause.
Her mind went blank.
Her gaze on Shep, panic set in, making her hands go slippery. But his eyes were steady on hers. Eyes that reminded her of someone from long ago. Another life. Another man. Another stage.
She’d forgotten. Forgotten the words. Forgotten the chords. Forgotten herself.
But Shep kept playing. He deftly carried the next line, his voice wrapping around hers, guiding her back.
And just like that—it returned.
The lyric.
The chord.
The memory.
The song’s inscape caught before it slipped away completely. To the audience, it was nothing. A hiccup in rhythm. A slight variation. But she knew. So did he. And for a second, fear bubbled in her chest. Had she disappointed him?
But then Shep stepped closer, their shoulders brushing, and gave her the softest nod. Not of pity. Of respect. Understanding.
And Eleanor kept singing.
At the song’s end, Shep beamed down at her, eyes shining with joy. Not a flicker of doubt or disappointment in them. Whatever blip had happened mid-song, he’d either forgotten it or forgiven it. Maybe both. And she needed to do the same.
He leaned in and kissed her cheek, a soft graze of his lips, thenraised her hand above their heads to the cheer of the crowd.
Eleanor curtsied low, then waved, smiling so wide her cheeks ached. She backed offstage, still riding the dizzy pulse of the performance, the guitar warm against her.
At the base of the stairs, Megan stood waiting, holding out a glass of water.
“Great job out there,” she said. “There’s someone who wants to talk to you.”
A flicker of panic cut through Eleanor’s euphoria. Had her family found her? Was this it? The end of her freedom?
The fear came fast—tight in her chest. Because she couldn’t go back. Not yet. Not when she’d just remembered who she was. She couldn’t say exactly why, other than she feared they would make her go home. Feared they’d make her give up what she’d already spent a lifetime missing.
But it wasn’t Leanne or Nora waiting for her. Instead, it was a young man with a notepad, a press badge, and a spark in his eyes.
“My name’s Joe, ma’am,” he said, extending a hand.
“Nice to meet you, Joe.”
Joe had an easygoing nature about him, putting Eleanor at ease. “I’d love to ask you a few questions—about your music, your story, all of it.”
Megan handed Eleanor a glass of water, which she accepted with her free hand. “I’d be happy to answer.”
“Do you ever watch Johnny Carson?” he asked.
She nodded, unsure of where this was going. “I have. On occasion.”
“Well, you might want to tune in tonight. When I was watching last night, you came up.”
“Me?” She couldn’t help the surprise in her voice. “Why on earth would Johnny Carson be talking about me?”
