They’d taken turns teasing the mustaches and gruff line delivery. Nora had laughed until she cried when Leanne dubbed one of the bounty-hunter cowboys Sheriff Shifty ’Stache.
Tonight was one of those rare mother-daughter exchanges where nothing felt forced. They’d talked about the road ahead. About Eleanor. About how the hell any of this had even started. Gone was the tension that seemed to constantly fill the space between them, replaced by a comradery Leanne was reluctant to let go of.
Now, hours later, the sun was already high, squeezing through the slits of the green motel curtains, and Leanne was back behind the wheel. Another state. Another stretch of highway. Another gamblethat her mother might show up at a music festival like some cigarette-smoking, guitar-playing ghost.
The Lincoln rumbled into a rinky-dink gas station on the outskirts of Kansas. A rusted Texaco sign swung on a crooked pole, and a diner attached to the side of the station promised “Hot Coffee, Cold Pie, All Day Breakfast.”
Nora, eyes still puffy from sleep, rubbed her face as they parked. After falling asleep before finishing the book, they’d been reading the last chapters ofThe Godfatheraloud that morning, the scenes heavy and blood-spattered. Michael Corleone getting his revenge. It felt fitting somehow—like they were on the last page of something in both fiction and real life.
The red vinyl booths squeaked inside the diner, and the smell of bacon grease and toast wrapped around Leanne like a warm, greasy hug. She welcomed it. A part of her—one that she didn’t like to admit—was starting to fall in love with this strange pilgrimage they were on. And after talking to Joe, knowing her mother was safe and even in good spirits, had eased some of the worry, though it never fully left her. She didn’t think it ever would now.
At the counter, a waitress leaned against the register, cracking up. “You’re kidding,” she said to a patron, swiping a rag over the countertop between giggles.
The man she was chatting with wore a trucker hat that said “Keep on Truckin’.” He laughed, tipping his coffee mug toward the waitress for a refill.
“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it. Old lady and a trucker arguing about whether she could drive his semi.” He shook his head. “I swear, she had a mouth on her. She looked him straight in the eye and told him age and gender didn’t mean a thing if she had the guts and the gumption.”
Leanne’s heart stuttered. She leaned forward, her coffee forgotten, her pulse picking up like she was chasing a moving train.
Old lady. Argumentative. Mouthy. Gumption.
She and Nora looked at each other across the sticky table. Nora mouthed one word, “Grandma?”
Leanne wasn’t sure why it was this, of all things—a story about a truck-stop shouting match—that made her think of her mother. Maybe it was the sheer audacity of the thing. Maybe it was the mention of a mouthy old woman. Or maybe it was the fact that, deep down, she could absolutely picture Eleanor getting into a heated debate with a trucker about why women should be allowed to drive a semi.
What solidified it for her was when he mentioned the old woman had ended the argument by breaking out into song, before she’d been led away by a rocker-looking dude.
Leanne took another sip of coffee, which she’d doctored with sugar and a splash of cream, and side-eyed Nora over the rim of her mug. “So, what do you think? You think Grandma’s picking fights with truckers now?”
Nora giggled, stirring her hot chocolate lazily, her marshmallows melting into goo. “Honestly? I’d love to see it in person.”
Leanne smirked, shaking her head. “You would.”
They ate quietly for a bit—soft eggs, crispy toast, a side of bacon Leanne hadn’t realized she’d craved until she took the first bite. It reminded her of being young and free, back when breakfast in a roadside diner felt like the start of something big instead of a rest stop on the way to the next chaotic destination. Back when she didn’t worry that her rear end would get bigger just from sniffing greasy food.
Soon enough, they were back in the Lincoln, tires humming as they coasted down the on-ramp to the highway. Nora was fiddling with the radio dial again, skipping past static, jazz, and talk radio.
But Leanne’s hand shot out mid-turn.
“Wait—go back.”
Nora twisted the dial back one notch. A burst of static, then—
“—folks, I’m not making this up. First reported in theSan Francisco Chronicle, reports are flying in from all over, and now, hot off the wire, we’ve got it on good authority that she’s en route to Atlanta.”
The DJ had a voice that was smooth and magnetic, just amused enough to sound like he wasn’t taking himself too seriously but serious enough that a listener would pay attention. Leanne’s spine straightened, and Nora turned up the volume.
“They call her the Dame of Rock and Roll, and she’s living up to the name. Out of nowhere, she’s been lighting up the summer music festival stages with Shep Moon and his band, turning every set into an unforgettable experience.” The announcer let out a whistle that startled Leanne enough she came back to herself. “With that silver hair, sweet guitar strumming, and a voice that’s nothing short of angelic, she’s got fans and musicians falling swiftly under her spell.”
Leanne and Nora glanced at one another, and Leanne felt her body levitate, as if she were no longer in the car, just hovering above the leather.
The announcer continued. “No telling how long she’ll be out on the road, so if you’re anywhere near Atlanta—or heading to the big festival this weekend—keep those eyes peeled and your ears wide open. And hey, if you spot the Rocking Granny tearing it up onstage, give us a ring and let the rest of us live vicariously through your epic experience. This is one act you don’t want to miss!”
Shock numbed Leanne’s hands, her brain, basically her entire body, and she nearly swerved off the road.
“They’re really calling her that? I thought Joe was joking,” Nora choked out, twisting toward the radio like she could pull the words out of the dashboard or rewind and have the announcer say it all over again.
“The Dame of Rock and Roll,” Leanne slowly repeated the moniker given to her mother, like saying it aloud might help her wrap her head around it. “It has to be her.”
