This wasn’t just rain but a release.
After a few more songs, the band, half out of breath, half afraid theirinstruments would short-circuit from the weather, announced a break. The crowd roared their approval, already anticipating the next set.
“We should get something to eat and look around for Grandma,” Nora shouted over the noise, her voice bright with adrenaline and joy.
Leanne nodded, pushing her hair off her face and laughing as water sprayed from her fingertips. “God, I could eat a whole funnel cake right now.”
Nora grinned. “Who are you?”
“Someone who’s finally hungry.” Leanne looped her arm through her daughter’s. “Let’s ask for extra powdered sugar.”
They trudged through the sloshing crowd together, slipping and sliding but never letting go. People were dancing in puddles, passing bottles, howling at the sky. A couple kissed like they were the last two people on earth, water slipping between laughing lips. A man with nothing but denim shorts and a cowboy hat balanced a hot dog on the brim.
Nora laughed until her ribs hurt.
For just a heartbeat, she forgot about college, the pressure to grow up, and the carefully packed life waiting for her back home. And hopefully Leanne forgot about dinner at five, her full calendar, and about the epic let down of the unanswered phone.
There was no past, no future. Just now. A girl and her mother in the rain, chasing music and magic.
“This is the best.” Nora was breathless, turning to her mom, rain still dripping from her lashes.
“It really is.” Leanne’s voice was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “And we have your grandmother to thank.”
“I hope we see her soon.” Nora hugged her damp arms to her chest. Wild how her mother had gone from being afraid Grandma was in a ditch to supporting her summer of song. “I kinda miss her.”
“Me too. And I want to know what she was thinking…coming out here. What her whole goal was.”
“Me too—” But Nora didn’t get the rest out. Her foot snagged on the thick rope of a nearby tent, slick with mud and rain, and before she could blink, gravity yanked her forward like a rug pulled out from under her.
She hit the ground face-first in a cold, wet splat that squelched louder than any of the amps onstage.
When she lifted her face, sputtering mud from her mouth, she found herself staring up into the amused eyes of Joe Dumas.
“Breaking news,” he said, crouching beside her with a grin. “Festivalgoer takes an unexpected dive—emerges with a new appreciation for mudlarking in the wild.”
“Mudlarking?” Nora groaned, reaching up for his hand, blinking rain and mud out of her eyes.
He grasped her hand, but the mud had other ideas, and his hold slipped. She flailed. He staggered. Eventually, after enough slipping and laughing to draw attention from three passing drummers, he got her upright.
“Usually done along riverbanks in London,” he said, brushing mud off her shoulder with a too-casual hand. “People hunt for buried treasures—old coins, lost trinkets, clay-pipe stems. But with all this festival sludge? I’m part French, so I’d say this counts.”
Nora gave him a look. “Last time I checked, London wasn’t in France.”
He tipped his chin, smug. “Depends on the year and the king. As the descendant of the great Dumas, I’m allowed to improvise historical metaphors.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”
“But unforgettable,” he added with a wink.
She glanced down at herself—mud from hair to shins, a clump of grass stuck to her knee, mascara no doubt smudged near her earlobe. She didn’t look unforgettable. “I look like a swamp creature.”
“Where’s your camera?” Joe asked.
From behind them, Leanne held it up like a trophy.
“Mom—no!” Nora lunged, but Joe already had it.
Click.
