“I don’t know,” she finally said, her voice quiet. “Marketing sounds practical, and I get why it makes sense to everyone else. But…I’ve been carrying around this journal, and every time I write in it, I feel more like myself than I ever do when I’m talking about ad campaigns or consumer psychology.”
Leanne’s eyes didn’t widen in surprise. Instead, they softened with understanding. “Then maybe that’s worth listening to. That journal—writing—has meant a lot to you.”
The jukebox clicked over to a new track—Otis Redding this time “(Sittin’ on) The Dock of the Bay”—and mother and daughter just sat there, letting the song fill the silence like the diner counter was the bay and their stools the dock. Outside, the sun was setting low over the parking lot, glinting off the windshield of the Lincoln.
And for once, Nora didn’t feel the pressure to rush toward what was expected. Maybe the road ahead wasn’t paved, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t hers.
And now, that path felt bendable for the first time—like a fork in the road she’d been ignoring, with one path leading straight and the other looking more like an adventure. She could still make the turn.Still choose the trail that felt like her, the one that was wild-hearted, hopeful, and unfiltered. There were classes at Yale she hadn’t even considered letting herself look at. Ones that whispered of fiction and poetry, of voices and stories waiting to be found.
She swallowed the last bite of pie, the sweet tang clinging to her tongue like a promise. As she cleared her throat, her voice was steady as she finally admitted, “I want to be a writer.”
Part FourSinging in the Rain
Summer 1969
Chapter Thirty-One
The drive from Atlanta to Seattle stretched ahead like a ribbon of possibility, winding through miles of road and miles of thought. Inside the van was a mix of jubilant wonder and groggy comradery. Shep’s bandmates hummed unfinished melodies, banging out rhythms on their knees, passing around half-tuned guitars and bags of potato chips like lifelines. Shep was writing lyrics on the back of a diner receipt. The van smelled like sweat, vinyl seats, and the faint sweetness of incense Megan had lit to mask the funk.
Eleanor tried to keep pace with the noise, tossing in harmony lines when asked, offering notes on arrangements, but her thoughts kept drifting back to the stage in Atlanta. To that moment, spotlight hot on her scalp, guitar snug against her hip, when she’d sung the lullaby turned ballad she once wrote for her daughter.
There had been songs before that—so many songs. Youthful, hungry songs. Songs she thought might win her a record deal back when the world still had her name on its tongue. But that song—the one for Leanne—had been something else. Came from somewhere deeper than ambition. Bone-and-blood music. A love letter built from chords.
As she sang, she’d imagined her daughter’s face in the crowd. Imagined Nora beside Leanne. She could almost hear their voices rising up in the chorus—ghost harmonies above the crowd.
Eleanor closed her eyes and leaned her head against the side window, feeling a little guilty from having run away from them again. Roxy was curled in her lap, warm and soft as a well-loved pillow. Eleanor’s fingers absently traced the dog’s smooth back, the rhythm of the van a lullaby of its own.
“Who wants to stop at Graceland?” piped the girl behind the wheel—Maxie, maybe. Or Megan? Eleanor couldn’t remember. The names in this van were fluid things. And what was she rambling on about, a land full of grace?
“I’ve been dying to see it,” the girl continued. “And I heard sometimes Elvis comes out and signs autographs. Can you believe it?”
Eleanor’s eyes popped open. Graceland. Elvis.
“Let’s do it!” Shep whooped from the back, and the rest of the band hooted in agreement.
Eleanor sat a little taller, heart doing something dangerously close to fluttering. She loved Elvis. Ever since he scandalized everyone with the wriggle of his hips onstage. The rawness of his sound. The way he made the whole country question what music could be—just like she’d used to want to do. A fleeting memory, like a whisper, caressed her memory. Her and Nora in the kitchen. Nora must have been five years old at the time, and they were dancing to “Heartbreak Hotel,” and Eleanor had lowered her voice, singing like Elvis to Nora’s delight. She wasn’t about to pass up a visit to the King’s palace.
The van screeched off the exit, tires catching gravel, someone in the back screaming joyfully like they were heading to the moon, while Eleanor tried not to curse Megan’s driving—at least she remembered her name now.
They wove through Memphis traffic, then slowed, nearing theestate. Cars were already lined along the curb like worshipful pilgrims. Lawn chairs propped up on hoods. Fans leaned against fences, clutched magazines and Polaroid cameras, eyes trained on the mansion’s gate like Elvis might emerge any second with a guitar in one hand and a peanut butter sandwich in the other.
Graceland sat behind those gates like a southern daydream. The mansion was white-columned and wide-porched, with green shutters and crisp symmetry that didn’t feel real in the August heat. The iron gates bore musical notes curled into the design, and a sea of fans stood in front of them, some swaying, some singing, some just waiting. The trees out front were heavy with moss and humidity. Someone had tied a scarf to the gate. Someone else had left flowers.
“Incredible,” Shep said, breathless. “One day, I’m going to have a place like this. People lining up around the block.”
He glanced at Eleanor, his grin slipping from friendly to flirtatious. “Maybe you’ll be there with me. Keep the groupies in line.”
“Don’t tempt me, young man,” she said with a laugh, swatting his arm. But the laugh was a thin thing, hollow around the edges. Because she knew—this wasn’t her life. This was a borrowed dream. A detour. A firework mid-fizzle.
One day, the road trip would end. The amps would quiet. The curtain would fall.
And she would go home. And then she’d have to leave her home. Live with Leanne or, worse, one of those homes for old people where they went to die but didn’t even realize it.
A fog would set in. A version of herself who didn’t remember music. Or Roxy. Or even Leanne and Nora.
The thought clutched her chest, a phantom hand.
Still, she pulled herself together as the van sputtered to a stop. She followed the band, who poured out onto the street, joining the crowd. Someone nearby played Elvis on a portable radio, and a little boy withwhat looked like grape jam smeared around his mouth sang along, not even close to in tune but still adorable.
