Page 105 of Lost Love on 6th Street

I glance at Luke.

His eyes widen. His jaw tics.

The similarities are uncanny. Maybe I’m dreaming it.

But I did swear Claire looked familiar when we first met.

It has to be a coincidence, right?

Right?

34

LUKE

It’s like looking in a mirror.

I can’t explain it.

I took after Dad—a spitting image people have said.

And this woman . . . Claire . . .

Diane’s daughter.

She doesn’t look at all like her. She looks like my father.

My heart throbs. I agreed to come out here with Eleanor for this express purpose. Well, not exactly. I brought the sealed note from my parents’ attic, thinking that maybe, just maybe I would have an opportunity to get a little more information. I didn’t think I’d be brave enough to ask.

Seeing Claire doesn’t make me braver. Her presence, her existence has a gravity, a pull.

I can’t ignore the truth here.

Claire doesn’t seem to notice. She sticks her hand out in my direction. “Hi, I’m Claire. Nice to meet you.”

I shake her hand, at a loss for words. “Luke,” I manage.

Eleanor and Claire exchange friendly words, but that all fades into the background as I rush through my thoughts.

If Diane and my dad had an affair, then it’s wholly possible that . . .

No, that’d be crazy. A lovechild? My father? Friendly family man Frank Wyatt? An affair and a love child? It’s too much to fathom.

“I’m glad I was able to stop by today,” Eleanor says. “I have the picture for you, and I also brought a thumb drive with your mother’s music.”

Claire smiles placidly. “That’s so kind of you.” Her eyes flick to me for a brief moment. Unsure and wary. Sizing me up.

Maybe she notices it too. Although that would be crazy, wouldn’t it? To meet a total stranger who has no context for who you might be in their life, and then guess that you might be related?

“Um, I actually did some digging into my records too, for information about Frank.”

My stomach flips. I shove my hands into my pockets, lifting my head up and looking for an exit path.

Eleanor touches my arm and squeezes. Her eyes are pleading with me. For what, at first, I’m not sure. And then it occurs to me that she wants me to be truthful. Give the truth I haven’t been able to give all these months. But Claire is a stranger and even though Stellan is busy with Shortbread a few strides away, the thought of bringing up the truth makes my mouth dry.

But I’ve come this far. I either learn and know, or I never know at all. I just keep asking questions.

Can I live a life full of questions? Can I live a life naïve to my own history?

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