Page 23 of Lost Love on 6th Street

I gulp. I should have predicted he’d be wanting to check in about life stuff. I wouldn’t mind answering his questions if Eleanor wasn’t here. But we’re still relative strangers. “She’s good.”

“You’re visiting her, I hope?”

“As much as I can,” I reply.

Bobby tsks and puts some elbow grease into buffing his instrument. “You know, your old man was gone way too soon. Way too soon.”

Eleanor looks over at me, but I ignore her gaze. I don’t want to see the question in her eyes, or worse, the pity.

“Yeah, we miss him,” I say with a finality I hope gets the point across I don’t want to talk about it. “Listen, Bobby, Eleanor and I are on a bit of a mission, and we were hoping we could get your help with it.”

He pauses again and places the saxophone between his legs, leaning on it. “A mission? Well, I would never come between a man and woman on a mission. Shoot.”

I give Eleanor a look and though her expression is still resonating with the information she’s just learned, she catches on fast. She reaches into her bag and produces the photograph. “I work at the Reeder Music Library as a photo archivist, and I came across this photo a couple weeks ago. Trying to get more information on it for our database.”

“And Wyatt couldn’t help you? He’s basically an encyclopedia when it comes to this sort of thing.”

I chuckle and lean on the wall, crossing my arms over my chest. “For once, I’ve fallen short.”

“For once,” Bobby mutters and laughs to himself as he takes the photo and appraises it, looking down his nose and narrowing his eyes. “’93, huh? That’s when I was taking care of The Lone Star for—”

“That’s what Kenny told us when I asked him about it,” Luke says.

“We’d like to figure out who the woman in the picture is. You know, what’s her legacy? Maybe even get into contact with her,” Eleanor says, excitement growing. “I don’t know. There’s just something about it that makes me want to know more.”

Bobby is quiet as he scans the photo. Then, his dark brown eyes rise to meet mine. His expression is . . . confounding. Eyes focused in on me as if he’s studying a painting, lips parted just enough to make me wonder if he’s about to say something that will ruin everything.

My stomach twists. I’m terrified he’s about to blow this whole thing for me. Cut the mystery short and, consequently, my time with Eleanor.

“Do you know who she is?” Eleanor asks, breaking the silence.

Bobby snaps away from me, his friendly smile replacing that gut-churning expression. “I’ve been around a long while, Eleanor. She looks familiar, sure, but do I know who she is?” He shrugs. “Would take a miracle to unlock that part of my memory. Hell, that was almost thirty years ago.”

He hands the photo back to her. Though it’s a minute change, I can tell the disappointment is causing her to collapse in on herself. “Oh.”

“You think she might have performed at The Lone Star back then, though? She’s got a guitar,” I say, hopping to attention again.

Bobby nods. “It’s possible. But you know how many people walk down 6th Street carrying guitars that have no business carrying them?”

“True,” I say. I’ve been handed more demos than I know what to do with while working a job.

“There must be a schedule somewhere, right?” Eleanor offers. “A ledger that lists who might have performed there? I mean, it’s not a small venue by any means. There must have been a way to record things.”

Bobby’s lips dip down in consideration. “You’re not wrong. I still have all the paperwork from that time.”

Both Eleanor and I leap with excitement.

“You do?” Eleanor says with a hopeful gasp.

“Hold your horses, missy,” Bobby says, holding up his hand. “Like I said, thirty years is a long time. I’ve got thirty years of shit up in the attic. Much to my wife’s chagrin. I never throw anything away, that’s a fact. But I never . . .” He slides his fingers across some of the keys on his saxophone. “Never really organize it either.”

“Oh, come on, Bobby,” I say. “You know how important it is to keep traditions alive around here, right?”

“I do, I do,” he says.

“Then, who knows what kind of story could be missing here,” I say with a gesture toward the picture in Eleanor’s hand.

Again, Bobby looks at me. This time, his gaze is hardened. “Have you ever thought that sometimes the only reason we love stories is because we lose some of them?”

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