Page 31 of Lost Love on 6th Street

ELEANOR

“No, sorry, that’s not me,” the bartender says, shaking her head so the unnaturally red curls piled on top of her head jiggle.

“You sure?” I press.

She smiles sympathetically. “Yes, I know it’s surprising, but I can indeed recognize myself in a picture, hon.”

I bite my lip. Of course she can. I glance down at the photo. If I’m honest with myself, even I can tell it’s not her. It might have been nearly 30 years, but age doesn’t change a person’s entire bone structure.

Leaning on the bar, Luke says, “Well, thanks for indulging us, Susan.”

“Anytime. I like reliving my glory days,” she says with a toothy smile. “I played the spoons with the best of them, let me tell you.”

My curiosity is piqued. “The spoons?”

“Oh, yeah. A rarefied skill. That’s what Garth Brooks told me after he watched me play.”

“You met Garth Brooks?”

She waggles her eyebrows. “Met is a way to put it.”

“Wow. Okay. That’s . . . I bet that’s a great story.”

“You want to hear the details?” she says, folding her hand on the bar and leaning toward me. “I’ve got time.”

Of course she does.

It’s the middle of the day on a weekend and her bar is empty, save a few flies discussing their game of darts in a darkened corner. It’s a quintessential dive bar. It’s comforting to know that no matter where you go, a dive bar will always be a dive bar. Sticky floors, vibrant neon signs advertising beers, and a jukebox that still takes quarters. I imagine that, late in the night, patrons are elbow to elbow in here. However, in the day, it’s a ghost town.

A dive bar is as a dive bar does.

“Um . . .” How am I going to politely refuse this woman’s kissing and telling?

Luke puts his hand on my back, a comforting touch. Almost as if he is saying, “I got this.” My body relaxes immediately. “I think we’re good. We’ve got somewhere we have to be, and I bet that story is too interesting to rush through.”

“You got that right,” she says with a point of her finger. “Well, if you ever need a bit of entertainment, I’m around. Not just for the spoons.” She clicks her tongue and winks before waltzing off down the bar to attend to one of the dart throwers.

Luke and I look at each other. “Was she . . . propositioning you?” I ask.

His face sours. “No. At least, I don’t think so.”

“I think so,” I say in a low voice.

Luke scoffs before ticking his head toward the door. “Let’s get out of here. The smell of Schlitz is giving me a headache.”

He urges me toward the door with a press of his hand before removing his touch all together. Disappointment courses through my body. I ignore it.

We emerge from the bar into Saturday sunshine.

“Well, another bust,” I say sadly.

“Just a step closer to knowing the truth, right?” Luke says.

I grab my phone out of my bag and pull up the list of names. “Only one name left.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Diane Bloom.”

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