Page 67 of Lost Love on 6th Street

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I pace the lobby of the Reeder Music Library. I’ve been here to pick Eleanor up from work many times over the past two months, but never have I been this anxious.

“You want to sit?” the young woman at the reception desk offers in a chipper voice, gesturing toward a wooden bench along the wall.

“I’m good,” I say.

She smiles haplessly. I can tell she’s worried I’m driving away customers, but it’s the middle of the day on a weekday, and the lobby is absolutely silent. “Eleanor is helping with the final touches on an exhibition; it might be a while until she can step away.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ve got time.”

“I’ll try the archive extension again,” the woman says, lifting the phone to her ear.

“Please.”

She doesn’t get an answer. I’ve sent Eleanor a few text messages already. When I left the office, when I got in my car, and when I arrived here. She’ll know when she knows, and I’ll be here when she does.

A few minutes later, Eleanor emerges from the exhibition hall. I want to run to her with all my bursting excitement, but it’s her place of work, and I’ve already made enough of a scene. Plus, her forced smile and dull eyes give me pause.

“Luke, what are you doing here?” she asks, her phone in one hand, drawn up to our text conversation.

I close in on her so as not to be overheard. “Hey, I needed to talk to you about something.”

There’s obvious annoyance in her expression. “Now?”

“Yeah, it’s important,” I say. Randy’s brother gave me until the end of the day to accept the offer or else he’d be raising the price and putting it up for rent online tomorrow. It’s now or never.

Jolene appears behind Eleanor. “Well, hi, Luke,” she says with a smile.

“Hi, Jolene.” We’ve met a couple of times now through my visits to the archive.

“Jo, can I have a couple minutes?” Eleanor asks. I hope the edge in her voice will be alleviated once she knows why I’ve come.

“Of course, I’d never dream of keeping you from your cowboy,” Jolene teases.

Eleanor flushes cherry red. She’s so damned cute when she’s flustered.

“In fact, why don’t you go show him the exhibit? A sneak peek?”

With a large sigh, Eleanor agrees. As she leads me into the exhibition hall, I mouth a “thank you” to Jolene who gives me a big thumbs up. It’s always helpful to have an ally on the inside.

Eleanor leads me into a room off the main gallery. There are photographs lining the walls, memorabilia in cases, and music is already wafting through the speakers. A few other people work around the room, discussing things in hushed voices or carefully adhering lettering to walls, all of them blank except one at the very back.

I follow Eleanor in silence through the exhibition hall, not wanting to draw attention to us. We stop in front of the covered wall which I realize is a blown-up image of 6th Street, blurred and edited to serve as a backdrop to the other framed images and memorabilia.

“Is that . . .” I begin.

“Yeah, it’s mine,” she says with a proud smile, her arms crossing in front of her.

I can’t draw my eyes away from the photo.

“I took it the night we met. Cool, huh?”

I laugh in disbelief. “Cool? It’s beyond cool.”

Eleanor merely smiles.

I grab her by the shoulder and pull her to my side. “You’re way too humble, Nor.”

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