Page 91 of Lost Love on 6th Street

That must be her mother. Claire has only made past-tense references to her mother.

Above that is a portrait picture of the same woman and Claire, I’m assuming, when she was a little girl. It’s one of those department store photos with a gray, swirly background. Claire is wearing a dress scattered with watermelons and a floppy hat like Blossom might wear. She’s leaning back into her mother’s arms, arms that are full of life and strength.

It must be difficult to watch someone go like that. I think about Luke’s father. How he was gone all at once. Would he rather have watched him go bit by bit?

The woman’s face catches me off-guard. Her hair is long and almost black. And her face . . .

I know that face.

Claire rolls back to me and starts to slide the paperwork toward me, but my eyes travel up to the top picture.

My jaw drops.

I catalog every detail. Dark shoulder-length shag haircut, big grin, flannel draped over a dress, a guitar case in her hand.

The Lone Star.

“So, all you have to do is sign and date. There’s no obligation, financial or otherwise, this is just so we have it on file that Shortbread—"

“Is your mom’s name Diane?” I ask, my mouth growing hot.

Claire’s eyebrows jump up. She follows my gaze to the wall as if trying to figure out how I got that information just from the photos. “Um, yeah. How did you know that?”

I get to my feet. I can’t help myself. I need to see it up close, to know if this is real. “I’ve seen this picture before,” I say, pointing at the top photo.

Up close, nothing changes.

It’s the exact same picture.

Maybe even the original.

“You have?” Claire’s tone is skeptical. I’m probably scaring her.

I place my hand to my chest, gesturing toward the photo with the other one. “I’ve been working at the Reeder Music Library in the archives, and I came across a copy of this photo. My boyfriend and I were trying to figure out who the woman was and—and—” I smile. “She’s your mom!”

Claire stops looking at me like a crazy person and starts to smile too.

“We found her obituary and then my boyfriend—he’s in the music industry—he was able to find her demos. Have you ever heard her music?”

Claire’s brows jump. “No, I mean, she played, but I never knew she recorded anything.”

“She did!” I exclaim. My heart is starting to race. There’s a reason I stayed in Austin. I mean, there are plenty of reasons, but this one feels the most incredible. If I had walked away, if I hadn’t decided I was going to make Austin my home, I never would have thought about getting a dog here, I never would have come to Harmony Hounds, I never would have met Claire, and I never would have— “In fact, I wanted to get your mom’s photo featured in an exhibit we’re having at the library, but, because I didn’t have the original, they wouldn’t let me. But if you’d be willing to loan it to me, maybe I could feature her.”

Claire gets up, plopping Janis in her chair before coming over to meet me in front of the photos. “As long as I would get it back—”

“Of course, of course.” I adjust my glasses. “I will bring you the copy as collateral.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

Claire’s blue eyes are glistening. “And the music. Please, could you bring her music?”

“Yes, absolutely, I’ll load it onto a flash drive and bring it the next time I come up.”

She inhales, a smile spreading across her face. “Thank you. That would be . . . thank you.”

We both look at the photo. This is why I love photography. It’s just a piece of paper, but it’s a moment in time that can unite strangers in an instant.

I clap my hands at my chest. “Could I see it? Out of the frame.”

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