Page 92 of Lost Love on 6th Street

Claire laughs. “Is this a photography thing?”

“There’s nothing like an original photograph.”

Claire takes the photo down from the wall and begins to undo the frame. “I’ve always loved this photo of her.”

“Me too. I mean—” I’m rambling like a madwoman. “When I came across it in our archives, I was immediately intrigued. She is just magnetic.”

Claire smiles proudly, her eyes pinching hard to keep from crying. “She was.”

When she removes the backing of the frame, I pause. There’s writing on the back.

Love, Frank

Obviously, on the copy, there wasn’t anything on the back.

“Who’s Frank?” I ask.

Claire frowns. “I don’t know, I never . . . I’ve never opened the frame.”

Frank must be the person who took this photo. And whoever Frank is had some love for Diane. Whether that’s friendly love or romantic, I’m not sure. But I have a feeling.

You can tell what a photographer is seeing from the quality of their images. And whoever was holding this camera saw Diane for the supernova she was.

They saw her beauty. They saw her magic.

They loved her.

And now I have even more questions.

30

LUKE

When I see Eleanor’s car pull up, it takes everything in me not to run over. Still, after all this time together, I count down the minutes until I can see her again.

I stride over to her car once it’s stopped and grab her door handle before she can step out.

Eleanor leaps out of the car and into my arms.

“Hey!” I say through a laugh.

She embraces me tight, tighter, tightest.

“Okay, anaconda, I can’t breathe!” I choke out.

Eleanor releases me, her head flying back with laughter. Ever since she’s decided to stay in Austin, she is so much more at ease. And it’s a beautiful thing. I love her poise and how she lifts that veil for me.

Before I can catch my breath, she pops upward to snatch my mouth into a kiss. When our lips part, she finally says, “Hi.”

“Hi . . .” I say, scooping her up by the waist, trying to hold as much of her as possible. “How was your day?”

“Good. Amazing. Fantastic.” Her hands slide down to my chest, fingers tracing the suspenders. “Better now that I’m seeing these in person.”

I laugh. “Okay, down girl. Tell me about your day before you get all hot and bothered over the suspenders.”

Hand in hand, we walk into The Maverick where the set is just starting. We sneak up to the bar where Whit and Jen are waiting eagerly to meet Eleanor. Her stories will have to wait. Introductions are whispered and friendly words are exchanged. Whit and Jen don’t give her the third degree they promised, instead remarking what a cute couple we are and how she’s different than the women I usually go for. I don’t love the mention of my past dating exploits, but I have to take the wins where I can.

Eleanor, is, of course, perfect. As always. Again, at ease, rather than on edge.

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