Page 93 of Lost Love on 6th Street

Whit and Jen finally leave us alone to go enjoy the stylings of Eddie Black, fingerpicking extraordinaire.

Over two Shiner Bocks, because she’s an Austinite now, Eleanor regales me with the story of her day.

“So, Claire—that’s the woman who owns the place—said that Shortbread needs a couple more weeks to get his shots before he’ll be available for adoption,” Eleanor says.

“Sounds like it was meant to be,” I say.

Eleanor leans toward me. “Yeah, that’s what I’d say too.”

Our lips brush in a chaste kiss. Just because it’s chaste doesn’t mean it doesn’t light my body on fire. I have visions of taking her home tonight and giving her the ride of her life, watching her curls tumble around her face and the look of ease transforming into pleasure.

“But that’s not even the craziest thing that happened,” Eleanor says.

“Oh?”

She clamps her teeth down on her lower lip, smiling. “You are not going to believe this—Claire is Diane’s daughter.”

It takes me a second to add up all the words she’s said into a sentence that makes sense. “Diane?”

“Like the Diane.”

My pulse skips.

“Diane Bloom? The woman in the photo that brought us together?”

Don’t remind me. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep the guilt at bay forever. I knew that one day it would all catch up with me. I prayed it wouldn’t, that I would luck out and Diane would become just a plot point in our love story, not a recurring theme. I should have known I wouldn’t be so lucky. “Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m just confused. How did you—”

“The picture. The original. It was on the wall of Claire’s office.”

“And Claire is Diane’s daughter?” I ask, trying to add up the pieces. Aunt Diane had a child? Assumedly, a husband too, and a whole life beyond her life I was a part of. I guess that’s the self-possession we all have as children. When we are little, we believe that the road rises to meet us. That the world is conjured for our benefit, rather than us existing amongst stories that are already being told.

“Yes! Diane apparently started the sanctuary, and when she died her daughter took it over. Claire didn’t even know about her mother’s recordings. Isn’t that crazy? I told her that she should come to the library and check out the exhibit as my guest. I mean, think about it. All the ways we can fill in the story.”

I nod slowly. Life is moving around me like water. The bounding fingerpicking of Eddie Black is sludgy, and the soft conversations and clinking of glasses are like echoes in a cavern.

“And! Oh my god, this is the best part!”

“Oh, there’s something better?” I say, trying to laugh. It squeaks out from the back of my throat. I hope Eleanor can’t tell how panic is strangling me.

“There was a note on the back of the original photo,” she says in a clandestine whisper.

“A note?”

She takes a big swig of her beer. “Yes, a note.”

“What kind of note?”

Eleanor smiles. She’s enjoying this so much I don’t think she’s even clocking my reactions, thank god. “Two words. That’s it.”

I wait with bated breath. I don’t even have a guess. I have no idea what kind of note it could be, especially one that’s only two words.

“Love. Frank.”

The slowness of the water turns into the rigidness of ice.

Love, Frank

“That’s crazy,” I say, though my voice doesn’t feel like my own.

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