11
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.”
Luke scratches his hand back through his hair before tucking his hat onto his head, shade engulfing his features. “Let’s head to the car. Need the AC.”
We walk side by side toward his car. Luke and I have spent the last two weeks going through the names on the list we formulated from Bobby’s ledger. We’ve called some people and others we’ve found on Google. It’s been a true scavenger hunt through the who’s who of Austin’s music scene past. At first, it was fun. Nancy Drew and one of the Hardy Boys.
Except now, we’re at the end of the list and no closer than we were when we started.
Luke walks faster than I do. It’s not just the long legs this time, though. I’ve got my eyes plastered to my phone screen as I type in “Diane Bloom.” I can’t wait until I get to the car. I need to rip off the Band-Aid.
The webpage thinks for a moment before the results pop up. A PhD at UNC. Some LinkedIn profiles. A purveyor of crystals.
I return to the search bar and type in “Austin” after the name.
“Eleanor, come on, you’re going to get a sunburn,” Luke calls out.
“I’ll be fine,” I say before pressing search.
My heart falls at the sight of the first result.
Diane Bloom Obituary.
I stop in my tracks.
There was never a promise I would find whoever the woman in this picture was, let alone find her alive.
Still, though. It’s heavy.
I tap the link and pull up the obit.
Diane Bloom, a devoted mother, musician, and animal lover, passed away peacefully after a courageous battle with breast cancer. Throughout her life, Diane’s love for music was a guiding force, shaping her journey and leaving an indelible mark on those around her. Her guitar was never far out of reach, and she could always be caught humming a tune.
Diane is survived by her loving daughter and her “pack.” Diane’s legacy lives on through the music she wrote and the love she gave to all the humans and animals around her.
In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations be made to Playing For Change to honor Diane’s love for music and conservation.
Below the paragraphs is a headshot of a woman holding a little girl with flaxen hair. One of those department store photo sessions.
It’s her. The woman from the photo.
The screen blurs as tears fill my eyes.
“Hey.”
I was so focused on reading I didn’t notice Luke. He’s standing in front of me, so close that his hat provides a little bit of shade for me. Blessed shade.
“She’s dead,” I say.
Luke is silent. I push my phone into his hand and head over to the car, knocking the tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand. I don’t know why I’m crying. It’s just a photo, a photo of a woman I’ve never met. So embarrassing. I grab the door handle and pull. It’s locked. “Can you unlock it please?” I ask.
“Eleanor . . .”
“Luke, just unlock the car.” I’m so tired. We’ve come this far. And she’s not even alive.
His hand lands on my shoulder. Relief floods through me. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay. This was . . . this was a waste of time,” I say, my voice crimping higher and higher with each word.
Luke slides his hand across my back. “Was the point to find her alive?”
I sigh. “No, it’s—” My voice locks in the back of my throat. I tighten my jaw to keep from a sob coming out of me. Swallow it back. You’re fine . “I just didn’t expect to get so attached. And I didn’t expect she’d be gone.”
It’s my fault. Diane has never been only a woman in a picture. “She’s real. You know? It’s real life and I just wasn’t prepared.”
Luke smiles sympathetically. “C’mere.”
I let him pull me into his chest. I don’t care that it’s hot as hell out here, and I don’t care that I smell like sweat. The second I’m pressed to him, all my tears abate, and my body relaxes. I’m not sure why. Maybe the fact that he’s one of the first friends I’ve made here in Austin. One of the first friends I’ve made as an adult. Something that’s always been harder as I’ve grown older.
I don’t know why he feels so compelled to be around me. Why he wants to comfort me as I cry.
But god am I thankful for it.
Luke’s arms lock around my neck and his lips brush my scalp. Almost like a kiss. He whispers, “I know it’s not what you hoped.”
“I don’t know what I hoped,” I say tearfully. I wanted the truth. Wanted answers. Wanted a story. And after Jolene said a story might solidify my permanent place at the library, I’ve hung my hat on the idea that I could weave a beautiful tale of the woman in the picture.
Diane.
Who knows what her story really is? She isn’t around to tell it.
I rip myself away from Luke and wipe the remainder of my tears away. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”
Luke gives me a lopsided smile. “If I recall, I’m the one who invited myself along on this journey.”
“Still. I get so obsessive and then . . .” I sigh heavily. “I don’t know why I’m so disappointed.”
Luke reaches his hand into my bag. I furrow my brow, but don’t pull away, watching as he roots through all the contents.
“Jesus, does this thing belong to Mary Poppins? You’ve got everything in here,” he remarks.
I manage a laugh, though tears still bud in my eyes.
Finally, he gets what he was looking for. The picture. He holds it up. And for the first time in a while, I get a good look at it again. Guitar case in hand. Arm up in the air. Celebrating. Smiling. Tousled dark hair.
“You found the truth out, didn’t you?” he asks. “Found out who she was.”
“Yes, but . . . I don’t know, I thought there’d be more,” I say, wincing at the truth. “Is that weird?”
Luke shakes his head. “No. I just think you’re underestimating what a beautiful thing you’ve done.”
I laugh humorlessly. “What’s beautiful about some random person trying to track down—”
“The past few weeks, you’ve been celebrating someone who is no longer with us. You’ve been honoring her. And you didn’t even know it.”
I draw my eyes up to Luke’s. I don’t know how he manages to make his clear blue eyes feel so warm, but they feel like walking inside after a cold winter day in Chicago. The enveloping invitation of heat. “But now it’s over,” I say.
Luke’s forehead wrinkles at the center. “What are you talking about? Just because she’s not here doesn’t mean her story doesn’t live on.”
“I guess.” I take my phone from him. “There’s probably a way to contact her daughter, but that feels invasive and inappropriate.”
“Maybe.”
My face is starting to hurt. Sinus pressure from crying.
“You know her name now, though. That might yield something new.”
“The picture’s not even an original,” I grumble before taking it from him and stuffing it back in my bag, more harshly than I mean to. Guilt sifts through my blood. Just because it’s not a real photo—just because she’s not alive—doesn’t mean the journey to get here is meaningless. “My heart hurts,” I admit.
Luke hums thoughtfully. “Look at it this way. You spent the past few weeks learning Austin’s music forwards and backwards. You discovered the city. That counts for something, right?”
The hopefulness laced in his voice kills me. “I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful for all your help or the time we got to spend together.”
“Don’t do that,” he chastises.
“Do what?”
“Talk about us like we’re in past tense,” Luke says.
My brows lift. “Well, I mean . . . I don’t want you to feel obligated to spend more time with me.”
“As if any of this has been an obligation? You know how much fun I have telling people about my city? About the best music in the world?” he asks, disbelief in his expression. “You seriously think I’m doing all of this because I feel obligated?”
“Southern hospitality, right?” I ask.
Luke’s eyes pass over my face. His effervescent smile thins. He gives a subtle shake of his head. “Naw, you got me all wrong, Eleanor.”
I swallow, praying it’s not audible. “Well, you said it yourself. You’re supposed to be kind.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not genuine.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. I hope I haven’t offended him.
“You think I’d spend three weeks carting you around Austin during my time off if I didn’t enjoy being around you?” Luke asks, the smile returning.
Don’t smile like a maniac. That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long time. It feels nice to be enjoyed.
Luke bites down on his lower lip and sucks in through his teeth before giving a hard nod. “Yeah. Okay. I know what we’re going to do.”
He unlocks the car and opens the door for me as he always does. I resist a swoon as I always do. “What are we doing?”
Luke circles the car. “We gotta get your mind off things. I’m going to show you Austin. Not just because of a picture, but because I want to.”
We stare at each other over the top of the car.
His tongue glides across his lower lip, eyelids hovering lower. “Got it?”
I nod like a dashboard bobblehead. “G-got it.”
He grins. “Good.”