My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
I turned the sedan onto the long, paved avenue where the maples had already dropped most of their leaves, leaving the gray branches bare against the late afternoon sky. The damp smell of oak leaves drifted through the car vents, carrying the first real chill of November.
“My father will ask about your family,” I said, twisting the silver band on my left thumb. “Just tell him they are in Ohio. He does not like to probe if it means a long conversation.”
“And your mother?” Christopher asked.
“She will probe,” I said. “She will ask about your investment portfolio. I told her you were a silent partner in a restoration firm.”
He did not answer, but his gaze drifted to the dashboard where the yellowing plastic holder of my registration card sat tucked against the windshield.
We pulled into the circular gravel driveway of my parents’ two-story colonial home. The house sat behind two towering oaks, its white shutters perfectly aligned, the brass knocker on the front door polished to a mirror finish.
Christopher did not get out of the car immediately. He reached forward and tapped the edge of the registration card with his index finger.
