My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
My father paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. “You did the physical work yourself?”
“Every bit of it,” Christopher said. “I had a shop on the north side of the county. Six men on the payroll, two flatbed trucks, and enough dry walnut in the shed to keep us busy for three winters.”
My mother set her fork down with a sharp clink against her plate. “A workshop,” she said. “I thought Mia said you managed historical preservation funds for the state.”
“I advise on the structural integrity,” Christopher said, his voice dropping an octave. “You cannot know if a building will stand by looking at the budget sheets. You have to get under the crawlspace and feel the sills.”
“It sounds like a dirty business,” my mother said.
“It is honest,” Christopher said.
My father took a slow sip of his water, his eyes moving from Christopher’s face down to his hands. “Walnut is hard to find in good lengths these days. What happened to the shop?”
Christopher reached down, his thumb brushing his left coat lapel before he answered. “A road accident,” he said. “Five years ago.”
