My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
“I spent thirty years in carpentry,” Christopher said in his slow, gravelly rumble. “Mostly timber framing and restoring old barns.”
Frank snipped a lock of grey-streaked hair, his scissors making a steady, rhythmic clicking sound. “Hard work, but honest. What brought you to Oakridge?”
“An accident,” Christopher said, his voice dropping slightly.
Frank stopped his scissors for a second, then wiped them on his white cloth again before continuing his work. I stood by the coat rack, watching the silver hair fall onto the linoleum floor.
At one o’clock, we stood inside the department store on Main Street, surrounded by the smell of new wool and starch. I found a charcoal wool sweater on a hanger, priced at seventy dollars, and held it up against Christopher’s broad chest.
“Try this on,” I said. “It will look right for dinner.”
He took the sweater and stepped into the small fitting room, pulling the blue curtain shut. I waited outside, listening to the quiet hum of the fluorescent lights above us.
