My Mother Recognized My Fake Fiance From an Autumn Night Five Years Ago
I nodded, my thumb brushing the silver ring on my left hand.
“He left a small cedar box in the back room,” Frank said, reaching under the counter. “He said it was for your table.”
He placed a small wooden box on the glass counter, its lid carved with a simple border of oak leaves.
The wood was unfinished, smelling of fresh pine and the oil Christopher had used to clean his old tools.
“Thank you, Frank,” I said.
“Take care of yourself, Mia,” he said, picking up his broom again. “The town gets quiet after the first hard freeze.”
I walked up the hill to Third Street, the wind catching the collar of my wool coat as I crossed the intersection.
Oakridge Hardware sat between the old bakery and the dry cleaner, its windows filled with galvanized buckets and iron skillets.
The heavy wooden door opened with a dull thud, the air inside warm and thick with the scent of motor oil and fertilizer.
An older man in a red flannel shirt was standing behind the counter, counting small brass wood screws into a paper bag.
