Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
The smell of peppermint drops and rubbing alcohol always filled the small corner shop on Main Street.
Mr. Davis stood behind the tall wooden counter, his silver hair neatly combed back under the bright fluorescent lights.
“Mason, Clara,” he said, looking up from a plastic bottle he was labeling. “What can I do for you two today? Wedding plans coming along?”
“Well, we are getting closer,” I said, rolling my gold engagement ring around my finger.
Mason leaned against the high counter, his shoulder tense. “Mr. Davis, we are a little worried about my grandmother’s health.”
The pharmacist lowered his wire-rimmed glasses, his eyes shifting from Mason to me. “Maribel is a strong woman, Mason. She has always taken good care of herself.”
“Has she picked up any new medications lately?” Mason asked. “Something different from her usual blood pressure pills?”
Mr. Davis slowly set the plastic bottle down on a black rubber mat.
“You know I cannot discuss Maribel’s prescriptions with anyone but her or Evelyn,” he said.
“We just want to make sure she is safe,” I said, my hand touching the cold glass of the display case. “We are not trying to pry.”
