He sat heavily.
“I can tell you what Thomas told me. But I don't know every detail of what happened forty-six years ago.”
“Then tell me.”
Mr. Harrison looked toward the window.
“Julian's mother worked at Thomas's first store.”
The room seemed to spin.
Our first store.
The little shop we had opened with the savings from my teaching salary and the money Thomas borrowed from his uncle.
I remembered stocking shelves until midnight.
Handwriting price tags.
Taking inventory while Thomas repaired the ancient cash register.
I remembered being proud of how hard we worked.
And now I was being told another woman had been there.
A woman I'd somehow forgotten—or perhaps never met.
“Eleanor worked evenings,” Mr. Harrison continued. “Mostly while you were away caring for your mother.”
My heart stopped.
I remembered that year.
My mother had suffered a stroke.
I'd traveled nearly three hundred miles to look after her.
