I feel like I’ve been slapped in the face when I see a run-down double-wide at the end of the driveway. The house, if you can call it that, has definitely seen better days. And those days weren’t in this century. The place is surrounded by old trucks in various states of disrepair along with piles of engine parts everywhere.
After I park the little Hyundai I hop out and stretch my long legs. I normally don’t do well in compacts, even with the seat back as far as it will go. This car is no exception.
As I look around for signs of life all I see are a few mangy-looking stray cats milling about, no doubt searching for rats or other varmints who will serve as their next meals.
Then I hear the faint sound of tapping. Followed by an “Oh, No!”
I guess it’s not just me and the cats here. I head toward the area from where the exclamation emanated.
An old truck that looks like it hasn’t been driven since the 1950s is behind another truck maybe from the 1970s.
There’s a man with the entire top half of his body underneath the hood of the older truck, obviously trying to fix it. All that’s visible as I approach is his bottom half, in tight-fitting Denim and black work boots.
I clear my throat, hoping to get his attention, but I get a rather annoyed “Just a minute” instead.
After sixty-two seconds pass I clear my throat again. “It’s been over a minute. Sixty-three seconds to be exact.”
He laughs. One that sounds familiar. Too familiar. His laugh sounds just like Franklin’s. A shiver runs through my entire body in response.
When he extricates himself from the hood of the car and turns toward me my knees buckle and I nearly faint.
The man grabs me just before I hit the dirt. Once he has me upright I notice that the brand new white silk shirt I’m wearing is now covered in grease.
“This can’t be happening,” I utter as I try to remember if grease can be removed from silk.
I quickly remove my stash of sanitizer wipes from my pocketbook and get to work trying to remove some of the grease from my shirt.
“I don’t think that’s going to work,” the man says.
He looks just like Franklin, but a disgustingly filthy version of my fiancé. Every inch of the guy is covered in grease and dirt. It’s like my worst nightmare come to life.
One of the few things I hate more than being disorganized is being dirty. I will do almost anything to avoid becoming soiled in any way.
The guy’s eyes search mine as if he’s trying to figure out what I’m doing standing in front of his old truck in the middle of nowhere New Jersey.
“Here,” I say as I hand him two of my sanitizer wipes to clean his grimy hands.
“That’s not going to work either.”
I hand him one additional wipe. “Better?”
He shakes his head. “Not really. I have special grease remover in the house. My hands are never completely clean, but I’m used to it. I’ve been a mechanic all my life.”
“Your voice,” I mutter. “You sound just like him. You look like him too. It’s unbelievable.”
“Like who?”
“Franklin.”
“I should. He’s—um—was—my twin brother.”
I feel my stomach start to knot. “He told me he was an only child.”
The guy lets out a cynical laugh. “I’m not surprised. When he left Old Town he left all of us behind. A hot shot lawyer and fancy politician doesn’t need a twin brother who’s a mechanic hanging around his neck. Better not to have a brother at all, I suppose.”
“He really is gone?” My voice cracks again. It’s starting to get annoying.
“He was gone a long time ago. When he left for Stanford he didn’t look back. But he is dead, if that’s what you mean.”
His face looks pained. Grubby and wounded.
As it finally starts to sink in that Franklin, my Franklin, really is gone. I can feel my entire body start to shake. And before I know what’s hit me I’m crying.
Me, Chloe Woodford, the girl who never shows any emotion, is blubbering like a child. “I just—don’t—understand—it,” I say between snivels.
“What?” Franklin’s brother whispers.
“Any of it.”
“Can you tell me what you’re doing here?”
I hold up my left hand, hoping he’ll take note of the 1.2 carat diamond engagement ring that Franklin bought me.
“Nice rock. So you’re rich. I figured that out before you flashed the bling. But it still doesn’t explain what you’re doing here.”
“Franklin is—um—was my fiancé.” I try to speak with as much dignity as I can muster, but the words still feel like they’re getting caught in my throat.
When he slams the hood of the truck closed I nearly jump out of my skin. I’m raw and on edge and the loud noise sends me reeling.
“I should have known.” He waves a hand up and down my body. “You fit every requirement he could ever want in a trophy wife. A tall, beautiful blonde. Model thin, but still has a nice rack. Your family obviously has money. And you go to Stanford, right? So you’re not dumb. You’re the perfect package. You would have made the ideal politician’s wife.”
“You’re not a very nice person,” is nearly all I can manage to say. “I lost my fiancé.”
“And I lost my twin brother. So what’s your point? There’s no law that says I have to be nice.”
I’m not sure what to do. I don’t like Franklin’s brother. I really don’t want to be around him and his filth, but I’m not sure I have any other options. I need answers and at least he’s giving me some, even if I don’t like the message or the messenger.
My mother is a shark is sheep’s clothing. And she always told me you can catch more flies with honey than vinegar. That might be a cliché, but I’ve always found it to be true. I decide to up the charm a few notches to see if I can entice Franklin’s brother to tell me more.
“So you’re a mechanic?” I bat my big blue eyes at him. “Do you work at a garage?”
“This is it.” He motions around the yard, which looks more like a junkyard. “I’m a mobile mechanic.”
“I’ve never heard of that.”
He removes a business card from the front pocket of his jeans and hands it to me. I try to take it in such a way that I don’t have to touch the grease stained fingerprints all over the outer edge.
“Are you afraid of getting dirty?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“You seem to have an aversion to it.”
“I don’t like it. I wouldn’t say I’m afraid of it.”
I examine the card: Fisher Smith, Mobile Mechanic and then a phone number.
“I’m Chloe Woodford, by the way, in case you’re interested.”
He just nods. And doesn’t really give me a clue whether he’s interested in knowing anything about me or not. But I soldier on because there are a lot of things I still want to know about Franklin. And in order for me to get the information I want I need to try to warm Mr. Iceman up a little bit.
“So do you drive around and fix people’s cars?”
He laughs. “That’s a small part of my business. The local sheriff is a buddy of mine. He refers anyone who breaks down on the side of the road. I work with local farmers, who need help with old trucks or even tractors or farm equipment. I also work on dirt bikes, race bikes, ATVs. If it has an engine I can fix it.”
Holding up the card I ask, “How’d you get the name Fisher?”
“My dad loved to fish. It was one of his favorite pastimes.”
“He doesn’t fish anymore?”
He shakes his head. “He died when Franklin and I were twelve. I guess he never told you that either.”
“Nope. How did he die? He must have been pretty young.” As soon as I ask the question I immediately regret it. Especially when I see the look on Fisher’s face.
“Shotgun suicide.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just…”
&nb
sp; “Franklin didn’t tell you much, did he?”
I let out a single, cold laugh. “He told me a lot. I’m just realizing that most of it wasn’t true. Your dad didn’t work on Wall Street either, did he?”
Now Fisher is the one who laughs. “Is that what he told you? Dad was a mechanic. Taught me everything I know.”
“What about your mom?” I ask.
“Mom started working at the local deli after my dad died. She’s been there ten years now. She works the breakfast and lunch shifts mostly. They’re known for their Taylor ham sandwiches. Best in the county. She’ll be back soon. Then I’ll be on the road. I’ve got to help Randy Barnes get his Jeep ready for race season.”
I had no idea that people raced Jeeps, but I keep that to myself. He seems to take it for granted that it’s common knowledge.
“Maybe I’d better go before she gets back.”
“Why?” For the first time since I arrived he actually sounds like he wants to talk to me.
“I phoned Franklin’s cellphone when he didn’t make it back to Stanford. Your mom answered and didn’t seem very happy to hear from me.”
“She’s been going through a lot the last few years. And losing her golden boy didn’t help. We have no idea what’s going to happen with Jackson. She’ll most likely get full custody. Not that she didn’t have him a lot anyway, but now it will be a 24-7 thing.”
My stomach knots as I ask the next question. “Who’s Jackson?”
The smallest of smiles appears on his face. “My brother was full of secrets, wasn’t he? Come on.”
As I follow Fisher into the double-wide I try not to gasp. The place looks like it could be featured on the television show Hoarders. There are piles of entertainment magazines everywhere. The spaces that are magazine-free are filled with laundry baskets filled with crumpled clothing.
At least the small kitchen is clean. If it was filled with dirty dishes or old food I think I would have gotten sick.
Fisher removes a small tin from under the kitchen sink. “This is the grease remover I was telling you about.” He slathers the stuff on then washes his hands. I would have preferred that he wash the grime off in the bathroom and I make a mental note not to take any food or beverages that come in contact with that sink.
Not that I expect any offers of food or drink to be forthcoming. Fisher has barely warmed up to me. He’s gone from cold and distant to lukewarm and indifferent. Call it a hunch but I don’t think his mother is going to be any more thrilled with my presence.
“My mom isn’t exactly a neat freak,” he explains as he removes some of the magazine piles from the couch. “And she loves to collect star magazines. Apparently she always dreamed of being an actress when she was a kid. Even wanted to leave Old Town and move to New York. But she got pregnant and got married instead. She never got the chance to leave. I think that’s one of the reasons she put Franklin on a pedestal. Because he got out. Not many people get out of this town. It’s like a vacuum. If you try to leave it just sucks you right back.”
I grew up in Beverly Hills. All of our neighbors were uber-wealthy and famous. Any house under three thousand square feet was considered a teardown. Most people owned pool houses bigger than this home. I’ve never actually been inside of a house that wasn’t a mansion and my only experience with trailers like this was watching the occasional redneck reality show.
“Jackson is taking his nap. But it’s almost time to wake him up. Otherwise he won’t sleep tonight.”
We walk down a small hallway lined with family photos and stop at one of the bedrooms. My heart is racing. Deep down I have a feeling I already know what’s behind the door. I’m just not sure I’m ready to face it.
As Fisher very softly opens the bedroom door my eyes immediately land on the small boy lying in the single bed. The room is sparsely decorated, with a few hand drawn pictures on the walls and just a few stray toys on the floor.
“Jackson,” Fisher touches the boy’s arm. “Time to wake up.”
He blinks a few times as he opens his eyes and then rubs them. It takes a few moments for him to notice me standing in his room. Then he points to me. “Who’s that?”
“That’s Chloe. She was one of your dad’s friends from college.”
My chest completely constricts when he says the words I knew were inevitable, but still didn’t want to hear.
“She’s pretty,” Jackson says as he climbs out of bed.
My head is spinning so much I feel like I might pass out. “I need to sit down,” I stammer as I hurry out of the bedroom and down the hallway into the small living room.
I plonk down on the couch between the two remaining piles of magazines stacked on either side of me. I’m obviously not feeling well because I completely disregard the fact that the couch looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in forever, or maybe ever.
Jackson runs right past me into the kitchen and climbs onto one of two stools next to the counter.
“Snack time,” Fisher announces as he walks past me.
I’m an only child, so I don’t have any nieces or nephews. I don’t have any friends with small children. My experience with kids is limited to the occasional cute kid YouTube video.
I have no idea how old Jackson is so I can’t gage whether he’s big or small for his age. Not that knowing his age would make much of a difference. I don’t know anything about children. And I didn’t expect I’d have to learn until I was well into my thirties and considering starting a family with Franklin.
He just never bothered to tell me he had already started a family with someone else.
Jackson’s shaggy brown hair is still messy from his nap. I notice that he has big, dark brown puppy dog eyes that seem so huge on his small face.
“Lunchable!” Jackson yells. His high-pitched shriek is already giving me a headache. Or at least adding to the headache I already have.
“I know,” Fisher says in a calm voice. He reaches into the refrigerator and removes a small box, which he places in front of Jackson. He takes his time removing the plastic and making sure the items in the box are kid ready.
For such a gruff guy Fisher is much more nurturing than I ever would have expected. He’s certainly a lot more nurturing than I anticipate I’ll ever be.
Franklin and I never talked about our past relationships. He said it was because it was our future together that mattered, not our pasts. I certainly wasn’t naïve enough to believe he had never been with other girls, but the idea of another woman giving birth to his child is making my stomach turn.
“Who is Jackson’s mom?” I ask as quietly as I can. I don’t want to upset the boy but the question has been burning in my mind.
“Olivia Hathaway. She was in the car with Franklin. He lost both of his parents the same day.”
I know I should feel sad for Jackson, but I have so many other emotions competing for space inside of me right now, I don’t have much room to feel sorry for him.
“Were they—um—still—together?”
“I’m not sure how to answer that question. They had a history together. They were high school sweethearts. And they had Jackson together. Franklin saw her whenever he came back to town. But they’re the only ones who know what happened between them behind closed doors. Olivia always thought they’d be together again one day. When she found out he got accepted to Harvard Law, she actually started to make plans to move to Massachusetts so she and Jackson could be closer to him. She obviously didn’t know about you.”
Franklin and I had plans to get a place together when we went to law school. We had just started looking at apartments online. And making plans for a wedding. How could he not tell me he has a son?
“Would you like to do me a huge favor?” Fisher asks.
The request surprises me, but the idea of him owing me one is definitely appealing. “What would you like me to do?”
“Watch Jackson while I run up to the deli to pick up my mom. That way I won’t have to deal with the car seat. It’ll save
me a lot of time.”
“I’ve never been alone with a child before.”
“I’ll be gone fifteen minutes tops.”
Jackson is gobbling crackers and cheese and leaving crumbs everywhere. I resist the urge to grab a napkin and clean up after him.
“Would you rather go up to the deli and pick up my mom?” he asks.
“Not particularly.” I think about our terrible phone conversation and don’t exactly want a repeat performance.
“Maybe I should just go,” I offer. As badly as I want to ask him more questions about Franklin and his family, I don’t know if I want to stick around for Mrs. Smith’s appearance.
“You don’t have to leave.” For the first time since I arrived he actually sounds like he’s letting his guard down a bit.
“Juice!” Jackson yells. “I’m thirsty.”
“Sorry, Buddy.” Fisher pats his head. “I forgot.” He reaches into the refrigerator and removes a cardboard juice box. Then he takes the little straw from the side of the box and pokes it into the juice box before he hands it to Jackson.
“What do you say?” he prompts.
Jackson rolls his eyes. “Thank you.”
“Maybe I’d better be the one to pick up your mom. The Lunchable and the juice box seem to be a little more than I can handle.”
“You passed the deli on your way in. Go back to the highway and turn right. It’s about three miles on the left. You can’t miss it. It’s right next to the gas station.”
“About three miles. You can’t be more precise than that?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t need to be. It’s about three miles. That means three miles more or less.”
“What that means to me is that you don’t really know exactly how far away it is even though you probably pass it every day.”
“I pass it at least two times a day and I still don’t care exactly how far it is to the deli. Does everything have to be that precise?”
“If you can be precise you should be. That’s why odometers are calibrated to the tenth of a mile. If the measurement is there you should use it.”
Finding Fisher Page 2
