My mother slowed slightly.
“You bought Grandma’s prom dress?”
He nodded.
“Fifty-two years ago.”
Neither of us spoke.
The pieces were beginning to fit together.
Grandma had never talked much about her prom.
Or her first love.
Or why she sometimes became quiet whenever old songs played on the radio.
The man looked out the window again.
“My name is Thomas.”
My mother inhaled sharply.
The name clearly meant something to her.
“Thomas Reed?”
He nodded.
Mom almost missed the next turn.
