Finding
Fisher is a short novel about love, lies, loyalty and what it means
to be truly alive.
Franklin Smith was the perfect fiancé. He was at the top of our class at Stanford and had been recently accepted to Harvard Law. But Spring Break our senior year of college changed everything. He went back home to New Jersey and never returned. At his funeral I discovered a guy I never knew. His secret past. And a twin brother, Fisher, I didn't know existed.
Franklin Smith was the perfect fiancé. He was at the top of our class at Stanford and had been recently accepted to Harvard Law. But Spring Break our senior year of college changed everything. He went back home to New Jersey and never returned. At his funeral I discovered a guy I never knew. His secret past. And a twin brother, Fisher, I didn't know existed.
When I learned about the tragic death of cover model Josh
Nicholson and saw the wonderful photos that Eric McKinney of 6:12
Photography had taken of Josh I just knew I had to write a book in
his memory. This is the novel that Joshua Scott Nicholson inspired.
A
portion of the profits from the cover and book sales will be donated
to Joining Hearts, Inc., a 501(c)(3), all-volunteer, non-profit
organization dedicated to providing housing support to people living
with HIV and AIDS in Atlanta, in memory of Josh.
When
I phoned information they gave me an address for Sherry Smith in Old
Town. Heading down a long, windy semi-paved dirt road I’m just
thankful I have a rental and not the luxury car my parents purchased
for me for my twenty-first birthday.
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 whose 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…”
“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 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.”
B&N / KOBO / iBOOKS / SMASHWORDS
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