The room was bathed in the warm, amber glow of a dozen mismatched lamps. There was no “other man.” Instead, the small space was filled with the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of old industrial sewing machines.
Teresa stood in the center of the room, surrounded by three elderly women. She wasn’t wearing her usual floral blouse; she was wearing a heavy leather apron, her hands stained with dark indigo dye.
“Mark?” she gasped, her face turning a deep crimson. “What are you doing here?”
I looked around, bewildered. On the long wooden tables were dozens of high-end, hand-stitched leather bags—the kind that sell for hundreds of dollars in boutiques downtown.
“You’re… sewing?” I stammered.
One of the older women, Mrs. Gable, chuckled. “She’s more than sewing, son. Your wife is the best leather-worker I’ve seen in thirty years. She’s been helping us finish the holiday orders.”
