A Thief Opened a $250,000 Credit Line in My Name. The Bank Said My Co-Signer Was a Woman I’d Never Met

“Wanting to meet me?”

She was looking out her window. Her ears were pink.

“Two years ago,” she said, “I came to your dealership to buy a riding mower for my daddy’s place. You were out in the yard, helping an old farmer load a tractor onto a trailer. In a white shirt, with your sleeves rolled up. You were laughing. You took twenty minutes to show that old man how to work the hitch.”

“Mr. Tolbert,” I said. “He’s ninety-one.”

“I went back three more times. I bought a pressure washer I don’t need. A leaf blower. A chainsaw.” She covered her face with her hand. “I’ve never used a chainsaw in my life, Julius.”

I laughed so hard I had to pull onto the shoulder.

“You never said a word.”

“You were wearing a wedding ring,” she said softly. “I asked one of your salesmen. He told me about Grace. I figured some men only love once.”

I looked down at my left hand. I still wear that ring.

We walked into the bank in Atlanta an hour later. The lawyers had our affidavits, the police report and Lamont’s confession. They asked us a lot of questions. The last one was from a young attorney who looked very uncomfortable.

“Just to confirm for the record, you two are not, and have never been, married?”

“No,” said Noreen.

“Not yet,” I said.

She turned and stared at me. So did the young attorney.

The bank cleared us in writing that afternoon. Every dollar. Our credit was restored by the end of the month.

Lamont pleaded guilty in the spring.

Noreen and I have dinner every Friday now, at the diner in Moultrie, in the same booth. On our sixth Friday, I took off my ring and put it in Grace’s jewelry box, where I think she’d want it.

And I finally gave Noreen her first chainsaw lesson.

She was terrible at it. I’ve never had a better afternoon.