The blue sports car stood beneath a circle of showroom lights, so polished that the ceiling seemed to float across its hood.
Seventy-three-year-old Christina Bennett had been looking at it for less than a minute when the man in the expensive gray suit told her she did not belong there.
He said it loudly enough for the customers near the coffee counter to hear, and he smiled afterward, as though embarrassing an elderly woman were part of the service the showroom provided. Christina tightened her fingers around the handle of her worn brown handbag and tried once more to explain why she had come.
"My grandson's birthday is coming," she said. "His name is William. He's worked harder than anybody I know, and I want to give him something special. Would you please tell me about this car?"
The man looked from her sensible shoes to the faded blue cardigan she had buttoned over her Sunday blouse. His name was Richard Croft, and the silver badge on his lapel identified him as general sales manager of Sterling Motor Gallery. Behind him stretched a building full of Italian leather, imported marble, dramatic lighting, and cars that cost as much as some people's houses. He had spent the morning greeting men wearing gold watches and women carrying designer bags; now he regarded Christina as if she had tracked mud across his favorite carpet.
"Madam," he said, "this is a luxury showroom, not a place for window shopping. Are you sure you're in the right building?"
"Yes, sir. I checked the address twice." Christina glanced toward the car. "I would like to know whether the blue one is available. I have some questions about it."
Croft gave a short laugh. "Available? Do you have any idea what these vehicles cost?"
"I have an idea," she said. "That's why I came to ask."
"Then do yourself a favor and leave before you embarrass yourself any further."
A young salesperson behind the reception desk lowered her eyes. At the coffee counter a woman in a tan jacket turned toward them, her expression changing from distracted curiosity to disbelief. Christina noticed both reactions, and for a moment she considered walking away without another word. She had survived too much in seventy-three years to mistake a rude man for a judge of her worth, but knowing that did not make humiliation painless.
"I am only asking for your assistance," she said. "Is that too much to ask?"
"Not everyone belongs in a showroom like this," Croft replied. "Stop wasting my time."
"That's enough." The woman in the tan jacket set down her coffee. "Who gave you the right to speak to her that way?"
Croft's smile disappeared. "Miss Anna, you're crossing a line. I will not have a customer tell me how to run my showroom."
"Then run it like a place where customers are welcome," Anna said. "She asked about a car. You haven't even asked what she needs."
"Why don't you pay for it yourself if you're so concerned?" Croft said. "Go ahead. Prove she belongs here."