Christina straightened. "Mr. Croft, you will not speak to my grandson that way."
"I have no interest in arguing with this family," Croft replied. "Either provide proof of funds or leave."
William looked at the displayed price and the color of the paint. Something moved behind his eyes: recognition, then memory. He was eight years old again, sitting beneath a kitchen light while his grandmother cut fabric at the table and his grandfather tried to repair an old tape player. He could almost feel the cheap blue crayon in his fingers.
"That car?" he asked Christina softly.
She gave a small, embarrassed nod. "You remember the pictures you used to draw? The blue ones? I thought maybe one of those dreams could have a birthday."
For a moment William could not answer. He had signed contracts with seven figures attached to them, negotiated with executives who tried to unsettle him, and stood in front of hundreds of investors without losing his words. But an elderly woman in a faded sweater had just explained that she wanted to spend a piece of her life's savings giving him back a childhood dream, and the idea nearly broke his composure.
"Grandma," he said quietly, "you already gave me a life. I don't know how to accept something like that."
"You don't have to decide right now," she answered. "I wanted to ask a few questions first."
"Well, that's touching," Croft interrupted. "But the price is still the price. Sentimental stories don't make a sale."
Anna made a sound of disbelief. William turned toward him, his face no longer merely concerned. "You are going to stop speaking to her like that," he said. "Right now."
Croft folded his arms. "You're threatening my job because I refuse to entertain your grandmother's fantasy."
"I haven't threatened your job. I've asked you to stop being cruel."
"I'm judging whether someone is capable of buying a car. That's what I get paid to do."
"Then you should know how to ask a question without humiliating the person you're asking," William replied. "The issue isn't her bank account. It's your behavior."
By then an assistant sales manager named Peter Sloan had arrived from the rear offices. He was carrying two folders and wearing the startled expression of a man who had expected an ordinary staffing question and found the entire showroom looking toward him. Croft immediately began explaining the situation in phrases such as nuisance visitors and customer standards, carefully omitting the precise words he had used.
"Mr. Sloan," William said, "will you please ask the manager to stop interrupting so my grandmother can explain what happened?"
Peter glanced at Croft and then at Christina. "Of course, sir. Ma'am, I'm sorry. Is there something we can help you with?"
"I was interested in the blue car," Christina said. "I wanted to see the inspection records and learn whether I could have it delivered on my grandson's birthday. That was all."
Peter's brow creased. "We can absolutely discuss both of those things. I'm not sure why that wasn't handled at the desk."