But as the car moved away from her driveway, she watched the familiar neighborhood passing beyond the window and found she was not entirely calm. She was about to walk into a business bearing her family's name and deliberately surrender the protection that name usually gave her. She wondered whether the employees would offer patience, contempt, or simply indifference. She wondered whether Walter had been right to trust that a company could remember its first promise after it grew too large for its founders to know everyone.
And for the first time since his death, she wished he could sit in the other folding chair and tell her what he saw.
At ten minutes past nine, Caleb dropped her near a pharmacy across from the dealership. She walked the remaining distance herself, crossing at the traffic signal with a small group of pedestrians. The bus shelter stood directly opposite the Crestline entrance, its plastic bench occupied by a man holding a lunch pail and a woman with grocery bags. Margaret glanced at them, then at the glass building where a perfectly polished black sedan gleamed beneath white ceiling lights.
She stepped through the automatic doors. A soft chime sounded above her head, and cool air moved across her face. Several salespeople glanced up from their tablets. Nobody came forward.
Margaret waited. She had no reason to hurry, but she had already begun learning what she needed to know.
There were four sales consultants working the front floor that morning. Two stood near a display of SUVs, discussing something on a tablet. A third was finishing a phone call at a glass desk, while Brad Keller reviewed his appointments beside the showroom's newest sedan. Each person looked at Margaret long enough to register her worn clothes, then returned to what they were doing. A young receptionist offered a distracted hello without looking up from her screen.
Margaret approached the nearest desk. "Excuse me, dear. Would somebody be able to show me that black car by the window?"
The receptionist gave her a brief smile. "Do you have an appointment?"
"No. Is one required?"
"Not usually. Someone will be with you shortly." The young woman tapped something into the screen, hesitated, and added, "You can wait over there."
There were leather chairs inside a glass-walled waiting lounge, but the door bore a small plaque marked PRIVATE CLIENT AREA. Margaret looked toward it. The receptionist noticed her glance and explained that the lounge was reserved for customers meeting with sales representatives. Margaret asked where other customers should sit. The receptionist looked startled by the question, then suggested she stand near the brochure rack.
Margaret did so. She studied the brochures, the warranty descriptions, and the large photographs of smiling people beside expensive vehicles. One brochure promised that Crestline understood the needs of every driver. Another described the company as a trusted partner in life's important journeys. The words were well written, and their paper was thick. She wondered how many people had been paid to choose them.