Ten minutes passed. A couple entered wearing matching business clothes, and a salesperson approached before the door had fully closed. They were offered coffee and escorted to the private lounge. Margaret watched the exchange without resentment toward the couple. She was pleased they were being treated kindly. What concerned her was the obvious difference between the greeting they received and the empty space around her.
Another fifteen minutes went by. A salesman carrying a tablet brushed past her, almost touching her shoulder. He apologized without stopping. Margaret walked toward the black sedan and read the information displayed on its roof-mounted placard: flagship luxury model, upgraded interior, driver-assistance package, special metallic finish.
She liked the shape of the car. Walter would have criticized how little room there was beneath the hood for a mechanic's hands, but he would have admired the fit of the doors. She bent slightly to examine the seam between the fender and the hood. The paint reflected her small, careful figure back at her.
"Can I help you?" a sharp voice asked.
Brad Keller stood behind her, straightening a cuff beneath an expensive watch. He was in his early forties, neatly groomed, with a charcoal suit cut close at the waist and shoes that looked newly polished. His expression suggested that he had already decided the answer to his own question. Margaret straightened and smiled.
"I hope so. I'd like to see inside this car, if that's possible."
Brad's gaze traveled down her cardigan and stopped at her sensible shoes. "This is one of our premium vehicles, ma'am. Prices on this floor start at eighty thousand."
"I noticed."
"We have less expensive vehicles at our other location. You may have taken the wrong bus. The stop is right across the street."
Margaret felt the remark settle inside her like a small piece of ice. She did not need time to understand it. Walter had been told a version of the same thing when he was a young mechanic trying to purchase parts on credit. So had Ruth Brooks when she walked onto the first lot wearing her nursing uniform.
"I'm in the right place, dear," she answered. "I only wanted to sit in one."
Brad moved to block the handle. "That's a client car. I reserve my time for actual buyers."
"Then perhaps someone else could help."
"Nobody wants to lose a sales turn on a browser."
Margaret looked toward the other consultants. One had lowered his eyes to his tablet. Another stepped behind a display stand. She wondered whether the silence meant agreement, fear, or nothing more complicated than the desire to keep one's commission prospects undisturbed.
"Could I at least see the window sticker?" she asked.
Brad pointed without turning his head. "Eighty-two thousand four hundred. You couldn't afford the floor mats. Now, if you'll excuse me."
A flush rose beneath Margaret's cheeks. She was not accustomed to feeling ashamed in public, and the unexpected force of it shocked her. She knew exactly how much money she had. She knew whose signature appeared on the company's ownership documents. But for a second, the insult reached past that knowledge into something more basic: the humiliating sensation of being treated as a nuisance for having come through the wrong door in the wrong clothes.