Tyler heard her. He was crossing the room with a small cart of cleaning supplies when he noticed the way she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. He parked the cart and went into a utility closet. A minute later, he returned carrying a plain gray folding chair, the kind used for safety meetings in the service department.
"Here, ma'am," he said. "This one is sturdy. We use them in the back."
Margaret put a hand against the chair before sitting. "You've thought of everything. Thank you, Tyler."
Brad's voice snapped across the floor. "Brooks, put that back."
Tyler paused. "She's been standing a long time, sir. It won't hurt the floor. I've checked the feet."
"I didn't ask for your opinion. This is a luxury showroom, not a waiting room at a bus station."
The remark attracted attention from the service hallway. A porter carrying floor mats stopped, while a young woman behind the reception desk looked down at her keyboard. Tyler glanced toward Margaret. She looked tired, but she was watching him with the steady attention of someone who cared whether he made the next choice willingly.
"I understand the presentation standard," Tyler said. "But she's a visitor. The chair can go back when she leaves."
Brad stared at him. "I am your supervisor. If I tell you to put a chair away, you put it away. No refreshments for browsers, either. Go to the wash bay. You're clocked out for the next hour."
Tyler's cheeks darkened. Losing an hour's pay was not a small matter for him. He had planned to put that money toward the next installment at his evening technical school. He wanted to argue, but he knew a second disagreement could cost him the job entirely.
"Mr. Keller, please," Margaret said. "The young man was only being kind. I asked him."
"Then you both should have known better. Brooks, now."
Tyler folded the chair, held it for a moment, then set it against the wall rather than taking it all the way to the closet. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he whispered. "I hope the rest of your day goes better."
She watched him walk away. Walter's first two folding chairs had been cheap and scratched and set out in the open for anyone who needed them. Fifty-two years later, a young employee had been punished for offering the same simple courtesy. Margaret touched the arm of her cardigan and felt, beneath the hurt, the first real weight of anger.
Not the sudden anger that demands a confrontation. The slower kind that asks what other injustices have become normal because nobody with enough power to stop them has been paying attention.
At eleven-fifteen, a sleek silver car pulled beneath the covered entrance. A man in his sixties stepped out wearing an open-collared shirt and a watch so conspicuous it appeared to have been selected as an introduction. Brad saw him through the window and changed completely. His shoulders relaxed, his expression warmed, and he moved so quickly toward the entrance that Margaret almost laughed at the transformation.