"You were inside. I didn't knock. I just stood by the fence for a while. I don't know why. And I saw that old Aurelia of yours, the blue one, sitting under the carport. And there was a handprint on the fender." He held up his own broad palm. "Dust. Fresh. Small. And I thought, he can't wash that off. He's not ready."

Walter's face did something complicated. "That was me."

"I figured. You're a sentimental old fool, Walter. It's your best quality."

A short, cracked laugh escaped Walter, and then, to his own astonishment, his eyes filled. He pressed the heel of his hand against them, and Eddie, who did not believe in comforting people with words, reached across the table and put one heavy hand on his shoulder, and left it there.

"You've got that gala," Eddie said after a while. "The invitation."

"I haven't decided."

"You're going."

"Eddie—"

"You're going. And you're going to wear that gray suit Margaret picked, and you're going to stand in front of a room full of people who don't know a spark plug from a salad fork, and you're going to remind them whose line it is." He jabbed a finger at the table. "Not because it's about you. Because it's about her. You owe her that."

Walter wiped his face and took a long breath. "That's a hell of a thing to say over bad coffee."

"Best place to say it."

Walter nodded, slowly, and for the first time in weeks, something loosened in his chest. He reached for the toast, and Eddie pushed the plate toward him with a satisfied grunt.

His phone buzzed on the table. Walter frowned at it. He did not receive many calls. The number was unfamiliar, with a Lakeshore area code.

"Better take it," Eddie said.

He answered. A man's voice came through, hoarse and careful and very nervous. "Mr. Hayes? Walter Hayes? My name is Marcus Doyle. I'm the general manager of the Aurelia dealership on Lakeshore Boulevard. I'm calling about this morning, and about something you left behind."

A Warning in Writing

Marcus did not wait until nine.

At eight-fifteen on Wednesday morning, he was already sitting behind his desk with a manila folder squared in front of him when Brandon arrived, twenty minutes early, hair still damp, carrying a paper cup of coffee in each hand. He held one out with a grin.

"Peace offering," Brandon said. "I figured whatever this is, caffeine can't hurt."

Marcus looked at the cup without taking it. "Close the door."

Brandon closed it. The grin shrank to something uncertain. He lowered himself into the visitor's chair, set one coffee on the desk and the other on his knee, and waited.

"I'm going to say this plainly," Marcus began, "because I think you can handle it, and because I think you'd want me to."

"Okay."

"Yesterday morning you shouted at an elderly man in front of customers and staff. You told him to leave. You told him to go to a bus shelter. You called our display vehicle a place for serious buyers and implied he wasn't one." Marcus's voice was level, almost mild. "Is that an accurate summary?"

Brandon shifted. "That makes it sound worse than it was."

"Is it accurate?"

"He touched the car, Marcus. He left oil on the clear coat."

"I checked the hood last night. There was nothing on it." Marcus opened the folder and slid a single sheet across the desk. "This is a written warning. It will go in your file. It documents inappropriate conduct toward a visitor. If it happens again, there will be a suspension, and after that, a termination."

Brandon stared at the paper. His name was printed on it, and below it, in neat, bloodless language, a description of his behavior that made him sound like a stranger.

"You're writing me up," he said. "Over a window-shopper."

"I'm writing you up over a man."

"A man who wasn't going to buy anything!"

"You don't know that."

"Come on." Brandon put the coffee down hard and some of it slopped over the rim. "You've seen him. You know what I know. Old, beat-up jacket, truck from the nineties. We get twenty of those a week. We can't give all of them the red carpet."

"We can give all of them basic respect." Marcus leaned back. "That's not a luxury, Brandon. It's the whole job."

"I've been doing this job for nine years. I'm good at it."

"You were good at it." Marcus said it without cruelty, which made it land harder. "You were the best I'd ever hired. You could read a room in six seconds. You made people feel like you were on their side, and somewhere along the way you started to believe you were above them. I don't know when it happened. But I watched it, and I let it go, and that's on me."