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FALL BREEZES AND CROSS RAM CONFESSIONS

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Eleanor Brewster had made three separate trips to Tumbleweed Dodge-Chrysler-Plymouth in as many days, each time hoping to catch Marvin Langley before he slipped out to lunch or back from one of his extended test drives. She’d timed her third attempt just right, parking behind the service bay in a position she hoped looked accidental but afforded a direct view of the dealership entrance.

She wore her hair pinned up in the way she used to before the first boy came along, a cranberry knit sweater she hadn’t dared try on since ’58, and a pair of clean white gloves—though one thumb had a tiny run she tried not to think about. She didn’t have to look at her reflection to know she looked better than she had in months. Maybe even years. The baby weight hadn’t melted off, but she’d wrestled enough of it down to button her slacks without divine intervention.

Marvin pulled in behind the wheel of a black 1960 Chrysler 300F convertible, the sun glinting off the chrome like a dare. The car looked like it had been sculpted with vanity in mind. Eleanor felt a flicker in her stomach that had nothing to do with the coffee she’d gulped before leaving the house.

He stepped out in his usual salesman ensemble—tan slacks, short-sleeve white shirt with a chest pocket full of pens, and a loosened tie that looked accidental but wasn’t. His sunglasses hung from one ear as he spotted her.

“Mrs. Brewster,” he said with a grin that skated between charming and dangerous. “Twice in one week. I ought to check my horoscope.”

“Third time, actually,” she said, feigning sheepishness. “Stanley asked me to get the wagon in for that complimentary service while he’s away at his math thing. I keep missing you.”

Marvin looked at the Dodge Custom Sierra behind her, then back at Eleanor. “Well, he married a woman who follows instructions. That counts for something.”

He moved with confidence that would have struck her as arrogant in someone else. He took her key, called over a young man in grease-stained coveralls, and got her service ticket written in less than three minutes. “I’ll get you to the front of the line,” he said. “But it’ll still be about an hour, hour and a half. Enough time for a coffee, maybe a slice of something?”

She paused.

“Strictly professional pie,” he added with a smile.

The sun was out but the breeze had a whisper of fall in it—that in-between moment when the air stops baking you and starts to flirt a little. Eleanor nodded.

The Chrysler 300F was all swagger and sinew, low and long like it had grown bored of standing still. The leather seats wrapped her like a booth at a supper club. Marvin pulled out of the dealership lot slow enough for her to notice the admiring glance from the service boy, then faster once they cleared the square.

“Still breaking it in,” he said, as the engine rumbled in response to a tap of the gas. “This one’s not even on the floor yet. Cross-ram induction. Dual quads. Push-button transmission. You ought to see how it handles on the open road.”

She said nothing, just let the wind rearrange her hair and her thoughts. Marvin flicked on the radio, and something velvety from Nat King Cole settled over them.

“Stanley still teaching over at the high school?”

She nodded. “Math Department Head now. He’s up in Amarillo for a conference.”

“Good for him. That kind of promotion can change a man. Give him a new outlook. Or give him something to hide behind.”

She turned toward him, surprised by the edge in his voice.

“Just saying,” he added quickly. “A man’s worth ain’t always measured in titles.”

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They reached the Dairy Twin, the small roadside diner perched on the edge of town like it was waiting to hitchhike. The lot was mostly empty, and Marvin pulled the Chrysler into a diagonal slot as if putting it on display. The young girl behind the counter looked starstruck when they walked in, her eyes flitting from Marvin to the car and back again.

Eleanor ordered coffee and lemon pie, Marvin went with pecan. They found a booth with a window view of the Chrysler.

“You ever think about trading up?” he asked, stirring his coffee with a straw instead of the spoon.

“I like the station wagon.”

“Sure, for groceries and children. But you—”

He looked at her, not her blouse or her lipstick or her ring, but her.

“You strike me as someone who still wants to be seen.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t know how. The pie was too sweet and the coffee too weak, but it didn’t matter. She looked out the window, past the Chrysler, to the shimmer of the highway in the distance.

“I used to come here with friends before we got married,” she said. “Back when my name was Eleanor DuMont and I wore heels to the grocery store.”

“I remember that girl,” he said. “I think she could still outrun most of this town.”

They sat in a silence made warm by memory. Marvin talked about the car, the factory rep who delivered it, how few were made and how most were bound for California. She listened, not to the facts, but to the rhythm of his voice, the way he made everything sound like a dare.

On the drive back, he didn’t take the direct route. They cut through an old pecan orchard that was half-fenced and mostly forgotten. The sunlight splashed through branches in golden flickers.

Eleanor watched the road curl ahead like a ribbon someone had forgotten to tie. The car hummed beneath them, powerful but smooth, and she felt the ease of it press into her chest. Her thoughts began to drift.

In just six years, she’d gone from a hopeful young bride with a college degree and a waistline to match, to a mother of three boys under the age of five, with an automatic washer, a deep freeze, and a house full of needs. She had the full catalog of what the American Dream promised: a husband with a stable job, a home on a quiet street, and a Dodge Custom Sierra in the carport. She should have felt triumphant.

But sometimes, in the still hours between bedtime stories and bottle feedings, she felt like someone had handed her the grand prize on a game show—only to discover it was an all-expenses-paid trip to somewhere she never really wanted to go.

“I used to dream of being a teacher,” she said, the words barely loud enough to be heard over the wind. “Not forever, but long enough to matter.”

“You still could,” Marvin said.

“I’m not sure the girl who wanted that is still around.”

“I think she is. Maybe just waiting for the right road to take her there.”

When they pulled into the service lot, her wagon was already parked up front, clean and idling. Marvin stepped out and walked around to open her door.

“Thanks for the pie,” she said, smoothing her blouse.

“Any time. I’m usually here late on Thursdays. That tends to be a slow night.”

She looked up at him.

“If you ever need a second opinion on anything,” he added.

She nodded slowly, a lock of windblown hair brushing her cheek.

“I might.”

She got into the Dodge and drove off without looking back. But in the rearview mirror, the Chrysler sat gleaming, black and sure of itself, like it knew she’d be back.

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