Rex Hall had the look of a man who’d just learned the pharmacy was out of refills, mercy, and quiet afternoons, all at the same time.
He sat at the big roundtable in the middle of the Grounds for Divorce, shoulders slumped, coffee cooling untouched, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. Around him were the Regulars, drawn in by the unmistakable gravitational pull of a man in distress. Not an emergency-room kind of distress. This was domestic. Long-term. The kind you can’t slap a bandage on or charge by the hour.
Lucinda topped off his cup without asking. That alone said plenty.
“She’s here,” Rex said finally.
Nobody asked who.
“She arrived yesterday afternoon,” he went on. “Didn’t call ahead. Didn’t text. Didn’t even honk. Just rolled right up the driveway in RoadRunner Estates like a pink-and-black omen and parked in my spot.”
Rusty Hammer leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, the red beard twitching with anticipation. “Well,” he said, “that answers the question of why your face looks like it lost an argument with gravity.”
Rex nodded. “She said she was staying for a while.”
Trixie, legs crossed, hair immaculate, raised an eyebrow. “A while how?”
“I asked her if she was staying long,” Rex said. “She replied, ‘Only till I get on your nerves.’” He paused, then added, “I told her not to take the suitcase out of the trunk.”
That earned a ripple of laughter around the table. The kind that starts funny and ends sympathetic.
Sister Thelma set her fork down carefully. “You know,” she said, “in the story of Adam and Eve, Adam didn’t have a mother-in-law. He really did live in paradise, didn’t he?”
Rex sighed. “I don’t know what I’d do without my mother-in-law,” he said. Then, after a beat, “But it’s nice to think about.”
Rusty nodded solemnly. “What do turkeys and mothers-in-law have in common? Seeing them once a year at Christmas is enough.”
Trixie snorted. “That depends on the hair situation.”
That did it. All eyes turned to her.
“She came into the Klip-N-Dye yesterday morning,” Trixie said. “First thing. Walked in like she owned the place. Didn’t even look at the price board. Just said, ‘I need something practical. I’m going to be here a while.’” She shuddered theatrically. “That woman has opinions about bangs that should be regulated by the state.”
Rex winced. “Did she tip?”
“She tipped,” Trixie said. “In advice.”
The bell over the door jingled and Pastor Peterson slipped in, tie crooked, collar damp with stress. He looked like a man who’d lost a fight with the church copier and the congregation both.
Lucinda slid a mug toward him. “You alright, Pastor?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled the folded bulletin from his chest pocket and laid it flat on the red-checkered tablecloth. Like evidence.
Lucinda leaned in, squinted, and then her mouth went tight. “Oh no.”
She tapped the title with her finger. “You are Butt Dust and to Dust You Shall Return.”
Pastor Peterson closed his eyes. “I’m still getting calls.”
Sister Thelma pressed her lips together. “That’s unfortunate.”
“That’s not what Mrs. Dinsmore said,” the Pastor replied. “She said it was ‘deeply upsetting and anatomically unnecessary.’”
New Guy, who had been nose-deep in the menu the entire time, finally looked up. “Have you ever noticed that anyone driving faster than you is a maniac and everyone driving slower is an idiot?”
There was a brief silence.
Rex nodded slowly. “My mother-in-law is definitely not a maniac,” he said. “But her driving habits deserve a footnote. Possibly an appendix.”
He straightened a little then, warmed by familiar ground. “That Rambler,” he said. “It’s not just a car. It’s a statement.”
The table leaned in.
“It’s a 1959 Ambassador Custom sedan,” Rex said. “Pink and black with a white roof. Quad headlights. Wraparound glass front and back. Continental kit hanging off the rear like it’s daring you to comment.”
Rusty smiled. “I do admire confidence.”
“She bought it years ago,” Rex went on. “Texas first. Then California. Had it redone back in the eighties. New paint. Interior re-trimmed. Then she parked it in Washington State and left it alone for about thirty years. Just… waiting.”
“For what?” Lucinda asked.
“For me,” Rex said. “Apparently.”
He described the way it sat in his driveway now, pink steel wheels with eagle-crest hubcaps planted on whitewalls, power steering making it glide like it had opinions about effort, power brakes that suggested it knew when to stop even if the driver didn’t. Fender-mounted mirrors like jewelry. Chrome everywhere, unapologetic.
“She’s very proud of the Continental kit,” Rex added. “She says it ‘balances the line.’”
Rusty nodded. “Nothing balances a line like extra car.”
“The paint’s aging,” Rex said. “Cracks in the window seals. Delamination in the right-front vent window. She pointed that out herself. Said it gave the car character.”
Trixie smirked. “That’s what people say when they don’t plan on fixing something.”
“The interior’s black cloth,” Rex continued. “Still covered in clear plastic. She says it protects the seats. I say it sounds like a hospital bed when you move.”
Sister Thelma frowned. “Plastic isn’t very forgiving.”
“Neither is she,” Rex said.
He talked about the dashboard, the sweeping 120-mile-an-hour speedometer, the clock that didn’t work and never had, the AM radio updated with Bluetooth because, as she put it, ‘some progress is unavoidable.’ He mentioned the trunk, lined neatly with a patterned gray mat, spotless, like it had never known groceries or regret.
“And the engine?” Rusty asked.
Rex smiled despite himself. “327 cubic inches. V8. Factory rated at 270 horsepower. Batwing air cleaner. Four-barrel carburetor rebuilt. Cooling system overhauled. Ignition refreshed. She listed it all like a grocery receipt.”
“She know what she’s got,” Lucinda said.
“She knows what I don’t,” Rex replied. “Which is peace.”
The Rambler, he explained, had been gone through since she bought it again in 2020. Shocks replaced. Wheel bearings. Mufflers. Brake booster rebuilt. Master cylinder redone. Transmission serviced. Differential checked. Fuel tank cleaned and sealed. Electric fuel pump added because she didn’t trust the old one.
“She trusts very few things,” Rex said. “Including my thermostat settings.”
Pastor Peterson stirred his coffee. “Family is a test,” he said quietly.
New Guy nodded. “Statistically—”
Lucinda shot him a look and he stopped.
Rex took a breath. “She parks it in my driveway every morning,” he said. “Dead center. Perfectly straight. I used to back in. She pulls straight in. Says reversing is for people who haven’t planned ahead.”
Rusty grinned. “That’s a philosophy.”
“And she wipes the steering wheel with a handkerchief when she gets out,” Rex added. “Color-keyed wheel. Chrome horn ring. Says skin oils age rubber.”
Trixie laughed. “She’s not wrong. And that ain’t all it ages. When I was trimming her neckline the back of her neck looked like a Rawlings catcher’s mitt that had been tucked away in the Mud Hen’s locker room since Nolan Ryan was still pitching no-hitters.” The table went sort of silent as it reflected on that. “Not that I’ve ever been in the Mud Hen’s locker room.”
Rex tried to refocus the direction of the conversation. “She rearranged my spice rack,” he said.
Outside, a breeze rattled the leaves along the sidewalk. Someone glanced through the window, as if expecting to see the Rambler idling at the curb, waiting to be discussed.
Sister Thelma folded her hands. “Have you tried prayer?”
Rex smiled thinly. “I’m a pharmacist. I prefer measured dosages.”
Pastor Peterson looked up. “Careful,” he said. “That’s how you end up with sermon titles.”
The table laughed again, easier this time.
Rex finished his coffee. “She says she’ll leave when she feels she’s helped enough,” he said.
“And what does she feel needs helping?” Lucinda asked.
Rex thought of the Rambler, gleaming softly under the West Texas sun, engine humming like it knew its own worth. Of his driveway, now occupied. Of his quiet routines, rerouted.
“Me,” he said.
Rusty stood and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well,” he said, “if you’re going to suffer, at least you’re doing it in good company.”
“And with a solid V8,” Trixie added.
Lucinda refilled Rex’s cup with Folgers fresh off the Bunn-O-Matic one last time. “She won’t stay forever,” she said gently.
Rex nodded. “No,” he said. “But that Rambler might.”
Outside, somewhere in RoadRunner Estates, pink paint caught the light, patient and unmoving, confident it had arrived exactly where it intended to be.
