“The car sure is nicer to drive than my truck.” I relaxed into the velour seat back. “It’s like a luxury limousine.”
My mother-in-law smiled. “Harris loves his car. Keeps it in good condition.”
“He’s a real car buff, isn’t he?”
“Oh, yes. Always has been. Ever since we were married, sixty-six years ago,” Myrtle said. “He’s very fussy about his cars.”
“I’m surprised he let me drive it. But I guess he wants you to be comfortable .”
“That’s right. Now don’t take this the wrong way, but Harris thinks ladies shouldn’t have to ride in trucks, and I know you don’t have a choice. But it is a long drive to Nanaimo and he thought we’d enjoy it more if we took his car.”
“It’s a treat to drive a car for a change. Feels like we’re floating along in a dream.” I was pleased that Harris trusted me to drive it. He had it all shined up on the outside and vacuumed inside. “You wouldn’t know it was ten years old. You still see lots of them around but not many in good shape like this one. It’s like a brand new car.”
“He spent hours on it yesterday,” Myrtle said.
“It’s our lucky day. Parking spot right by the door. Doesn’t look too busy yet either,” I said as I looked through the large plate glass window of our favorite bakery.
Lunch was delicious as always, and half an hour later, we came out of the bakery loaded down with bags of rye bread and buns.
“Hope I can still fit into some clothes after that lunch. Where would you like to shop first, Myrtle?”
“You lead the way. You always find good quality places to shop.”
“Hang on a sec,” I said. “Here. Can you hold the bread while I get the door for you?” I fished Harris’s keys out of my purse. “I know one of these is for unlocking and the other is for starting the car,” I mumbled to myself as I fit one of the keys into the lock.
The door wouldn’t open. Myrtle stood by the car waiting patiently.
“Must be the other key. Don’t worry. I’ll have it open in a sec.” I flipped the keychain around and tried the second key. It too, was sticky going into the lock. “Maybe I had it upside down.” I turned it and again jiggled it in the lock. No luck. “That’s funny.…”
“Anneli. What does that man want?” Myrtle pointed at the bakery window.
A middle-aged man inside the bakery was leaning over the bench seat, banging on the window with the palm of his hand.
“I don’t know but he looks mad at us. Why’s he pointing at the car?” I looked up at him with a puzzled frown.
“Now he’s pointing at himself.”
I looked at Harris’s keys, then at the angry man at the window. He was still pointing at the car and at himself. I turned to look at Myrtle and that’s when I saw it. Parked next to the vehicle I was trying to enter—Harris’s car.
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