Chapter 21: Fall Sale

I went to the Bozeman Motors fall sale on Saturday for one reason, and it was in a plain envelope.

Brent's mother's lawyer had called on Thursday to say her client would honor her bet.

"She would like to hand you the letter privately," the lawyer said.

"No," I said. "She made the bet on the lot in front of eighty people. She can pay it there."

The lawyer had been quiet for a moment.

Then she said, "I'll tell her."

So on Saturday at noon I stood on the lot in my good coat, with Ward at my side.

Norm had both babies at home and had told us not to come back before two.

The balloons were still up along Lakeshore Drive, and a banner over the showroom said FALL SALE, BOZEMAN MOTORS SINCE 1974.

There were maybe thirty customers walking the rows.

Eighty had stood here on Wednesday, and I did not gloat about the difference.

Brent's mother stood at the portable podium by the service bay in her cream coat.

She saw me, and her chin went up.

A man in a gray suit stood beside her with a folder and a leather bag.

He did not look like a salesman.

I walked up to the podium, and Ward stayed one step behind.

"Mrs. Bozeman," I said.

"Corrine."

"You have something for me."

She took an envelope from her coat and held it out at arm's length.

I opened it there.

It was a single sheet of her own cream stationery, and the handwriting was small and tight.

I read it standing up.

Then I handed it to her.

"Say it out loud," I said.

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