The next afternoon, she stood in the little one-hour photo shop two towns over, embarrassed as she slid the dusty roll of film across the counter. The clerk raised an eyebrow. “Been a while since I’ve seen one of these.” Margaret muttered something about cleaning out an old car.
When she picked them up the following day, the photos stopped her cold. They were of a young man, shaggy dark hair and a confident grin, leaning against a gleaming Mercedes-Benz 190E—the very car she had dragged from the auction. Other shots showed him smiling at the wheel. Some were scenic shots of what evidently seemed like a drive up north.