Los Angeles did not greet Mara with quiet. It greeted her with light, traffic, and a valet who tried to park her rental car before she had even finished unbuckling her seat belt.
"Welcome to Vantara House, ma'am," the valet said, smiling. "Are you here for a test drive?"
"Something like that," Mara said, smiling back. "I am here to see Rosa."
Inside, Vantara House Beverly Hills was all glass and warm wood, with the Solstice waiting in the center of the showroom under soft lights, low and silver blue.
Mara turned, smiling, as Rosa Vega walked toward her, arms open. Rosa was forty seven, general manager of Vantara House, and she moved through the showroom the way Mara moved through a test track: with total command and no wasted motion.
"Mara Winters," Rosa said, hugging her hard. "You finally came to inspect my kingdom."
"Your kingdom looks excellent," Mara said. "And the Solstice looks happy here."
"She is happy everywhere," Rosa said. "But she will be happiest on Henry's night. Come. I have plans to show you."
Rosa led her past the showroom, past the service bay doors, and into a small office where a wall was covered in lists, fabric samples, and a hand drawn floor plan.
"The retirement party," Rosa said, tapping the plan. "Henry Alcott, forty years, one night, no speeches longer than three minutes. That is my rule."
"Three minutes?" Mara said. "Henry's friends will riot."
"They can riot after dessert," Rosa said, grinning. "We will have music, photographs from every decade, and the Solstice right here in the middle, where everyone can see her. No sales talk. No price talk. She is not for sale, and everyone will know it by how we treat her."
"Perfect," Mara said. "What do you need from me?"
"Flowers," Rosa said. "You always bring the flowers. And you stand beside Henry when he gets shy, which he will, about five minutes after he arrives."
"I can do that," Mara said.
A knock sounded, and a young woman in a service bay uniform appeared in the doorway, holding a clipboard and trying very hard not to look nervous.
"Rosa, sorry," she said. "The coupe interior is ready for your check, if you have a minute."
"Jaz," Rosa said warmly, "come in. Mara, this is Jasmine Moreno. Jaz. She is nineteen, she is in our apprenticeship program, and she is the reason that 1967 coupe looks like it just rolled out of a dream."
Jaz blushed. "Rosa exaggerates."
"Rosa does not exaggerate about work," Rosa said. "Tell her what you did."
Jaz glanced at Mara, then at her shoes, then back up again. "I restored the interior," she said quietly. "The leather, the stitching, all of it. It took me three weeks. I stayed late most nights because I wanted the seams to be perfect."
"They are perfect," Rosa said. "I checked."
Mara smiled at Jaz. "Three weeks of late nights is a lot of love for one car."
"It is my favorite kind of work," Jaz said, her voice getting stronger. "When I am in the bay, I forget to be nervous. The car does not care how old I am. It only cares if I do the job right."
"That is a good rule for life, too," Mara said.
"Is it?" Jaz asked.
"It is," Mara said. "I started in a garage, younger than you feel right now. People told me I did not belong. The work told me otherwise."
Rosa cleared her throat, suddenly businesslike again. "Jaz, show Mara the coupe. She should see your work before the party crowd does."
"Jaz," Mara said, "this is beautiful work."
"Thank you, Ms. Winters," Jaz said.
"Mara," Mara corrected, smiling. "In this company, the person who does the work gets to call the founder by her first name."
Jaz laughed, surprised. "Then thank you, Mara."
Rosa lowered her voice and glanced toward the showroom. "That is Ryan Maddox, our senior salesman. Charming. Loud. Keep an eye on him at the party. He likes the spotlight almost as much as Henry dislikes it."
Later, as the sun dropped low over Beverly Hills and the showroom lights came on, Mara and Rosa stood beside the Solstice with two cups of coffee.
"Henry will love this night," Rosa said.
"He will try not to cry," Mara said. "He will fail."
"Good," Rosa said. "Let him. Forty years deserves a few tears."
"Rosa," Mara said, "you have built something good here."
"We have," Rosa said. "And on Henry's night, everyone will see it."
Mara touched the compass in her pocket, feeling its familiar weight. Los Angeles was loud and bright and far from Cleveland, but the direction felt exactly right.
"Point true," she whispered, so quietly that only she could hear it. "Even here."
Chapter 7: Marcus, Then