"All right, pop the hood and turn her on," Hank murmured as they arrived back at the shop. Josie complied.

"If you sit in it, you can feel..." but he held up a hand to quiet her.

He leaned in close to hear the melody of the engine. After a few minutes, he leaned in and pulled the rubber cap off the back spark plug before returning his focus to the car's roar.

After a moment, Josie started again, "that sounds terrible; you know what you..."

"You this much fun at a doctor's?"

She crossed her arms and pursed her lips at his reprimand. He continued down the sequence, pacing back to restart the car after the engine died. Then he looped back to the third cap, lifting it again and listening before killing the engine.

"Just a spark plug. Should be able to get to it tomorrow." She was over-satisfied with the answer, as though she expected the diagnosis. "You got someplace to stay?" He added as he wiped down his hands and closed the hood.

"I was planning on just passing through." He felt again like she was leading him to an eventuality.

"Well, you shouldn't be driving this." As he looked over the car, he saw the back arranged in a makeshift bed. "I got a spare room if you need it." Clara would not be happy, but he could sense Josie couldn't afford most of the hotels in town, and the one motel felt too debauched for her. "I just have to finish up the car inside."

She gave an amiable smile and nod before following him back to perch on the stool.

Hank felt her eyes on him as he worked the residue from the car and applied the tire gel. She wasn't just plucking this afternoon; she was now strumming. For a while, she hummed along, but he could sense she felt like a caged songbird. Josie built up to an eventual burst of a song. It was a mournful melody of a boy marrying the wrong girl, while his true love dies alone, to his dismay. It felt intimate, like he shouldn't be listening. When she finished, she continued to strum at random. Hank just continued his work as he mulled explaining the unexpected visitor to his mother.

"You know how to drive stick?" His question broke their established quiet. She gave him a provocative look as warmth redden his face. He tossed her the keys to his truck and pulled himself out of his coveralls. "Follow me."

Josie's skill impressed Hank, he expecting to hear the grinding of gears from behind him. He dropped the Austin-Healey with a maid, who, in turn, handed him an envelope with the payment that he tucked into his pocket before giving Josie the nod to slide over his truck's bench seat. They rode in silence a few blocks to the Carroll mansion. He expected a response when he killed the engine in the garage, but Josie gave no sign of confusion.

"Wait here," his voice was stern, leaving no room for argument.

Clara was in the sitting room. "Oh, Henry, you are home," she cooed.

"Hey, mom," he spoke with a machine gun cadence as he leaned down to give her a peck on her papery cheek. "We have a guest tonight."

"Oh, dear no, I am not prepared for a dinner guest." She clutched at her robe and prodded her silk-covered hair as she spoke.

"It's okay, mom, she's not a dinner guest. She's just passing through with no place to stay. The hotels are booked; it's the Apple Festival." The Apple Festival had been a week ago, but Hank knew she would not remember that.

"Oh, poor girl. I suppose we can give her a room. The Flower Room is always nice." Her words were vacant as her mind drifted to the stature of the house in its prime.

"Yes, I'll get some sheets for it." He gave her a sympathetic smile before returning to the garage.

Josie was out of the truck and inspecting a few photos pinned to the workbench. Hank could see her reviewing one of his father and Peter smiling on either side of him as he clutched a tiny wooden derby car from over her shoulder.

"Is that you?" She ran a finger over the boy.

"Yeah, I must have been eight or nine there." His father had pinned the photo up in pride. It blended into the wall for Hank, but now, as he studied his father's face, he could see the image of his own.

"And this is your father?" But Josie was not pointing to his father; she was running a finger down Peter's face. It looked so young in the photo.

"No, this is my father," he pointed to his father. "That is my dad's best friend, Peter."

"Peter," she said to herself in a whisper. She did not seem surprised by Hank's correction, but her voice was low again, as though it were another mental note.

Josie sliced the lettuce and onion as Hank constructed the sandwiches and salads. He split one between his and his mother's plates.

"You don't eat much," she nodded to his plate as she spoke.

Hank again just shrugged. He found Josie made many observations that didn't warrant any further discussion. She was seemingly careless with her thoughts, but a sinister tug would not let his mind settle there.

"Mom, this is Josie King." His mother rose with a grace he hadn't seen in years. Her smile made time melt from her face as she held out a hand in greeting.

"Hello, Mrs. Carroll." There was a formality to Josie's voice that Hank knew would please his mother as Josie took her hand with a slight bow of her head and a dip of her knees. "Thank you for inviting me into your lovely home."

"Oh, of course, that dreadful Apple Festival drains all the hotels each year, but I suppose it's good for the town." Hank shifted in discomfort from his exposed lie, but Josie did not drop the pretense.

"I can only imagine the annual annoyance." There was a pleasant smile on Josie's face. Her ease, while welcome, was also off-putting.

"Forgive us for eating in the sitting room, but the dining room feels so stuffy and formal since my Henry's passing." Clara's reference to 'her Henry' made Hank's stomach lurch. "What brings you through town?"

"I was just passing through when my car gave me trouble. Luckily, the friendly people around here directed me to your son. Few know how to work with a car as old as mine."

Clara and Josie continued to converse as Hank's mind wandered to the car. Not many people could work on classic cars. His clients came from miles away for his help, and her car happened to give her trouble at his doorstep.

Hank finished his sandwich in silence before glancing around to notice his mother's plate also cleared.

"Let me take these," he murmured as he collected the empty plates and headed back to the kitchen. He washed the dishes alone, enjoying the reprieve from the constant companionship of the day.

Hank's mind roamed to his old derby car; he hadn't thought of it in years. His father and Peter spent an entire weekend constructing a track in the driveway to time runs as they adjusted the car. Peter seldom took an interest in Hank as a child, but he practically lived with them for the few weeks around the derby that year. Hank slipped to his room to rummage through a drawer for his ribbon before he pulled it out from the deep recesses. The blue had greyed over the years, and letters had peeled, but 1988 was still bold. He turned it over in his hand for a moment before tossing it back into the drawer and slipped back down to the sitting room.

Even before Hank entered the room, he could tell by the trill of Clara's laughter that she was in her element. The smile on her face made Hank's chest throb from the lonely prison she created around herself.

"Oh Henry, Josie here is a cribbage player. Do you think you could find the board? I thought it would be delightful to play tomorrow."

"Yeah, I think I can find it." His mind floated to the sideboard in the hall where he remembered last seeing it. "Your car shouldn't take long. I am sure we can have you on your way by lunch."

"Sounds like we will have a few hours to play," Josie smiled at Clara.

"Well, dear, I am quite competitive."

"I guess we'll be playing Muggins."

"Is there any other way?" Clara winked.

Their fast friendship was unsettling to Hank, but he didn't want to deflate his mother's sudden resurgence of life and humor. "I'll fix up your room," he nodded to both women as he left.

Hank gave the flower room its name when he was a child because of the bouquets that peppered the wallpaper. He tried to focus on the duties of his hands instead of the nagging questions swirling in his head. What could she want? If she was looking for money, she was chasing the wrong mark. Yet, even seeing the decaying house, she was still here.

"A pocket full of posies," Josie's sickly pitch startled him. She was running her finger over the bow of one of the bouquets. "Folks used them to endure the stench of death during the Great Plague."

Hank had no response to her musing, so he finished tucking the sheets. He could feel her watching him.

"Your mother is right; you are a good boy." Josie's words felt baiting. "Did your father teach you your manners?"

Something about how she spoke told him she knew more of his family than the small bits he had shared. His eyes bore into hers, but she did not wither. She gave him a docile smile before continuing to hum in a childlike tone.

"Good night Henry," her sickly sweet voice clung to him as he left the room, clicking the door behind him.