“Night and daaaaay, you are the one . . .”

“I’ll get by, as long as I have you.”

She sang lots of songs. Lots and lots of songs. And when she was worn out from singing, or if some of the words hit too close to home, she’d cry. Cry for the marriage she’d thought she had, and the life that had gone too wrong.

“I can’t give you anything but love, baby . . .”

She only had to pull over once, when she’d been crying so much that her nose was running and she couldn’t reach her purse, which had slid over against the passenger side of the front seat, to get to her handkerchief. She’d put the car in park, but left the motor running. The outside temperatures were below freezing and she needed the car’s heater on, and also didn’t want to risk not being able to start the car again if the motor got too cold too quickly. She finished blowing her nose and then unscrewed the thermos and took several large gulps of coffee before unwrapping one of the ham-salad sandwiches.

Lunch restored some of her energy. She took a packet of Sen-Sen out of her pocketbook, tore open the top, and shook out a handful of the tiny licorice pieces. As she chewed, the licorice wafted into her nostrils and stung her eyes. Wasn’t it funny how smells could turn your mood right around? She rolled the top of the packet over to keep the rest of the pieces from spilling out, and returned it to her purse, then slid back into the driver’s seat to get back out on the road.

It was two full hours before another bout of self-pity struck. As the tears began to flow, she reached for the rearview mirror to see if she really looked all that bad while crying. It was probably a skill to work on—looking attractive while crying. She’d have to practice. Then she fumbled with the latch on her pocketbook with her right hand, searching for the Sen-Sen while steering the white wheel of the Buick with her left.

Vivian had never checked into a hotel all by herself. She and Edward had only stayed in a hotel a few times in all the years they’d been married (ha!). Edward had always made the arrangements, and checked them in and paid the bill, while she’d stood next to the suitcases and checked her powder in her compact mirror. She felt the eyes of everyone in the lobby on her and nervously pulled up her coat collar. The way the desk clerk was eyeing her made her wish Edward were there.

“I need a room, please,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking.

“For how many nights?”

“Oh, uh, two, please.”

“Just you?” the clerk asked in a suggestive tone.

It was like that little shit Albert Hixson had aged ten years and was now working the desk at this damned hotel. Vivian wished she could think of something snappy to say. This wisenheimer needed to be put in his place, but all she could do was nod and avoid eye contact with him. As he slid the key across the desk to her he leaned in.