“I was a bit of a girly girl in the seventies,” Maple admits with a sheepish grin when she sees my reaction. “I don’t have much use for a bright pink Beetle now. But it runs great. My ex-husband was a mechanic, and he kept it up real good.”

I expected something old and beat-up, but it actually doesn’t look bad. I don’t see any dents, and even though it isn’t new and shiny or anything, the pink paint still looks decent, and when Maple turns it on for me, it sounds like it runs pretty well. Not that I know much about cars.

“I’m a fool for letting this go for under a thousand,” Maple mutters as she gets out and I slide into the driver’s seat. “This was my first car.”

“It’s nice,” I say softly as I move the seat forward and put my hands on the wheel. Maple shrugs.

“I finally decided I don’t need it anymore,” she says. “So you’re doing me a favor anyways. All the dealership would offer was five hundred dollars. Highway robbery, I tell you.” She shakes her head when I go to touch the radio dial. “Doesn’t work.”

“It’s perfect,” I insist.

“Well, that’ll be nine hundred bucks, kiddo,” she says. I reach into my pocket and hand her the money.

She hands me the title and tells me that I need to fill out the back of it with my name and address, the date of sale and the odometer reading. I fudge on the details, scribbling a nearly illegible Amanda Beckendale and a fake address instead of my own. Maple yells inside for Teddy (who, along with being a pro car haggler, also happens to be a notary, I learn). He comes out back to sign and stamp the title, grumbling the whole time that his meat loaf is getting cold. Then Maple signs the back of the title herself and gives me directions to the motor vehicle bureau on nearby Brookshire Boulevard.

“You just have to drop the title off there, and they’ll transfer the car and the tags to your name,” she says. I nod, knowing that I can’t actually do that. What if they ask for my license? I have the feeling I was darned lucky that Teddy was more worried about his waiting meat loaf than he was about asking me for ID. I doubt I’d be so lucky at the motor vehicle bureau. But I promise Maple I’ll take care of the plates and the paperwork. And I will—someday.

“Take good care of my car, girl,” Maple says. She bends down, kisses the pink hood and gives it one last pat. She looks up at me. “And take care of yourself too.”

“I will,” I promise.