Outside Austin, Russell Featherstone drove his Cadillac onto the shoulder of Highway 290, threw the gear into park, and turned to the woman beside him. "What do you say we get married?"

Ellie Pickett’s head jerked toward him so fast she heard her vertebrae crack. At first, when he’d pulled off the highway so abruptly, she thought something was wrong with the engine, but now she believed it was her hearing. "Married? Land sakes, Russell, we just met two weeks ago! Married?" She blinked a few times then fixed her eyes on him. "You’re not one of those crazies, are you?" She shook her head. "You know what I’m sayin’? One of those men that meets a gal, favors the swing of her skirt, and decides to marry her?" Her brow wrinkled and she lowered her chin. "Tell me you’re not some sex maniac. There’ve been plenty of warnin’s on television about men like that."

Ellie’s husband, Leland Pickett of Seneca, South Carolina, had passed on to Glory some three years ago. Whenever someone inquired about his death, she’d snap her fingers and answer, "Died in his sleep, just like that." They had one daughter, Lisa, who’d moved to Texas—Austin— with her husband twenty years before.

Ellie and Leland had never visited Lisa during those years; there was always an excuse: too far, too costly, too whatever. In reality, Leland just preferred staying home. So when Lisa invited her mother to Austin for a month, she grabbed the opportunity. Since her husband’s death Ellie had an itch to do something with her life. And it was because of that itch that she now found herself parked on a Texas roadside with a man named Russell.

"Good Lord, Ellie. All I said was "Why don’t we get married?" Russell let loose of the steering wheel and slumped in the seat. He gently placed his hand on her forearm as if to reassure her she was safe. "I like you, Ellie," he said in a voice as sweet as a songbird’s. "Hell, I’m crazy over you! Sure we just met, but I’ve closed deals for millions with less time invested." He blew out a lung full of air, turned up the air-conditioning fan, and waited for her reaction.

"That may be so," she shot back, waggling a finger at him, "but I’m not some oil field you’re biddin’ on. Not this gal!" She pulled down the visor, leaned forward, and examined herself in the lighted mirror. Ellie knew that, despite her age, she was still attractive; the mirror renewed her opinion. She ran her tongue across her teeth and rubbed her lips together, smoothing out pink lipstick. A quick wipe of a finger beneath each eye cleared smudged eyeliner. As she primped her full white hair and batted the lashes of her blue eyes she could hear her daddy teasing about boys chasing after her. ‘You’ll soon have as many beaus as pearls on a string,’ he’d say, then slap his knee and let loose a belly laugh. Ellie pushed the visor back up, wiggled her fanny into the leather seat and opened her handbag. "Hmm . . . thought I’d put a handkerchief in here before we left Lisa’s." While she was rummaging, Russell stared at her in amazement. Out of the corner of her eye Ellie caught him watching her and wondered if he still thought she was a "pint-sized bit of dynamite."

It was Lisa who’d introduced them. That is, Lisa and her best friend Barbara, who happened to be Russell’s daughter. The two fifty-year-old empty nesters dedicated way too much time to makeover television shows and romance novels. Having lost control of their children’s lives, and finding themselves unable to exercise little, if any, over their husbands, they cooked up a scheme to enrich the lives of their elderly, single parents: Russell, age eighty-six, and Ellie, eighty-four.

"Well?" Russell queried. Ellie was engrossed in zipping and unzipping the eight compartments of her handbag, searching for a hanky. "Ellie! Have you gone deaf?"

"Shush, Russell. Can’t you see I’m thinkin’?" She zipped a small side pocket closed and screwed up her face. "Has it occurred to you that I don’t even know your middle name?" She folded her hands atop the purse and turned her attention to the roadside flowers. Lovely bluebonnets, she thought. They’d sure look pretty on a kitchen table. I’ve always wanted to do that—keep a white pitcher full of daisies on a table. It’d be like waking up to sunshine. Leland was allergic to pollen, so fresh flowers in the house were always out of the question. "That’s why the durn things grow outside," he’d told her. The man even went so far as to chop down the stately pines in the front yard. Their crime: dropping yellow-green pollen come spring. Ellie wondered if Russell had allergies.

"Elvin," he said. "My middle name is Elvin. Now will you marry me?"

Ellie turned in her seat, reached forward, and lowered the fan speed. "What kind of name is Elvin? That a family name? Don’t reckon I’ve ever heard it before and, believe me, in South Carolina we’ve got a slew of weird names. Did I ever tell you Leland’s younger brother’s name was Bowser? Family just called him Bow-wow. Now ain’t that an awful thing? Saddling a child with a name like Bowser? I told Lisa if she ever—"

"Ellie, for God’s sake, what are you talkin’ about? Who the hell cares if some kid grew up with the name Bow-wow?"

"Bowser."

"Bowser, schmowser. Who cares? Certainly not me, and certainly not today!" Russell reached over, picked up a can of lemonade from the console, took a sip, and set it down. "Mighty tasty for being canned," he mumbled. He smacked his lips and ran a finger along his mustache then pushed the fan dial up one speed. "I’m talking marriage here and you’re talking gibberish." Just then an eighteen-wheeler roared by with such speed it caused the Cadillac to rock.

"Mercy," Ellie shouted, her hand flying to her chest. "We’ll be killed parkin’ out here in the middle of nowhere, Russell. I don’t think this is a good idea." She glanced at the key in the ignition as if to will it to turn. Nothing happened. Noticing the Cadillac emblem she recalled how Leland had favored Chevrolets. Well, he always was tight with the dollar. He’d never have bought anything as pricey as this Cadillac. She slid her hand along the soft leather. Smooth as a newborn. Wouldn’t take much for a gal to get used to this kind of luxury.

Ellie picked up the conversation. "So I’m talking gibberish, am I? Is this a preview of how I can expect to be treated? Brought up short every time I share a memory?" She peered at him and pursed her lips, then turned her focus to the highway. "There’s enough traffic out there to make a body think it’s a holiday. I suppose if I were to ask why you have those longhorns stuck up there on your hood, well, that’d be gibberish, too." Without waiting for him to catch up or answer, she leaned forward and opened the glove compartment. "Any chance there’s a pack of tissues in here? I think I’m gonna need them." She began removing papers, folders and gadgets, and piling them on her lap. Leland’s old Chevy had a glove compartment about the size of a sandwich.

While she busied herself with her latest project, Russell heaved a sigh then offered a thought. "You know, the last time I pulled over on the side of a highway was back in 1988—or was it ’89? Blew out a tire—right front, I think—could have been right rear, now that I call it to mind. Damn near scared me to death." Just then two trucks flew past, honking their horns in unison. "Well, talk about being scared to death. You all right, Ellie?" No answer. "Hmm. Where was I?" He gripped the steering wheel as if to squeeze an answer from it.

Meanwhile, Ellie had emptied the glove compartment and not a tissue was found. She folded old oil change receipts, inspection check-up sheets, and flattened pages in the owners’ manual. After a detailed perusal of the registration certificate, she started putting the papers back in the compartment.

"Oh, yes. The flat tire," Russell said, picking up his train of thought. "Well, anyway, I changed the thing myself and it made me realize that, sixty-nine-years-old or not, age was just a state of mind." He smiled at her, as if expecting a reply.

"What are you talkin’ about? How’d you get from ‘Let’s get married’ to a flat tire in 1988?"

"Could’ve been ’89."

"I asked the simple question, ‘What’s your middle name?’" Ellie said, "and you go on about a flat tire—coulda been 1988, coulda been 1989, coulda been right front, coulda been right rear. Lord, Russell, and you said I talk gibberish. Ain’t that just like a man? By the way, do you have allergies?" He shook his head no and she continued returning things to the glove compartment. A gold charm on a chain with a key attached caught her eye. It was on of those key rings sold in gas stations, the kind with every name from A-to-Z hanging on a spinner. Ellie turned it over. ADA was painted in bright red letters. "Thought you said your wife’s name was Frances? Who’s Ada?" She dangled the key chain in front of his face.

"Ada? Where the heck did that thing come from?" He reached for it but Ellie yanked it back. "I just want to see it. Maybe it’ll refresh my memory."

"Russell Featherstone, you’d better come clean. I’ve got no intention of marrying a two-timer. My sister Callie married one of those and lived to regret it. Had four children by that man, kept a clean house, and cooked every night. No matter. He still couldn’t keep his pants zipped."

Upon hearing the word "zipped," Russell motioned with a finger to a zipper on the front of her handbag and asked, "Honey pie, did you unzip that outside pocket when you were looking for your hanky?"

Ellie’s eyes flicked to his face, then down at her bag. "Don’t believe I did." She pulled the silver tab and withdrew a pale blue handkerchief. "You’re so smart, Russell," she said, leaning toward him and pecking his cheek.

A broad grin covered the old gentleman’s face, as if he finally stood on firm ground and could return their discussion to the core issue: marriage.

"That’s what surprises me," Ellie went on. "Smart man like you takes a lady out for a drive in his big-fancy-Texas-oilman car with all intentions of proposing and leaves evidence of another woman in plain sight." She casually reached for the fan dial and turned it down.

"Wasn’t in plain sight. You found it when you were poking around in the glove compartment. Remember?"

Ellie fingered the key chain, turning it over and over. "What kind of car did she have? Or maybe I should say does she have?" Now she was swinging the key back and forth. Outside tumbleweed dancing across the terrain caught her eye. I love dancing. Wonder if Russell likes to dance?

"Ellie Pickett, you are one frustrating woman. How the hell do I know who Ada was? Could have been a friend of one of my grandchildren. Or one of those nurses I carted back and forth to care for Frances. Heaven bless me if you ever find a phone number scratched on a piece of paper and I can’t remember whose it is! Guess once you say you’ll marry me, I’ll have to examine every nook and cranny of my house or you’ll change your mind.

The couple was so absorbed in conversation they never noticed the car that had pulled up behind them. A knock on Russell’s window caused both of them to jump in their seats and their mouths to drop open.

"Sorry if I scared you, sir," yelled a fortyish man with hair tied in a ponytail and a tee shirt that read "Viva Zapata." "I just wondered if you might need help. You know, maybe needed a cell phone or something?"

"No, no," Russell said. "We’re fine. Thank you for stopping." He had cracked the window and now abruptly closed it and turned the air-conditioning up a notch. He made the mistake of asking Ellie, "Where were we?"

"I was gonna say that that’s how Callie caught Edgar."

"Stranded on the side of the road without a cell phone?"

"No, no, silly. A phone number on a slip of paper. See, she was cleanin’ out his pockets, getting’ his pants ready for the dry cleaners, and she came upon a slip of paper with a woman’s name and phone number on it." She glanced down at the key ring. "Name could have been Ada for all I remember. Wouldn’t that be a coincidence?" She closed her fist around the key. Poor Callie, she thought. She never did get over that. Threw him out and then had to work at that cotton mill ten hours a day. Ellie opened her fist. "If you really don’t know Ada, then I reckon you wouldn’t mind if I opened the window and tossed this away, would you?" Her finger tap-tapped the window control button.

A look of relief crossed Russell’s face. "Be my guest. Throw it out. Bury it, if it’ll make you happy. Then let’s get back to discussing something important, like marriage."

Ellie studied him: he was still a good-looking man, the kind instantly recognized as a quality person. His longish gray hair was combed back, his full mustache neatly trimmed. She’d been taken with him since that first Sunday after she’d arrived from South Carolina. It was right outside church that Barbara voiced her surprise plan: brunch with her father at his country club.

When the three women entered the clubhouse foyer, he was seated in a wingback chair; quite dashing in a green sport coat and khaki pants, boots highly polished. Ellie remembered her stomach fluttering and how she’d attributed it to gas. That flutter returned as she noticed the twinkle in his chestnut brown eyes. So why not give him the answer he wants?

It wasn’t because Lisa would be upset, or because she—Ellie—didn’t want to let go of her old life. Truth was she wanted nothing more than to leave that other life. It’s why she’d flown a thousand miles to Texas. Hoping to find something she’d missed.

She had loved Leland but she was only eighteen when they married. What did she know about life, about anything? She’d never traveled anywhere, other than a visit to the State House in Columbia. Besides, Leland was a homebody; travel held no excitement for him. So Ellie had packed away her dreams like too-small clothes, saving them for another day. After Lisa’s invitation, Ellie aired out those little dreams and carried them to Texas. Could this hesitation be nothing more than the fear of writing a new life chapter? While her fingers worried across the letters A-D-A, she concluded it was time to throw caution and the keychain to the Texas winds.

Ellie opened the window and flung the key chain as hard as she could. As the window slid noiselessly to a close, she said, "And don’t you be drivin’ out here to mile marker 142 searchin’ for that thing!"

Russell took her hand in his, brushed her fingertips with his mustache, then kissed them. "Does that mean your answer is yes?" He waited.

"Let’s just say I’ll give you my answer after you’ve told me what those longhorns are about and answered my other question."

"Which one?"

"You know. I asked if you were a sex maniac."

"Well, the first one’s easy; I put them there because I could. When I was a youngster every rich Texas oilman had longhorns on his car hood. I decided if I ever hit it big that’s what I’d do. And I have so I did. Whenever I look at them they tell me, ‘Ease up, Russell. Grab life by the horns and live a little.’ Which is why I'm working so hard at roping you in." And he pinched her cheek.

"I’m still waitin’ for the answer to my other question."

"Now that one’s going to be more difficult. You’ll have to marry me and find out for yourself!"

Ellie giggled, reached over, and ran her fingers through his hair. "You’re a handsome devil, know it?" She kissed him and then wiggled herself down into the seat.

Russell hit the directional signal and pulled onto the highway. Twenty minutes later he looked over at her and chuckled. "What number did you say that mile marker was?"
                                      Sweetness painted Ellie’s face and she answered in a sing-songy voice, "Maybe it was 124, or it coulda been 241. Nope, I think it was 142. But I’m not certain. Anyway, I imagine my memory will get a lot better once I’m Ellie Featherstone." She leaned forward and fiddled with the radio, searching for an oldies station. She also lowered the air-conditioning fan. "That’s the thing about getting older. Unimportant things slip your mind so easily." Suddenly she ramped up the volume and shouted, "Russell, listen! It’s Glen Miller’s band playin’ ‘String of Pearls.’ Did I ever tell you I love to dance? You do like dancin’, don’t you?"