All through town and sometimes at night, Klara drove a cherry-red Mercedez-Benz that gleamed with Old World glamour. Inside the white leather interior glowed cleaner and brighter than day. It drank only diesel, which meant she refilled alone at the edge of gas stations, shining like a movie star against the backdrop of big rigs. Her arrival in our driveway was always heralded by the deep throated rumble of a Teutonic engine. Klara in that car was nothing short of divine, and Ward had sold it out from under her, replacing it with a newer model, a heavier sedan that lacked the gift of flight.