ONE
Colorado, 1940

Christine Winter was feeling cross.

It wasn't as if she was unappreciative of what she had in life, but when stacked up and reviewed as a whole, her optimism wavered. Take her twice a week job, for instance. She wasn't much for children but to gather what was supposed to be a temporary source of income, she had agreed to become the babysitter of her rather well-off neighbor's two kids, and when the mother decided to be generous and offer a bonus, Christine knew it'd be foolish to turn it down.

Today was Friday – payday – and as she always did on this day slowly drove downtown to deposit her check. Caring for the rather snobby kids was a chore in its own right on any day, but the drift of snowflakes falling down from the heavy grey clouds overhanging Aurora made it worse. Christine hated winter and the fact she was stuck with it year-round because of her surname seemed like the kiss of fate.

By the time she got to the 1st Bank of Aurora (a grey stone structure more than little imposing with its Greek Revival architecture), Christine's hood and fenders had a dusting of snow upon them, a stark contrast to the odd colored paint she wore. She considered it "odd" because it wasn't fully black or navy-blue. It changed depending on the light. On such an overcast day it just looked black. Not that she cared; she never felt herself to be pretty. The taunts and teasing she'd had as young child just reinforced this. She even felt the model she was sounded too fancy for how she felt: Ford Deluxe.

Having prepared for the nasty weather, the entry hall of the bank was covered in a long carpet that told without cliché words that any visitor should "wipe their treads." As she drove over it she attempted to shake free some of the snow on her frame, to no avail in most cases. They'd all have to deal with a few puddles, she thought.

The interior of the bank exemplified the lesser-used alternative name of "financial institution" and from the tasteful lighting, the numerous potted plants, the highly-carved desks, and the employees – the finest looking cars any other bank had seen – Christine felt even plainer. She was glad her transactions went fast and she could leave in decent time and leave to return home to the life she felt suited her best.

As she waited in line to deposit her check, her eyes skimmed over the row of tellers, all very polished men. It seems liked there was usually a new one once or twice a year. One looked questionable to her, but she didn't linger on wondering. In the long run, it didn't much matter and she was tired, simply wanting to get home before the snow became worse.

Upon reaching the head of the line she was summoned to the desk of a bright silver sedan. He smiled politely when she halted. "Good afternoon, Ma'am. How may I help you?"

She returned an appropriate greeting. "And I'd like to deposit this today, sir." she added as she passed over her paycheck. As he read over the information she was glad he made no quip over her surname, even more glaring with her snowy fenders. Her eyes scanned over her immediate surroundings. To the right of the desk was the stock brass nameplate all 1st Bank employees had. Harlan Beaumont was stamped into its surface.

"Alright, is there anything else you need done today, Ms. Winter?" he inquired, having processed her check as her eyes wandered. Now she looked back, meeting his pale blue eyes.

"No, I think I'm fine." She gave him a little smile. "Thank you, Mr. Beaumont."

"My pleasure," he said, returning it. "Have yourself a good day now, and drive safely home. Been told the weather's getting bad out there."

"It's no lie. I hate the winter." she commented but quickly added what she knew so many others followed up with. "I guess I got the wrong last name." He laughed. Not in a way that was mocking but simply good humored.

"You and me both. I've had a few here and there ask if I've ever been to Beaumont, Texas. Never knew there was such a place until I got asked. The jokes get old, fast."

"They do," she agreed. "Well, thank you again, Mr. Beaumont."

"You're plenty welcome," he assured her. After the front doors of the bank had shut upon her departure he turned back to the queue. "Next, please."

. . . .

Christine arrived home just when the snow had gotten worse and sighed with relief as she tossed the house key in the small ceramic dish on the table right outside the door. It was good to be home, away from the weather and those snobby children she babysat. She was thankful there were 4 more days until she'd have to see them again. They reminded her so much of the nasty cohorts she'd had pick on her as a child, what with their rude and very hurtful ways of behaving and speaking. No matter the things they said to Christine (which were often and ranged from her "ugly paint" to other stinging remarks about how she was "too slow" about fetching them this or that), she had no way to complain to their mother. Camilla thought her two tots could do no wrong, and if they wailed about their "awful" day with their babysitter, she figured the navy-blue/black Ford Deluxe had done something to provoke it. Several times she'd been subjected to a Talk with the mother who warned often she could fire her any time she wanted to (at these times Christine felt far more like a hired servant than a mere babysitter), to which Christine would have happily let her do if it weren't for the niceness of the extra funds. The fact Camilla had decided to give her a bonus confused her a great deal, given the whole family's behavior. If she had to sum it up to anything, she guessed upcoming Christmas (in about two months, that is), made her feel generous. She surely appreciated it though, no doubt.

By the time the wood stove had been started and blazed quite steady, the small home had warmed pleasantly and Christine spent the remainder of her evening reading the rest of the love story she'd picked up at the library around a week ago. She liked stories like this and although she was left afterward with this delightful sort of warmth, it gradually faded to be replaced by reality. Really, how much of it was true? How much of it was truly fictitious fiction? All she had in life was her mother, her dad having skipped out before she was even born, so to this day she had no clue who he was. Perhaps he was the one to lend her her odd blue/black paintwork. Was he kind? Caring? Or more of a coward? She always guessed the rest won out because had he truly cared he would've come back to help a single mother who had to work hard to raise her daughter. Christine wondered – although had never asked – if she had even truly been wanted. Had her creation been entirely unintentional? Her mother would never tell the truth though. It wasn't in her makeup.

But really, about the unions in those romances. She knew plenty were fakery just by the way they were plotted, but others just made her wonder. She'd had one boyfriend a couple years ago – an International Harvester farm truck – and with him Christine had felt remarkably comfortable. He had lived a life of hard work and wasn't one to judge on appearances. The Ford didn't exactly know what true love was supposed to feel like (she guessed she could have had something like it for Frank, maybe?), but nothing was like what she read of in her novels. Perhaps none of it was true at all and she was doing herself more harm reading something like it. Then again maybe it lent her some form of hope for this impossible. Not that she felt she was really a subject those sorts of novelized men would fall for anyway. The girls in the stories were all pretty in color and curve and none were a dime-a-dozen type like a Ford – Deluxe model or otherwise. If it wasn't for Frank preferring to live far out of a city for the farm and country lifestyle, which she was a little unsure of handling, he was probably the most suitable for her so far.

About two weeks passed before Christine could spend a day with her friend for girl-time. They usually got together once or twice a month and always had a good bit of fun. Veronica was the stark opposite to her friend with her white paintwork – something many asked her if such was natural, given how much it stood out amongst the many darker shades that dressed the travelers of the streets. The pretty Chevrolet would be flattered as can be and insist that, yes, it was natural but Christine would simply smile in a knowing way. Veronica had been born deep, dark black. The Ford had seen photos to prove it. She had simply grown tired of the "drab darkness" after leaving home and got it done over in as opposite she could find. What was better than white? Veronica's intense brown eyes were a bit of a giveaway to her look at birth, but very few put two and two together. Color or not, she was a wonderful girlfriend with her snappy personality and want to be helpful in any way. Sometimes this consisted of her taking the liberty to doing things that were so bold, they left Christine shocked, but she tried to keep in mind that her friend's heart was in a good place and that no matter the outcome, she usually meant well.

Veronica also had quite the taste for intriguing gossip. As they sat there that afternoon, sipping drinks before the warmth of the wood stove, a heaping of it was shared. Christine knew she was in for something when her friend's dark gaze took on a mischievous look. "Chris, I hope you've had your eyes wide open lately."

"Well, as open as they can be, Veronica." she allowed, sitting her drink aside. The white Chevy followed suit and giggled.

"Have you seen the absolute hunk of a man at our bank? The new teller?" she asked, grinning so big it looked like it hurt. Her reaction is what made Christine laugh as well.

"How should I know if I have?! There's dozens of guys there it seems like! I can't keep track of them." she insisted. Veronica waved this off.

"No excuses. I bet these past several weeks when depositing your paychecks for the care of those two brats, you've seen him. It's hard to miss him, Chris! He's a dream on whitewalls. And yes, he has nice, wide ones too. I made sure I snuck a peek. I love wide whitewalls."

"You and your fascination." Christine snickered. Veronica rolled her eyes.

"I'm not ashamed." she said. "But really, you need to see this guy if you haven't already. He's a work of art. Bright silver paint that just reflects the glow of those little green-shaded lamps at the desks. Sparkly-bright chrome work. Gorgeous blue eyes. There's a man I'd like to have deposit my checks."

"Oh! I know who you're talking about." the Ford acknowledged.

"You do? Isn't he astounding?" Veronica swooned.

"I think his name was Harlan. Harlan Beaumont. He deposited my check a –"

"What?! He did?" her friend gasped, brown eyes wide. "He touched your check?"

"Well, he had to to deposit it." Christine explained matter-of-factly. Veronica wasn't distracted by this.

"And you said his name is Harlan Beaumont? With those looks and that name, he could be an actor! I bet you have fun depositing your checks now, Chris." she said, smirking. "I know I would. To go in there and see that hunk weekly would make my day." Christine took another sip of her drink and rolled her eyes.

"I don't demand to have him be my teller. I take whoever calls me up." Veronica was still so starry-eyed; nothing her best friend said made any dent.

"I've not seen him as close as I'd like to, but I sure hope to one day. His paint is gorgeous. I've never seen a man wear silver that well, and not just silver, but pearlescent silver. At least I think that's what it is. It surely sparkles, I know that. He must have every girl in town after him." She sighed. "I hope he becomes Employee of the Month there some time. It'd be awfully nice to see his portrait up on that wall they have for that purpose. I'm so sick of looking at Mr. Streeter. He's just an uppity Mercedes."

Christine finished the rest of her drink, and then sank down on her shocks, enjoying the stove's heat. "You sound like you're in love with him, Ronnie." she jested. Veronica's dark eyes went wide.

"In love with Mr. Streeter? Give me a break, Chris!" she snorted. "I've got better taste than that."

"Not him. Mr. Beaumont."

"Oh, well that's a totally different matter. I'm not going to stop dreaming about such a knight in silver armor anytime soon, you know." she said, grinning.

"I figured as much. Now, can we talk about something else aside from the bank teller who's only helped me one time in the past month?" she petitioned, her grey eyes meeting the chocolate-colored ones of her friend. A vague little smile flickered on her front bumper. Veronica feigned disgust at having the subject changed, as Christine knew she would.

"Ugh, okay. If you insist. How're the two little monsters?" she inquired. That was her pat name for Camilla Evans' spoiled tots and Christine really couldn't argue, no matter how rude it sounded.

"As monstrous as ever," the dark blue car said with distaste. "Last time I was there, Bart broke something and when Camilla found out, I got blamed for not keeping a firm enough eye on them. How am I supposed to corral two hyper boys in a house with six rooms when they both like to distract me so the other can get away with something? Short of locking all of us together in one room – which won't happen – it's about impossible." She grinned at her friend. "Unless you'd like to come help me."

"Chrysler forbid!" Veronica exclaimed. "I'd sooner have four flat tires than spend a couple hours with those brats."

"Okay… I just figured if you were interested, maybe Camilla would consider putting you on the payroll too and maybe you'd have a better chance of seeing your 'knight in silver armor.'"

"For all the oil in Texas, I'll still say 'no.' Think about it, Chris. If I babysat those kids, I'd be in trouble within the first day and be fired just as soon also. First of all I wouldn't tolerate their shenanigans and I'd let them know about it; time-out in the corner with nothing to entertain themselves. Considering you said their Mother Dearest doesn't like disciplining them, I firmly know I'd be committing some peccadillo."

Christine sighed. "Sadly, that's true."

"You crack me up with how much you hate kids." Veronica chuckled, swirling the remaining portion of her drink about. "Although Bart and Carl surely deserve it." The conversation continued as the two moved their empty glasses to the kitchen.

"I don't 'hate' kids, Ronnie. Even Bart and Carl. I just strongly dislike them for the most part." she said.

"In other words, you don't ever want ones of your own." Veronica filled in.

"In other words," Christine agreed, nodding her dark hood. The white car smiled knowingly.

"I can't argue with that, Chris. If I had kids tagging after me, I couldn't have nearly as much time as I'd like to spend ogling Mr. Beaumont's nice, wide whitewalls."

"And we're back to the beginning of our conversation again." the Ford retorted. In that small room, the two shared a laugh. Outside, snow lightly swirled down over Aurora.