At Every Turn (11 page)

“You don’t mind coming to Chicago with us, do you?”

Lawrence held the door open as we stepped into the heat of the day. “Of course not. I’m thrilled. Not only to see the race, but to accompany such a lovely lady.”

We stopped at my car. He opened the door. I stepped behind it but made no move to slide into the seat. In spite of my need to excuse myself on race day, I found myself warming to him as a companion.

“Have you made any more progress raising your money?” Lawrence leaned across the top of the door.

My heart pumped harder as his face drew near mine. “Some.”

“And you haven’t given it away yet?”

I laughed. “No, not yet.”

He eased back, brushed his fingernails on his jacket, cleared his throat. “So you found a safe place for it?”

“It’s in my bedroom, for now. Grandmother gave me a special box to keep the money in.”

“Do you think that’s wise?”

My forehead crinkled. “Why not?”

“So many people in and out of your room.”

“Betsy? She wouldn’t think anything of it, even if she ran across it.”

“Hmm.” Tiny wrinkles framed his eyes, making him look older than I imagined him to be. “Just be careful, Alyce. I would hate for anything to happen to your money.”

“Thank you. Less than six weeks. I need every penny I can get. Oh—and Webster is going to sell some of my jewelry for me in Chicago. It should bring enough to replace what I gave away.”

“I see.” He glanced back toward the office building, concern rumpling his usually placid face.

“Go on. Get back to work. Father will only be patient for so long.” I settled behind the wheel, shut the door, and started the engine. I had a feeling Mother would get over her bee sting as soon as the prospect of a trip to Chicago dangled in front of her. Now to plot my disguise . . .

 13 

T
he sharp smell of wet paint enveloped me as I stepped inside the garage.

“Whew!” I flapped my hand in front of my nose. “Why didn’t you do that outdoors?”

Webster didn’t look up as his brush, wet with white paint, stroked the top of a number 7 on the engine cover. “Too much wind. Blowing grass.” He lifted his hand, squinted at his work. “That should do.”

He dumped the brush into a can of liquid. “Can’t take her out again until this dries. This evening. You okay with that?”

“So you’ll let me drive again?”

“Are you going to be in Chicago?”

I nodded. “I worked it out with Father.”

“Then I guess you’ll be driving.” One corner of his mouth lifted as his gaze of admiration fell on the race car and then lifted to my face. “She couldn’t be in better hands.”

Warmth bloomed in my cheeks as I dropped my chin.

“But don’t you think you ought to tell your father, Ally? I mean, secrets can be dangerous things.”

My stomach roiled, but at the thought of keeping silent or telling? “Good heavens, no! He’d, well, he’d never allow it. I think it’s best to keep it to ourselves. For now.”

He wiped the paint from his hands and tossed the rag onto the workbench. “But what if something happens?”

I stepped toward him, thankful I’d put off my silk dress in favor of my driving clothes. “It won’t. You’ll be there to help me. And the Lord will protect us.”

“You sure about that?”

“This is His plan to provide for the work of the gospel. It has to be.”

He stared at me for a long moment, much as he had the painted number on the car. Then he knelt on the ground to clean up his paintbrush.

I scooted onto the nearby stool. “There is one little rut in the road.”

He stopped working. “How big a rut?”

Setting my feet on the upper rung of the stool, I gripped my knees. “Lawren—Mr. Trotter is coming along.”

Scrubbing commenced again, with more agitation than before. “With your father?”

“Yes, but with me, too.”

His head shot up. “What do you mean?”

“Father insisted he come along to escort me on race day.” I hopped to the ground. My hand found his shoulder, keeping him from rising to his feet. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure Mother comes, too. I’ll tell him I’m shopping with her, that I’ll meet him there later. Besides, Father needs him there for business, too. Not just for me. And if I know my father, he’ll mix that business with the pleasure of a day at the races.”

Webster’s shoulders relaxed a bit. “You sure you can manage all that intrigue and drive, too?”

“You get me to the pits and on the track. I’ll orchestrate the rest. Just find a place where I can change clothes—and wash up. Preferably a place no one will notice.”

He rose to his feet. I found myself staring into eyes as dark as my morning coffee. And just as warm.

Midmorning on Thursday, Mother and I stood on the train platform as the whistle of the engine screeched through town, calling us aboard the Hoosier Line.

“Hurry, Alyce.” Mother stepped up into a railway car as I strained to glimpse Webster supervising the loading of the racer. Perhaps it had already rolled aboard, for I couldn’t see either man or car.

“Let’s go, Ally.” Father looked at his pocket watch. He wouldn’t come until tomorrow, but Mother needed no coaxing to leave a day early.

I began to leap up the steps, then paused and did my best to ascend in a slow, ladylike manner. From the platform, Father followed my progress to my seat. I settled next to Mother, who looked regal in spite of the heat and soot. Fresh as a blooming rose, she was, while I already felt as wilted and plain as a week-old daisy.

The train lurched forward. I pressed my hand to my purse. Two of Grandmother’s broaches, my three necklaces, a ring, and a bracelet filled the interior. I hoped the trinkets would bring in enough to cover what I’d given away.

The woman across the aisle initiated a conversation with Mother. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the plush velvet seat. Never in my wildest dreams had I anticipated returning to Chicago with such enthusiasm. Or with two such friends as Webster and Lawrence. I thought of Webster, somewhere in the freight cars behind. Was he nervous? Excited? Afraid? This car was his creation, though he still remained secretive about that fact. Again, I felt a niggle of frustration. Why hadn’t he told me?

Stop it!
No time for vain speculation. I’d never known Webster to be devious in any way. He must have had sound reasons for withholding his part in the project.

Heat wafted in through the open window. I closed it and studied my reflection in the glass. Did it matter who built the car—or who drove it? My lips curved into a grin. Or who others thought drove it. The end result would be the same: money to fund the McConnells’ work in the Gold Coast villages. A worthy endeavor.

But it wouldn’t hurt to have a bit of fun in the process.

The moment we disembarked at Dearborn Station, the bustle of the busy streets energized me. I’d truly enjoyed my two years at the Chicago School of Domestic Arts and Sciences. From cooking to household economy, my classes had fascinated and challenged me. In fact, the only things I had missed during my time away from Langston were my grandmother and my drives.

Ensconced in the hotel, Mother lounged on the sofa, sorting through a sheaf of invitations. How in the world did so many people know we’d be in town this weekend?

“We’ve been invited to dinner Saturday evening.” Mother tossed aside three other cards with barely a glance. “Everyone who is anyone in Chicago will be there.”

“Oh?” I peered into the mirror above the dresser and fluffed my curls with my fingers. I knew that those who could afford it left the city for the summer months. Perhaps that meant fewer “anyones” to invite.

“I expect you’ll not embarrass us again. Not like you did the last time I took you to a soiree.”

I stifled a giggle, giving a generic hum instead, not actually agreeing to her directive. Poor Mother. Instead of flirting with millionaires’ sons, I’d found a kindred soul with whom to discuss our faith. Maria and I had hid in a corner and talked the whole long evening.

At least I wouldn’t have to worry about my behavior until Saturday night. After the race. I hugged the thought of a first-place win, even knowing it was beyond my skill level. But all I had to do was place first in my heat, reach the finals. Then I would receive at least a slice of the prize money, even if that slice resembled a sliver rather than a feast. Whether or not my purse bulged from prize money by Saturday night, the party might provide another opportunity to garner donations for the Gold Coast.

Fumbling through my handbag, I found the picture, rumpled on two corners now. I pressed them smooth and smiled at the young children I knew by heart. How could anyone resist those faces? I felt sure my picture would find its way in front of the eyes of all in attendance at the party.

The photo went back into my purse. I needed to figure out the way to the track. To Webster. I pinned my hat in place. “I’m off to pay a call, Mother.”

“Oh?” She started to rise. “I’ll come with you.”

“No! I mean, it’s been a long day, Mother. And you’re just getting over the bee sting. You rest for now.”

She settled back down. I kissed her cheek, allowing her to hold my hand for a long moment before my fingers drifted from her touch.

“Have fun, Alyce darling.”

I returned her smile, eager to be off on my adventure. But out on the sidewalk, guilt slowed my steps. If she knew my destination, she wouldn’t be so amiable about my leaving. With a tilt of my head skyward, I peered at the corner window on the third floor of the hotel. No shadow of movement caught my eye. I tucked my handbag closer to my body and turned my feet in the direction of an elevated train that would carry me closer to Maywood, home of the Chicago Motor Speedway.

No, Mother had no idea.

Two hours later, I left the racetrack, dejected. Few people mingled in the expanse. Fewer cars. No sign of Webster or the bright blue roadster with the white number 7. I boarded the train back to the hotel but got off at an earlier stop. I needed to walk. I needed air.

My feet scuffed against the steps leading to the street. No Webster. No drive. No reassurance that our plan would work. Even my jewelry weighed heavy in my purse, as I hadn’t yet given it into Webster’s care.

So much my heart wanted to do for others. So many unknowns littering the path.

Sunlight dappled the walk beneath my feet, dancing with the leaves that shivered in the balmy breeze. Surely Webster hadn’t forgotten that I needed to do some practice runs. He did remember that I’d never driven on boards—or over banked turns, didn’t he? I turned onto Michigan Avenue. Water lapped the shore across the way, drawing me. Careful to avoid the motorcars and the horses, I hurried over the road. Just as I reached the walk on the other side, a gust of wind wrapped my skirt around my legs. A man bumped my left arm. I toppled and landed sprawled on the pavement, my hat drooping down over my left eye.

Pairs of feet stepped around me. Passed me. Unaffected by my sorry state. Or my father’s wealth. Or my mother’s social reputation.

For an instant, I lay stunned. Alone. Unable to right myself on the crowded walk. Then a masculine hand reached down and lifted me to my feet. A tip of his hat hid his face as he disappeared into the throng.