At Every Turn (12 page)

Rescued. Not abandoned.

“Forgive me, Lord,” I whispered as people surged around me. Doubt might have tripped me up for a moment, but now that I’d regained my feet, I didn’t intend to falter again.

 14 

B
efore Mother woke the next morning, I traced my path back to the speedway. After talking my way past the guard at the gate, I hid beneath the grandstands. Pushing up on my toes, I peered between the bench seats. Today, drivers and mechanics zipped around the two-mile wooden track. Voices called. Engines started and stopped.

My toes cramped. I bent my knees to look through a lower gap. I needed to find Webster—and our car. A Peugeot skidded around the end of the oval. My stomach lurched. The diminutive driver regained control, hunched further over the steering wheel, and increased his speed on the back straightaway.

Dario Resta. My heart drummed in my ears. Could I race against such men?

I crept to the edge of the grandstand and peeked out. Father would arrive in Chicago today, but would he come early to watch the practice runs? I stepped out a little farther and looked up into the grandstand seats. A few men in suits sat watching, each separated from the other. I shrank back. If Father were here, he would be with those men, the ones whose unsullied hands doled out the money for the cars and drivers and mechanics. The ones who sought glory through the machine their company built.

But none resembled Father. Or Mr. Trotter.

Men hollered to one another. Metal clanked against metal between the growl of engines. A Duesenberg rested a few yards away, the top half of a mechanic’s body lost beneath the open engine cover. I stepped closer. The acrid smell of gasoline, burning rubber, and sweat tangled in my nose, sweeter to me than the scent of any Parisian perfume. Then a familiar whistle drifted closer. I ducked beneath the grandstand again. A man swaggered past, dirty rag hanging out of the back pocket of his white mechanic’s jumpsuit.

My fingers grazed his sleeve. The whistle silenced as he whipped around, eyes searching. My whole body tingled with warmth—different than the summer heat that dribbled beads of perspiration down the middle of my back. I stepped into the full light of the sun.

He blinked, but then the familiar grin stretched his wide mouth.

“Here I am.” My words shook a bit as my stomach swerved like Resta’s car on the curve a few minutes ago.

His head turned casually to the left and then to the right, his whistle starting up once more, though quieter this time. He pulled me into the shadows.

While one hand lifted his cap, the other raked through his dampened hair. Both hands fixed his cap back on his head before resting on his hips. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I am. Did you square things with the other driver?”

His eyes shifted as his jaw tightened and released. He returned his gaze to mine and gave a sharp nod.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” I reached into my handbag and retrieved the jewelry I’d determined to part with. “Will you sell these for me, please?”

He pulled a clean rag from the front pocket of his jumpsuit. “Put ’em here. I’ll deal with ’em later.”

I dumped the bits of jewelry into the center of the rag. He tied the ends and shoved it into his pocket. “Let’s get you dressed.” One hand on my elbow, he led me out into the sunshine but then pulled us back into the shade beneath the stands. “One more thing. The race has been moved to Sunday. Some of the drivers are backing out. What about you?”

Sunday? That gave me another day to practice. But ought I race on the Lord’s Day? Would it be proper? Should I make a stand to prove my faith to Webster, or was my effort to raise money for those precious people across the globe a holy act, one the Lord would approve of no matter on which day it took place?

Like tug-of-war in a schoolyard, my thoughts pulled back and forth, inching first one way and then the other. Webster waited. I closed my eyes, breathed a prayer, heard only silence. All I knew to do was continue on the course I’d determined. This was my last hope of raising the money I’d committed to give. And with others out, maybe I had a better chance of finishing at the top of my heat and ending with a slice of the prize money. “I’ll race.”

Webster’s chest swelled and then deflated. “All right, then. I’ve got a place for you to change. We’ll practice more than just driving today.” With a wink, he crooked his elbow. I curled my fingers around his arm and pranced into the open, determined to appear to all the world as if nothing out of the ordinary were about to take place.

Exhilaration carried me back to the hotel that afternoon. Even after my bath, the excitement of the drive pinked my cheeks. Never had I experienced such speed. And though at first the banked turns sent my stomach careening into my throat, I finally figured out I wouldn’t tip over. But could I maintain my speed with other cars fighting for space on the track? All I knew for certain was that I wanted to try.

I joined Mother in our sitting room as suppertime approached. The clock struck six. A few minutes later, Father burst into the room. With long strides, he reached Mother, leaned down, and planted a loud kiss on her cheek.

She blushed, fingers stealing up to touch the spot on her face. “Why, Harry! Whatever was that for?”

He tossed his hat on a chair. “Do I need a reason to be happy to see my wife?”

After making room for him on the sofa, she snuggled into his arms. She looked young again. Not the young of her hardscrabble youth. Young the way she wanted
me
to look. And the light in Father’s eyes when he looked at her stirred a bit of that desire in me, too.

Turning to leave them alone with each other, I found myself face-to-face with Lawrence Trotter. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know . . .” I glanced back at my parents, but they’d become oblivious to anyone but each other. “Won’t you, um . . .”

Ought I invite Lawrence in or invite myself out?

He took a step backward, into the hall. I followed, pulling the door almost shut behind me. My hands fidgeted as my gaze roamed the empty hall.

“Did you have a pleasant trip?”

He nodded and glanced past me. “Your father invited me to join the family for supper.”

“Did he? How wonderful.” My mind whirled as fast as tires on a board track. Not only would Lawrence give me a conversational companion at the table, it would afford an opportunity to put my Sunday plan into motion. I had to escape his attention on race day with a legitimate excuse. Or at least a legitimate-sounding one.

My conscience pricked. Lies atop secrets. Was this truly God’s plan? It had to be. I could see no other way.

“Should I come back later?”

Mother’s soft laughter drifted from the room, followed by the rustle of her dress. I pushed the door open a bit and peeked inside.

“Alyce? We’re taking supper in the restaurant downstairs. Is Mr. Trotter with you?”

“Yes, he is.” I swung the door wide, revealing us both.

Father reached for Mother’s hand, enfolded it within his own, then raised it to his lips, his eyes never leaving her face. “Lead the way, Trotter.”

“My pleasure, sir.” With a slight bow, he offered me his arm and escorted me to the elevator.

Mother and I sat across from each other at the dining table. We conversed of the weather and Father’s work and the hotel, until finally the waiter set our food before us. Toward the end of supper, Mother put on her company smile and turned her attention to Lawrence.

“Mr. . . . Trotter, was it?”

Lawrence inclined his head.

“So good of you to join us.” Her eyes cut to me for only a moment. “Forgive me, but I didn’t catch where you and our Alyce formed your acquaintance.”

I dabbed my napkin at my mouth as Father cleared his throat and reached for Mother’s hand.

“Mr. Trotter is my bookkeeper, Winifred.”

“Oh.” She drew out the word, as if trying to figure out what to make of that piece of information. I squirmed in my seat. The last thing I desired was a family row over what constituted an eligible beau.

“I asked him to escort Ally to the race on Sunday.”

Mother’s pretty mouth turned pouty. “Now, Harry. You know how I feel—”

“How was Grandmother when you left?” I kept my voice bright and focused my attention on Father as he answered. But I couldn’t miss Mother’s pursed lips, then their downward turn.

“I expect you’ll meet all manner of eligible men here in Chicago, Alyce,” she said.

My eyes cut toward Lawrence, but he didn’t appear discomposed. “Yes, Mother.”

She turned to Father. “Will you secure us a car for tomorrow evening? I imagine we’ll be out quite late.”

My back stiffened. Out late. On Saturday night. With the big race happening the next day. Would Mother’s party be the undoing of all my plans?

Lawrence stood. “Would you care to take a stroll, Miss Benson?”

He looked to Father for approval and received it with a wave of Father’s hand.

“Thank you, Law—Mr. Trotter.” I stood. “That would be quite agreeable.”

Mother’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t object. We exited the dining room, then the hotel. A warm breeze rustled the leaves on the trees as we sauntered toward a small park area.

No better time than now to situate things for Sunday. “Lawrence.” I smiled up at him. “I’ve run into a bit of a snag for Sunday’s outing.” I stopped walking. “You do know the race has been changed to Sunday?” My heart skipped a beat.

“Yes. Your father and I heard it on the way to town. I hope this doesn’t change things. I’ve looked forward to our day together.”

The light in his eyes almost melted my resolve to disappoint him.

He motioned to a bench. I sat, as did he. I laced my fingers, laid them in my lap, and gazed out over the green square of land in the midst of the city.

His arm stretched across the back of the bench, behind my shoulders. I shivered with unexpected delight. He leaned closer to me. “So tomorrow is free—unless, of course, your father requires my assistance. Perhaps we could take in the Lincoln Park Zoo.”

I prayed he wouldn’t notice my fingers tightening on each other. “What a lovely thought. But I’m—spending the day with Mother. And then there’s that dreaded dinner party of hers in the evening.” I shuddered. “And on Sunday . . . You see, a friend has asked me to visit.”

I swatted back the buzz of my conscience. He didn’t need to know that the friend was Webster and our visit would be at the speedway.

His countenance fell. I twisted to face him, my hand lighting for a brief moment on his knee. “But I’d be happy to meet you later on Sunday, at the speedway.”