At Every Turn (13 page)

“I don’t know. Your father—”

“I’ll make sure he understands. Besides, this frees you to attend church on Sunday morning, if you prefer.”

His head tipped to one side as he studied me, his face a blank mask. Then his expression opened again. “I’ll be happy to see you at whatever moment you choose, Alyce.”

A calming wave surged through me. Lawrence might be a different type of friend than Webster, but he remained a friend all the same. I gave him my brightest smile. “I’ll look forward to that moment, as well.”

 15 

I
t was more difficult to slip away with Father around, but I managed. Webster and I zoomed through several more practice laps. Soon I felt more comfortable on the banked turns, but I was still the only car on the boards. When I returned to the hotel, my parents had gone out. I blessed this turn of events and soaked in the tub for an hour, rehearsing the track again in my head, imagining the effort with more noise, more smoke, more dirt.

More excitement.

But first, I had to make it through this evening’s party.

After my parents returned, Mother had tea sent up, and we dressed. Father grumbled that it was time to go. Just before we headed out, I slipped back into my room and grabbed the photograph of the Gold Coast children, placing it in the evening bag hanging from my wrist. I promised myself I wouldn’t make a scene, but if an opportunity presented itself . . .

The sun slid toward the horizon as we alighted from the hired car on Prairie Avenue, a street lined with grand mansions of the past. But the venerable names no longer lived here. They’d moved north, to the Gold Coast. Not my Gold Coast. Theirs was along the shore of Lake Michigan.

The brick house owned by Mother’s friends rose tall, chimneys and dormers jutting up from the rooftop. A flight of wide steps rose to an arch, beneath which the front door remained aloof from the elements. Soft illumination flowed out tall windows into the street below, where we stood after climbing from the car.

Excited exclamations greeted Mother as she swept through the front door on Father’s arm. Her face glowed with each press of cheek to cheek, each reintroduction of Father to one of her friends. Her laugh trilled across the room, accompanied by graceful movements and a joy she rarely exuded in Langston. Mother seemed to feel in this environment as I did behind the wheel—as if she were made for this moment.

I trailed my parents through room after room, making polite conversation, until I found myself alone, an untouched glass of wine in my hand. A footman strolled past. I set my glass on his tray. An eyebrow rose in question. I dismissed it with a tight smile.

“Alyce! Whatever are you doing in town?” Lisa Gentry kissed the air in front of my cheek, babbling on as if we hadn’t seen each other in years instead of just the couple months since graduation. “Look who’s here, girls.”

Three or four others joined us. Then I noticed the young men hovering about the edges of our group. Inch by inch, they worked their way in among us.

“What
have
you been up to out there in the country, Alyce?” Regina batted her eyes at the sandy-haired young man across the circle from her as she spoke.

Lisa took up the refrain, with a shy smile at the dark-haired gentleman at her side. Then her gaze locked with mine. She smiled. I relaxed. It was all the opening I needed. Reaching into my bag, I pulled out the picture of the African children. “I’ve been quite busy, actually.” I held out the photograph. The other girls gathered around, then looked up, each face puckering into a question.

“These children live in a place called the Gold Coast, in Africa. They have need of food and shelter and clothing. But beyond the things needed to survive in this life, they need the gospel of Jesus Christ. I’m raising money to send a missionary couple back to their work among the villages there.”

Delicate eyebrows lifted. Gloved fingers tried to block giggles from smirking lips. I stepped back, suddenly feeling as out of place as a horse and phaeton on an auto-racing track. What had made me think they would care about children with hopeless eyes?

Lisa brushed her hand against the dark-haired gentleman’s arm, then gazed into his eyes. No, these girls cared only about finding a suitable husband. Perhaps then would they turn their thoughts to others, as Mother had suggested.

I took a step backward. Young men filled in the empty space, crowding me from the circle. I retreated to the wall, watching from afar. The gentlemen hung on the girls’ playful words, punctuated by looks stolen from beneath their downturned lashes. My fingers tightened on the photograph. I wished someone would listen to me with such rapt attention.

“Alyce?” Mother’s voice carried across the room.

I jammed the picture back into concealment.

“Come, darling. I have someone I want you to meet.” She hooked her arm through mine and led me into the library. Two men I’d never seen before stood conversing near the open windows.

“Mr. Bragg, Mr. Steel. May I present my daughter, Miss Alyce Benson.”

We exchanged greetings. Mother patted my hand and then retreated.

They filled in the awkward silence with customary dinner party pleasantries. Mr. Bragg had yellow spun-silk hair and a lean frame. Mr. Steel was a heftier man, but not fleshy. Plainer features. More intelligent eyes. Both impeccably dressed. Obviously these were men of money and culture. Even if their faith consisted only of church attendance on Easter and Christmas, maybe my picture would stir their hearts to help.

If they gave me just one opening in the conversation, I’d dash through it.

A burst of giggles preceded a group of young ladies stepping into the library. Mr. Bragg’s gaze moved idly in their direction. Mr. Steel fought the magnetism a bit longer but finally lost. My enthusiasm drooped. Why couldn’t I capture these men the way the other girls did?

Or could I?

Closing my eyes, I imagined the wide eyes in thin faces staring back at me through the miracle of photography. I told myself I would do anything to help them. With a deep breath, I inched closer to Mr. Steel and Mr. Bragg, wearing my most coquettish smile. Their eyes snapped back in my direction. Saucy questions and compliments flew from my mouth. Their attention deepened, even though the other girls stood just beyond the scope of our conversation.

Mr. Bragg lifted his glass and drank deep. Mr. Steel’s gaze wandered over my face. “Tell me, Miss Alyce. What do you find to do in the country?”

I waved my hand. “Oh, this and that. However, I have recently come upon quite a project.”

Mr. Bragg took up the challenge. “And what cause has piqued your interest?”

“Why, I can show you.” Out came the photograph. Again I explained, but this time with playful smiles and shy glances tempering my usual passion.

Mr. Steel plucked the photo from my fingers. “Interesting way to pass your time.”

Mr. Bragg leaned toward the picture, too. The young women around us whispered amongst themselves. Then a petite brunette pushed between me and Mr. Bragg, her arm looping through mine.

“Isn’t she a dear to want to help?” She addressed Mr. Bragg, her eyes doelike. Then she turned to me. “I meant to show the photograph to my mother. May I?”

She whisked the picture from Mr. Steel’s hand and headed for the door.

“Wait!” I flew after her, colliding with a small reading shelf. Books tumbled to the floor, smashing into my toes. I yelped. Jumped away. Mr. Bragg and Mr. Steel appeared at each arm, helping me limp after my photograph.

As we passed the music room, crowded with guests, I spied her, indeed handing my prized possession to her mother.

“In there.” I nodded. We entered. The girl’s mother handed the picture back. The girl’s lashes shaded eyes feigning innocence, drawing the men from my side to hers. She placed the photograph on the slanted lid of the open piano, her attention fully absorbed by the dance of flirtation around her.

For a moment the picture remained on its precarious perch. Then a passing guest stirred the air. It slid down the slope and skidded over the wood floor, beneath unsuspecting feet. I followed it with my eyes, then my feet. But every time I neared my treasure, an errant toe propelled it farther from my reach. Back and forth. This way and that. I darted through the crowd, throwing swift apologies.

I tried to catch someone’s attention. Mr. Bragg. Or Mr. Steel. Or one of the other girls. But they’d lost interest in me. Again I searched the floor. But the photo had disappeared. I bit my lip and plopped dejectedly into a chair beneath an open window. Then I spied a wisp of something beneath the piano. I leaned down. There, lodged between the instrument’s leg and the wall, was my beloved picture. I had to rescue it. A quick glance around assured me that other guests were minding their own conversations, not my actions.

I dropped to my knees and crawled to the corner, my backside in the air. Plucking up my photograph, I sat back in relief.

Then I noticed the quiet in the room.

“Alyce.” Mother’s hiss.

I crept to the edge of the piano and stuck my head out from beneath it. “Yes, Mother?”

She reached down, helped me to my feet. A buzz filled the emptiness, and I knew Mother felt the sting as surely as she had the bee’s in the garden a few days ago.

Her eyes blazed in her white face. Her voice never rose above a whisper. “I’ll call for your father to escort you back to the hotel.” She turned on her heel and charged from the room.

Tears pushed at my eyes, but I shook them away. I stared at the picture in my hand, the faces marred with dust, the edges crinkled. No one met my gaze as I stumbled into the foyer to wait for Father. At least now I could get back to our room and get some rest before tomorrow’s race.

The race. That was why I’d come. Not for the attention of people I didn’t know, who didn’t know me. Mother wished for my social success. I only wanted to succeed on the track.

I glanced once more at the precious faces before stuffing the picture back into my bag. No matter what tomorrow brought, motoring over the oil-slick boards with smoke in my face would be a cinch compared to this.

 16 

A
yawn stretched my face as I arrived at the speedway Sunday morning. In spite of my early departure from the party, after I’d climbed into my bed last night, sleep had refused to come.

My eyelids felt heavy as I searched for Webster among the bustle of mechanics near the pits—really just space in the infield, off the track. Although I knew the meeting place and the plan, his very presence would settle me like no one else’s.

I tucked a curl behind my ear. Just another Sunday drive, I told myself. One I hoped would result in money for my red box.

A three-note whistle. Our signal. I spun around. Webster jumped from the shadows, his usual jocularity turned pensive.

“Let’s go.” Tight, nervous words. He strode toward the shack where I’d changed clothes for the past two days. I almost had to run to keep up, glancing back over my shoulder every few seconds to make sure neither my father nor Lawrence appeared.

Webster opened the weathered wooden door and nodded. “Remember, I’ll knock three times. Your bag is beneath the crate in the back, like before. And the bucket of water and toweling for cleaning up afterward.”

Before I could thank him, the door thumped shut and musty darkness surrounded me. I concentrated on a small square of light streaming through a window that sat well above my head. Then I pushed a large box in front of the door before stripping down to my modern underclothes.

A sudden chill shook me. I rubbed my hands up and down my arms. Would I race against Dario Resta? Or Ralph De Palma? What if I panicked? What if I crashed? What if someone figured out I was a woman? My hands turned slick as my head throbbed with the unknowns.

“I can do this. I can.” I pulled up my knickers. Dropped the large brown men’s shirt over my head, let it drape across my shoulders. Then I stepped into the jumpsuit that identified me as a member of the racing team. It billowed out, disguising my slender frame.

After tucking every strand of hair beneath the tight-fitting driving cap Webster had given me, I positioned the goggles on top of my head, ready to set them in place once I walked through the door. But I still felt exposed. I leaned down, rubbed my hands along the dirt floor, and brushed them across my face.

Better. I took a deep breath. And waited.

Here I am, Lord.

No voice answered, yet I felt only peace.

Three knocks. The door pushed against the box holding it shut. “Ally?” came the whisper. “You ready?”

I shoved the box aside. The door creaked open.

Webster looked me up and down. “You’ll do. Resta’s small, too, so you won’t look strange. And most people will be too far away to notice anything . . . different. Once you’re sitting in the car, we’ll be set. You’re in the third heat. The mechanical crew has been told that the driver is high-strung and not to talk to him. They’re willing but wary. Just play your part. I’ll come for you just before start time and lead you straight to the pit area. We’ll settle in the car and pull up to the starting line. Rolling start, pace car for half a lap. Any questions?”

A million and one raced through my mind, but I shook my head anyway. No use voicing uncertainties that couldn’t be answered. The door clicked behind him, leaving me again alone in the dim and stuffy storage room. I dropped to my knees but couldn’t think of another word to say. Even in prayer.

Forever later—or was it a mere minute?—three raps sounded on the door. I grabbed the handle, yanked it open. With no more than a glance in Webster’s direction, I strode toward the pits and the bright blue roadster with the white number 7. I knew this car. I knew I could drive it.

Mechanics peeled back, leaving a clear path. I climbed behind the wheel. Webster cranked the engine before jumping into the seat beside me, his grin as wide as Lake Michigan. As I’d done before, I eased the automobile into first gear. My insides jittered with the thrill of competition as the other cars did the same. We all rolled onto the track, followed the pace car, and watched for the red flag to signal our start.

I didn’t turn my head to see who I would be racing against. I didn’t want to know. Instead, I focused on the track in front of me, at least the bit I could see through the billowing exhaust.

“Steady.” Webster’s voice seemed a whisper, but I knew he was shouting. “I’ll keep up with who’s behind you.”

“What if I’m the one behind?” I gripped the steering wheel and stared straight ahead.

“No chance, Ally.” He leaned into my line of vision. “Flag’s up. Get ready. Now go!”

It took only seconds to shift into top gear, throttle open, gaining speed. Like on the track at home, the air slapped my face as the sun beat down on my head. We surged to the front of the pack, only one other car ahead of me. But that car refused to be overtaken. Around the curve. Another straightway. Another curve. Only a ten-lap race. A mere twenty minutes or less. I leaned in, pushed my foot to the floorboard.

Another car inched closer, its front wheels in line with mine. I glanced at Webster, his body twisted to watch behind us. When I glanced again, he faced me, his mouth moving, but I couldn’t hear over the roar of the engines. Or was it the roar of my heart in my ears? Knuckles white, I kept one eye on the track, one on the nose of the race car inching ahead of me.

How many laps? I hadn’t counted. And I dared not look up at the board that marked our progress. We whizzed past the grandstands, the spectators no more than a blur. Finally, I saw it up ahead—the checkered flag. Waiting.

“C’mon. C’mon.” I wished the car could be coaxed to try harder. But nothing I did could spur the engine to a faster pace. In a flash, we passed the flag.

The crowd erupted in cheers. My head turned one direction, then another. Had I won? I couldn’t tell. I let off the gas, downshifted, rolled to a stop in the pit. Then my eyes sought the scoreboard.

Runner up. By less than a second.

Just short of the win. Just short of even the smallest share of the prize money.

I wanted to burst into tears. But I couldn’t. Not here.

Webster nudged me from the car, his voice near my ear. “Go on. Get out of here. Get changed.”

I stumbled forward on legs still pulsating with the vibration of the car, thankful for the muck of oil and dirt that hid my face from recognition.

“Where’d he go?” Father’s voice carried over the din, propelling me into the crowd of mechanics and drivers preparing for the next heat. Three strides. Four. Five. I glanced back. No sign of Father. I stalked on through the commotion, the back-slapping, the congratulations, then snaked through the grandstands and back to the storage shed.

The crowd thinned near my changing place. I slipped inside, eased the door shut, and slid the large crate in front of the door before I stumbled to the back wall, eager to relieve my shaky knees. I plopped down on a wooden crate. My chest heaved. My shoulders shook. I covered my mouth and doubled over with giddy laughter.

I’d driven in a race. A real race. And I hadn’t been left behind.

Oh, how proud my father would be. If only I could tell him.

Father. Voices outside the small window sobered me instantly. I had to get back to Father. And Lawrence. They’d be expecting me.

Deep breaths slowed my heart as I wiped grime from my hands with a delicate lace handkerchief. I used the shirt I’d worn to wipe oil and dirt from my face and neck before splashing on the warm water. A bird bath to rinse the rest of my limbs. A quick dry with the towel, then I wiggled back into my dress. Driving clothes returned to the carpetbag beneath the upended empty crate in the corner, I eased into the throng of spectators, praying I didn’t smell worse than anyone else in attendance.

There was Webster, still in his jumpsuit. He leaned against the grandstand railing, one foot crossed casually over the other. His familiar grin settled me as he offered his arm. “You okay?”

I held my breath for a brief moment. Tingles raced over my arms and legs as his gaze held mine. I almost wished my knees would give way, that his arms would wrap around me, hold me tight. But even that momentary attraction paled against the knowledge of what I’d just done. “When can we do that again?”

His laughter pealed into the air. I pressed closer, my words meant for his ears alone. “Seriously, Webster. I know I’ll get the driver’s pay for this time, but I could win all the money I need for the McConnells if I could just place in one race.”

He stopped, smile fading, eyes searching mine. “You did fine today. Quite well, in fact. But it’s dangerous, Ally. And there are no guarantees.”

I sobered a bit. “I know. But you’ll help me.”

He looked away. Why did he hesitate? Did I spy new fear in his face? Fear of my father? Or fear for me?

A cluster of men in suits sauntered past. Webster raised his voice. “Fancy meeting you here, Miss Alyce. May I help you locate your father?”

I bit back a giggle. “I’d be most obliged, Mr. Little. I seem to have lost my way.”

He spun me toward the far grandstands, chattering nonsense as we walked. I only hoped Father and Lawrence attributed my glow to a beautiful day and a good showing by our car. For that would be the absolute truth.

A minute later, my gaze landed on a well-dressed man, a familiar figure. Away from the crowd. Conversing with two men in rougher attire.

He turned. Our eyes met.

Lawrence.

I called across the distance and waved. The two men slunk away. Webster let go of my arm, followed a few paces behind.

When I placed my hands in Lawrence’s, I breathed relief. “I told you I’d find you.”

“So you did.” Lawrence glanced backward before linking my arm with his. I bit my lip and peeked behind us. Webster vanished into the shadows of the grandstands.

“Shall we join your father for the final race?” Lawrence asked.

“Of course.”

It seemed no time at all until Lawrence directed my attention high in the grandstands. A cigar protruded from Father’s mouth as he rocked back on his heels, hands lost in the pockets of his pants, eyes trained on the track. Two dapper men stood in the row just below him. The taller man’s mouth moved rapidly, along with his hands. The shorter man nodded on occasion.

Father didn’t seem to pay them much mind. Then his big voice carried over the chaos. “Ally, my girl!”

For a fraction of a moment I considered retreating. Then I got my wits about me and hurried up the steps and into my father’s outstretched arms.

Laughter swelled from his belly. “Quite exciting to have a stake in the race, even if we didn’t make the final round.”

The truth threatened to burst from me. But I couldn’t spoil it all now. “So true. In fact, it almost made me feel as if I drove in the race myself.” I swallowed down a niggle of guilt.

Father chuckled, chortled, then bellowed as he laid his arm across my shoulders. I joined in his amusement. He wiped his eyes as his head wagged back and forth. “I’ve never understood why other people don’t appreciate you, my girl.”

I winced. He’d thought my quip about driving charming, but would he find the truth as humorous? My stomach clenched. He might even scorn what I’d accomplished.

The five heat winners pulled forward to the starting line. I sat. Lawrence settled on my other side, leaning forward to hear our conversation.

“Little’s automobile held its own. And the driver did well, wouldn’t you say?” Father looked like a schoolboy who’d just won at a game of marbles.

“Not in the same class as Resta, of course,” I said, “but fine.”

Father snorted. “No one’s in the same class as Resta. Except maybe Rickenbacker.”

“Better not let De Palma hear you say that.”

Father chuckled. “That’s my girl. But I still wonder that Webster let that other man take his place.”

My heart stumbled, then seemed to still. “Webster’s place?”

“Of course. He built that car. Who better to drive it?”

Sourness flooded my throat as the red flag flapped. Cars shot around the track. Lap after lap, Resta pulling ahead of Rickenbacker. Rickenbacker surging forward once more. Minutes ticked past. A few laps to go. Then the final stretch.

Rick’s Peugeot jerked, slowed, limped to the pits. Resta zipped past the checkered flag to wild cheers. The Gold Cup and the bulk of the five-thousand-dollar prize belonged to Dario Resta.