At Every Turn (30 page)
Authors: Anne Mateer
Tags: #Automobile racing—Fiction, #FIC042030, #Charity—Fiction, #FIC042040, #FIC042000, #Young women—Fiction
Mother came up beside him, her face transformed with the glow of excitement. “If your father intends to manufacture cars, Alyce, I suppose you’ll have to teach me to drive one. Will you?”
My head whirled in complete disbelief. “I . . . of course I will.”
“Why don’t we give Webster a few minutes to explain?” Mother pulled Father away, but he winked at me before striding back toward the small gathering of the Swans, the McConnells, Lucinda, and Mr. Morgan.
I lowered my voice. “You and Father?”
Webster’s grin stretched the fading bruises on his face, but I’d never seen a lovelier sight than that smile. “Your father already has the factory facilities and the labor. We’ll just shift our focus a bit. From farm machinery to automobiles. Besides”—he lifted my hand, studied my fingers as they rested in his palm—“family should stick together.”
“Family?” My heart battered against my chest.
“Your father gave his permission for me to marry you. That is, if you agree.” His dark eyes stared into mine, strong and soft all at once. I wanted nothing more than to scream yes, but too many questions crowded my head.
I gently rested my head against his chest. “Are you sure? Some people will guess about the racing, eventually.”
One of his arms slid around my back; the other tipped my chin upward. “That won’t matter. I’ll see to it that everyone recognizes my wife’s amazing talents.”
“What?” I pressed my hands against his solid, strong chest.
He shrugged. “Every time you get behind a wheel and do what you do best, it’ll boost our business, even if it’s an exhibition instead of a real race. Think how many women will want to drive our cars once they get a look at how much fun you have behind the wheel.”
“But people will think it’s not feminine.” I lowered my voice. “And what will Mrs. Tillman say?”
His laugh wrapped around me. “Things will change. We’ll make them change.”
I thought of Mother, of our conversation about Webster in the hospital. Of her wanting to learn to drive. Things were changing already.
“Just think, Ally. We’ll have our own little mission field, not only at our manufacturing plant, but at the tracks, on the racing circuit.”
Could this be what the Lord had planned? After all that had happened recently, I didn’t trust myself to know. I noticed Mr. McConnell lingering within earshot. “What do you think of his outrageous plans, Mr. McConnell?”
Before he could respond, Ava tucked herself under her husband’s protective arm and pressed into his side. “People thought we were crazy to leave all we’d known and travel halfway around the world to preach the Good News. Some may wonder at your choices, too, but you can’t let that stop you. We all have a call from God. And it will always seem a strange call to some. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t our purpose and calling. And it doesn’t mean it isn’t a valid occupation.”
Her delicate face seemed to shine with ethereal wisdom, this fragile woman who lived and worked in a place that would defeat many. Maybe Webster was right. Maybe God was calling both of us to a life of unusual service to Him. Or rather of ordinary service—simply living the life He gave to us, serving as His beacon of hope and truth to whomever crossed our paths.
“So are you resolved to accept me now?” Webster’s jaunty grin weakened my knees.
I pushed up on my toes, ready to press my lips against his. But just as his breath hit my face, I pulled away. “Wait. You never told me about the money.”
“What money?”
“The money for the automobile business. Where did it come from? And how is there enough?”
The corners of his mouth lifted. “Things’ll be tight at first. Your father is going to sell off a few assets to raise the capital, but since he already has the space and the labor, we won’t need quite so much.”
My eyes narrowed. “So then . . . what did you put in the offering plate?”
His gaze flicked to the McConnells. “I knew how much this meant to you, Ally, and I couldn’t stand for you to be disappointed. I’ve been saving everything I earned, from working for your father and from our races.” His cheeks colored pink. “I wanted to replenish the funds at my old church, but your father discovered that the money had already been returned. Or rather, rediscovered. A clerk made an error, and gossip spun it out of proportion. Nothing more.” He shrugged. “So I gave what I’d saved to your missionaries instead.”
I leaned into him, as close as my sling would allow. “But you could have used that money in the business. You wouldn’t have needed Father as a partner. You could have done it yourself.”
He cupped my chin in his hand. “Remember what I told you I wanted from this business? To make cars, yes. To make money even. But also to live out the gospel in front of my employees.” His gaze traveled in the direction of my father. “And my partners.”
My chest ached with a prayer of gratitude. I didn’t deserve this man, this happiness. “I love you, Webster Little.”
His arms tightened around me. “You should have let me say it first, you know.”
My mouth dropped open. “I-I’m—”
He chuckled, his finger brushing my lips, hushing my stammered words. “I love you, too, Ally. Just the way you are.”
And my heart revved faster than any engine I’d ever known.
W
hile this is a work of fiction, a few real-life facts made it into Alyce’s story. All the racetracks, drivers, and races mentioned in the book are real. The Chicago Motor Speedway is long gone, converted to a military hospital during the Great War, just a few years after it opened. Of course the Indianapolis Motor Speedway still remains, though the Harvest Classic race in September of 1916 is only a brief footnote in its century-long history. And yes, red flags, not green, signaled race starts at this time.
Around the time of this story, Elfrieda Mais and Mrs. Cuneo were licensed to race by the Motor Contest Association and raced against each other in exhibitions. At the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, women were strictly forbidden to be in the garages or pits until well into the twentieth century.
The British colony formerly called the Gold Coast, in western Africa, is present-day Ghana. I am grateful to Cheryl Read for taking my daughter, Elizabeth, with her to work among the northern villages. I’m so inspired by the work that continues to go on there because one woman answered God’s call.
Not being at all familiar with old cars or auto racing when I started this story, I so appreciate Donald Davidson, official historian of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, spending time on the phone with me at a very busy time for him. He pointed me to some great resources, including the IMS Hall of Fame Museum. In a providential meeting at the museum, I became acquainted with the gracious and knowledgeable Fred Harris. His grandfather was the mechanic on the car that won the 1922 Indianapolis 500. Fred gave me information I couldn’t find anywhere else and was so patient with my lack of knowledge about cars and racing! Everything I got right is due to him.
Many thanks to my friend Becky Hurst, who accompanied me on my research trip to Indianapolis, acting as another pair of eyes and ears as we explored the speedway, old newspaper articles, and the Indiana State Museum. I wouldn’t have accomplished so much in such a short amount of time without her.
As always, my prayer team has been invaluable. Thank you, Mom, Dad, Debra and Kirby, Dan and Jen, Dawn and Billy, Jeff, Robin and Bill, Mary, Leslie, Cheryl, Cherryl, Becky, Becky, Jill, and Andrea.
My critique group, Leslie Wilson, and Mary DeMuth keep me chugging down the right path in writing and life. Thank you!
I’m so grateful for my editor, Charlene, and all the others at Bethany House. Their suggestions always make the story stronger. And the art and marketing departments are an awesome force to have behind a girl. Thanks, y’all!
Elizabeth, Aaron, and Nathan, I couldn’t ask for more understanding and supportive kids. A special thank-you to Aaron for sharing his graduation month with my need to be with Alyce and finish her story.
As always, my husband, Jeff, keeps me grounded and helps me soar. I couldn’t do this without you. I love you.
And thank You, Jesus. It’s all by You and for You.
Anne Mateer
has a passion for history and historical fiction, a passion that often rears its head during family vacations. Thankfully, her husband shares and indulges her love of the past. She and her husband live near Dallas, Texas, and are the parents of three young adults.
Learn more about Anne and her books by visiting her blog and Web site at
www.annemateer.com
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