To Love and to Perish

Copyright Information

To Love and to Perish
© 2012 Lisa Bork

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First e-book edition © 2012

E-book ISBN: 978-0-7387-2900-8

Book design by Donna Burch

Cover illustration: Michele Armatrula/The Drawing Room, Inc.

Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

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DEDICATION

For the Ladysleuths:
Kathy, Kelly, Shelley, and Teresa.

One

“Look at that TR3
… and that Porsche 914-6. Awesome!”

I grabbed Danny's elbow and steered him from the path of an oncoming golf cart. “I know you're excited, but please watch where you're going.”

“I am, Jolene. I am.” He yanked his arm from my grasp and darted over to a nearby Datsun Bluebird, bending down to get a closer look at the dashboard. “Ray, come look at this! It's right-side drive.”

“Be right there.” My husband, Ray Parker, shook his head in mock dismay. “Our boy takes after your side of the family, darlin.' He's got the fever.”

Danny most certainly had the fever, but I suspected he'd come by it from his father, a wanted car thief of considerable skill and talent who had relieved me of a pre-owned but pristine F430 Ferrari Spider at the end of last year. Of course, I was forever indebted to Mr. Phillips. Not only had the Ferrari been tainted by the dead man found in it, but Mr. Phillips had left Danny behind with us when he took off with my unsalable car. Perhaps he'd known living on the run would be no life for his son. Regardless, Danny had filled Ray's and my childless void and brought us new joys daily.

I continued to follow Danny and Ray down the main drag in Watkins Glen as Danny shouted out the names of the vintage and classic sports cars lining both sides of the road, which was closed to all but golf cart and foot traffic. We had driven an hour and a half southeast from our hometown of Wachobe, New York, in order to see this Vintage Grand Prix Festival. Danny had revved his engine the whole drive here and the moment Ray put my Lexus in park, Danny leaped out and raced toward the cars on display. Ray and I had to hustle to catch up.

I understood his excitement. My father used to bring me to the Watkins Glen racetrack to watch all different kinds of cars race. It was our special time together, and one of the many reasons that added up to my opening Asdale Auto Imports, a boutique that sold pre-owned but pristine sports cars in Wachobe, our small but popular upscale tourist town located on the western edge of the Finger Lakes region. I hadn't thought twice about hanging the “Closed—Gone Racing” sign on the shop's front window for a three-day weekend. This race always drew a huge crowd from not only all over New York State but from points all over the country … even the world.

The dark clouds overhead spit raindrops on the crowd, but no one seemed to mind. We passed by the beer tent where a crowd was enjoying the Miller Lite, Yuengling, and Samuel Adams offered. One light-haired man in a Binghamton sweatshirt stepped from the tent and off the curb right in front of me. I gave him an irritated glance. He looked to my left then my right, his dark eyes vacant, and made no move to get out of my way. I decided to go around him when it occurred to me that he might be too drunk to move any farther.

The scent of Philly cheese steaks and the tang of pulled BBQ pork made my stomach rumble. It was close to five o'clock, and we were supposed to meet my sister, Erica, and her husband, Maury, for dinner at the food tents in front of the courthouse in half an hour. Meantime, I'd spotted a sign for the Girls Varsity Soccer Bake Sale across the street by the store that sold Carhartt. Maybe a little brownie would tide me over to dinner. I started to move toward the treats.

“Jolene, come on. You're missing all the cars. Look at this three-wheel Morgan.” Danny grabbed my forearm and dragged me away from the delicious cakes, cookies, and Rice Krispies treats. “Isn't it awesome?” He pointed to the dark blue, open-top race car with two wheels in front and one in back.

“Very. You know this is the 100th year anniversary of the Morgan. The company switched to manufacturing a four-wheeler around 1950 when no one outside of England really wanted to buy their three-wheeler. This is a rare car in the U.S., but Morgans have been racing at the Glen since 1954.”

“Cool. Oh, wow, look at that Camaro.” Danny crossed the street and disappeared into the throng.

“Hey, wait up.” I looked for Ray, who was always easy to spot at six-foot-three, 220 pounds of masculine muscle. He was examining the interior of a 1957 black Corvette with silver coves. “Ray, Danny needs to stay close to us. There are a lot of people here. We don't want to lose him.”

He straightened and put his arm around me. “What do you think this car would go for?”

“Around sixty thousand.” I tugged on his sleeve. “We need to catch up to Danny.”

With a look of regret, Ray pulled himself away from his dream car. “He's fine. He's having a good time. Leave him alone.”

“He is alone, Ray. That's my point.”

Ray's arm dropped from my shoulder. “Listen, Jolene, Danny is almost thirteen now. He needs his space. I know the word ‘mother' is included in smother, but you've got to loosen the leash a little. He's not going to get lost. Let him enjoy himself.”

Ray only called me by my given name when he was irritated—or in the mood, which wasn't likely at the moment. This wasn't the first time we hadn't seen eye to eye on how to care for Danny.

“Okay, if you say so.” I continued down the street, pretending to look at the array of cars, but I didn't stop moving until I caught sight of Danny out of the corner of my eye. I needed to know he was safe.

A moment later, Ray appeared at Danny's side, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Danny was only twelve, and although he had many skills and experiences other children his age did not, he still needed to be protected from evil. Unfortunately, evil wasn't so easy to recognize or anticipate as one might think.

I walked across the street to join them. We continued on, reaching an intersection where the street was painted like a black and white checkerboard pattern. Danny pointed to it with glee. “It's a race flag.”

“You know what else is cool?” I beckoned for him to follow me over to the sidewalk. “See this stone marker?”

“Yeah.” Danny's gaze moved over the inscription.

“It's part of the Drivers Walk of Fame. The markers have the names of the greatest drivers who have competed at the Glen since 1948. They have them all up and down Franklin Street, beginning at the starting line of the original race course and heading north. This year, Paul Newman gets a marker.” Posthumous. To match his stone on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, a place Danny had probably never heard of or been.

“The spaghetti sauce guy?”

Ah, the gap between generations. Approaching forty, both Ray and I remembered a slew of celebrities, politicians, and athletes Danny would never see. “He was also a famous actor and race car driver. I saw him win a race driving a Nissan at the Glen in 1985.”

“Cool. Hey, Ray, look at this Mini Cooper. Think you could fit in it?”

I followed my boys as they took in the sights, bemused by the fact that even though I knew way more about cars and the Glen's history than Ray, Danny seemed more willing to stay by Ray's side. Of course, it was natural for a boy his age to prefer spending time with men, especially Ray, who had a more exciting career as a county deputy sheriff, an excellent poker face that I referred to as his “good-cop, bad-cop, whatever-you-need-me-to-be-cop face,” and the ability to put a wicked spiral on a football. Even when Danny came to my shop after school, he always wanted to be out in the garage with my mechanic Cory, learning about engines, suspensions, brakes, and all the other technical stuff instead of my “boring” sales and bookkeeping.

Yes, Danny was definitely becoming a little man, as evidenced by his height, now an inch over my own five-foot-four, the smattering of acne on his forehead, and the frequent crack in his voice. He preferred to keep his dark hair long, but neither Ray nor I would allow it so long as to cover his face. I liked to see Danny's high cheekbones and even the little nick the size of a pinhead on his right cheek just underneath his eye. He never told us where he got that. We weren't sure we wanted to know. The knowledge might add more gray hair to Ray's already light temples and a deeper furrow to my brow.

It tickled me that both my boys had beautiful brown eyes and that our whole family had brown hair, Ray and Danny's both straighter and darker than my bobbed hair. To a stranger, Danny looked like our child, and that pleased me. I had no doubts that it pleased Ray, too. He'd do almost anything for that boy, as would I. Funny how quickly one can bond to a child.

I checked my watch. “Hey guys, it's time to meet Erica.”

As usual, they didn't race to respond.

Ray and Danny checked out a few more cars while I tapped my toe to the beat of the four-piece rock band playing from a nearby bar's porch roof. I didn't mind keeping Erica waiting. She'd kept me waiting many a time; in fact, she was prone to disappearing altogether, both literally or just inside herself. But Maury was always on time or early. I didn't want to hurt his feelings.

“Come on, guys.”

Reluctantly, they fell in step with me, and we headed over to the food tents, where hamburgers, sausages, fried dough, ice cream, and a whole slew of culinary treats waited. One vendor even had a “Weenie Wagon,” which sent Danny into a fit of laughter.

I spotted Maury sitting at a table near the street. “Hey, Maury. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“No problem.” Maury stood to shake Ray's hand and slap Danny on the back.

“So where's Erica? Is she in line for food?”

“No, she didn't want to come.” Maury sat again and toyed with a discarded straw wrapper, his baby-cheeked face the epitome of despair.

Ray gave me a look that said “you deal with this.” “What do you guys want to eat? Danny and I will get in line.”

Maury didn't respond, so I told Ray to get everyone a cheeseburger, fries, and Coke. I seated myself across from Maury and wondered what my sister saw in him. True, at a well-built five-eleven and one hundred-seventy pounds with a shiny head of dark hair, he had a certain physical appeal but his wimpy personality detracted from that significantly. All he needed was the horn-rimmed glasses he'd worn in high school to complete his geek image.

“Is something wrong with Erica?”

“She said she didn't feel like it.”

Immediately I was on alert. Erica was bipolar and had been in and out of the psych center for years, most often because of attempted suicides. “Is she taking her medicine?”

“Yeah. I see her. She's taking it.” He squished the straw wrapper into a ball and pitched it into the grass.

“Is it a cold? The stomach flu?” I'd heard both were going around now that school had reopened last week, two days after Labor Day.

“No. She doesn't want to be with me.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He heaved a sigh. “I think we're in a rut.”

I managed to choke back my laugh. The two of them hadn't been married a year and had rushed into marriage after only knowing each other a few weeks. How could they be in a rut? I wasn't sure they even knew each other's favorite color yet.

“Either that, or she's having an affair.” He looked at me as if I might be able to confirm or deny it.

I tried to freeze my expression neutral so as not to give my thoughts away—my face can be entirely too readable. I hadn't talked to my younger sister in a week. A lot can change with Erica in the space of an hour. She had a long history of relationships, broken ones. This marriage could easily be the next casualty. She'd married Maury during a time when I'd been too busy wallowing in my own problems to pay attention to her. I had no idea if she was having an affair now. It wouldn't surprise me, but I wasn't going to say so … at least, not until I talked to Erica.

Maury didn't seem inclined to say more either. I sat with him in silence until Ray and Danny appeared with the food. Even in his defeated state, Maury managed to inhale his cheeseburger and fries faster than anyone else. Danny finished a close second.

“What time is the race?” Danny's gaze swept the street behind me, raring to move onto the next activity.

I licked the last of the French fry salt from my fingertips. “I think the cars will go up to the track for the start of the race a little after six and come down shortly thereafter.”

The festival was known for its “race,” which was really a parade lap or two around the 1948–1952 race car course. In those years, the racing took place on the streets and hills of Watkins Glen with hay bales lining the roads to protect the spectators. The town gave that up soon after a car lost control, plowing through the hay bales into a spectator and killing him. When the international track was built on top of the hill above the town, all the real racing moved there. But in the early 1990s the festival took advantage of growing nostalgia and asked the Sportscar Vintage Racing Association to bring their race cars down from the track to participate in tribute laps. Nowadays, different groups of car classes descended the hill from the Glen, raced up Franklin Street, and ascended the hill to the track with roaring engines, squealing brakes, puffs of exhaust and flashes of racing color. It was an exciting tribute and a beautiful setting, just steps from the base of Seneca Lake and the glorious gorge in Watkins Glen State Park.

Danny leapt up and took a few steps from the table. “Can we get a spot to watch the race? I don't want to miss anything.”

I helped Ray gather our trash. “Sure. I think the best view will
be near Milliken's Corner.” The corner was an almost ninety-
degree left-hand turn where my dad had witnessed a car plow into the hay bales many, many moons ago. It wasn't so easy to turn a race car after riding its brakes down the hill. With today's drizzle, it was going to be that much tougher on the cars and their drivers. Things could get a little squirrely—and exciting for the spectators.

The four of us retraced our previous path down Franklin Street and headed left onto Route 409. A white and blue sign marked the famous Milliken's Corner, courtesy of the Glen Region Sports Car Club of America. Several spectators had already taken seats on the few hay bales available. A handful of folding chairs were turned face down on the sidewalk, keeping the seats dry while waiting for dignitaries or local store owners, no doubt.