Twice in a Lifetime (13 page)

Clara’s mind raced to grasp all the implications of what Drake had just said. Her heart pounded and her skin flushed, making her somehow feel both flattered and embarrassed at the same time. There was a small part of her that wanted to press him about it, to know that she wasn’t mistaken, that he’d been so lost in thought about
her
that he’d lost his race, but she just couldn’t. Not yet…

“If you didn’t race anymore, what would you do?” she asked instead.

“I always figured I’d open a garage. I might not be as good at fixing engines and the like as Amos, but I can more than hold my own. What with all the new models coming out—Fords, DeSotos, Studebakers—and folks buying them like they’re going out of style, I figure there will always be a demand for a guy who doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty.” Drake paused. “Actually, that reminds me. I have a favor to ask.”

“What is it?”

“I wanted to know if I could use your garage to work on the Plymouth,” he explained. “After every race, it pays to make sure that everything’s running properly. I’d do it out in front of the hotel, but I don’t think it’d go over well.”

Clara nodded. “After everything you’ve done for me, how could I say no? Though I should warn you, the garage door is broken. I’ve asked Tommy to fix it, but he—well, he has other things on his mind these days.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Drake said. “I won’t need it for long. A couple of hours, maybe less.”

“You don’t have to hurry,” she told him. She paused, then added, “You can stay as long as you’d like.”

Silence stretched between them. Clara went back and forth between being angry at herself for being so forward and the next second wanting to say more; unable to choose, she did neither. It was uncomfortable, this dance between them; she was woefully out of practice. Down on the river, where the sun was starting to melt into the trees on the far bank, the boat blew its horn; the sound rolled across the water and up the hill. It was then that Drake unexpectedly slid off the Plymouth’s hood to stand right in front of her. He placed a hand beside her and leaned forward slightly, staring into her eyes as she unflinchingly looked back.

“Last night,” he began, “I moved too fast. I assumed things that I shouldn’t have and ended up putting you in an uncomfortable spot.”

“Drake, I told you that—” Clara began, but he cut her off.

“Listen to me,” he said. “The reason I’m telling you this is so that before I come closer, before I kiss you, there won’t be any surprises.”

“All right…” she murmured, suddenly breathless.

“This way, if you didn’t want me to do it, you could stop me before I made a fool out of myself.”

Clara’s heart raced; she wondered if even the Plymouth’s engine worked as hard. Drake’s boldness was shocking yet refreshing. She was amazed at how easily he could tell her what he wanted without seeming embarrassed. She wondered how she should reply and then, like a bolt of lightning, she knew that the answer was as brazen as the man standing before her.

So Clara didn’t move, didn’t say a word, and she most definitely didn’t try to dissuade Drake from what he intended to do. In the end, she knew without a shadow of a doubt that she wanted the exact same thing, wanted it so badly that it surprised her.

A thin smile spread across Drake’s face. His hand found hers as he leaned closer, pausing for only a moment, surely wondering if she was going to once again change her mind. But when she didn’t, he committed to kissing her. He tenderly placed his lips against hers. At first, their touch was tentative and their eyes remained open, watching each other as if neither of them could believe what was happening. But it didn’t take long for Clara to give in to her feelings. It had been almost ten years since she’d last kissed a man, since well before Joe’s death. She closed her eyes, wondering how she’d found herself here, with this man, but she was happy about it all the same. She didn’t think about her mother’s memory loss, her son’s problems, their financial difficulties, or Eddie’s unwanted advances. She didn’t even think about her deceased husband, up till then the last man she had touched.

All she could think about was Drake McCoy, the way he kissed her, and all the wonderful ways he made her feel.

I
CAN’T BELIEVE
the nerve of that old goat! Why, it took all the restraint I had to keep from knockin’ that grin off his damn face!”

Drake fought back a grin of his own. Amos paced quickly across their small hotel room, his eyes narrow and angry as his hands waved wildly, punctuating the air after every word he spat. Just minutes earlier, he’d whipped open the door and begun ranting, complaining that his efforts to convince the old man and his son to give them a rematch had met with unexpected resistance.

“So there I go, walkin’ into that dump of a diner, swallowin’ my pride, and headin’ over to where he’s sittin’. ’Fore I know it, he’s offerin’ to buy me breakfast,” Amos said with a sneer. “Like I’m some charity case! Like he took the last dime I owned when that hillbilly son of his crossed the bridge first!”

“But he pretty much did, didn’t he?” Drake asked, unable to resist the urge to give his friend a little ribbing.

“He don’t know that!” Amos barked. “So I wave him off, take a seat, order a cup a coffee, and start layin’ it all out. I done just like we agreed. I complimented his boy’s drivin’, the car, everythin’ I could think of. He’s just soakin’ it all in, noddin’ like a sunflower in a stiff breeze, but then when I suggest we do it again, that we raise the stakes a bit, suddenly he ain’t so sure. He’s hemmin’ and hawin’, makin’ one excuse after another. I walked outta there madder than a hornet. Dumb, stubborn bastard!”

There was a part of Drake that understood the mechanic’s frustration. Deep down, he was angry that he had allowed himself to be distracted enough to lose the race. He wanted another chance to win. But there was also a part of him that was thrilled by the other man’s reluctance to give them an opportunity to win back their money. If he was dragging things out, it meant more time that he could spend with Clara.

“We should just give up and hit the road,” Amos argued.

Drake shook his head. “Not yet. Be patient. He’s just making you sweat it a little. He’ll eventually come around. Tempt him with a high enough wager, he won’t be able to turn it down forever.”

The mechanic frowned. “You got the money to stake on it?”

“I told you not to worry. It’ll be taken care of.”

Drake grabbed the Plymouth’s keys and headed for the door. “You sure you don’t want to come along?” he asked; last night, he had told Amos about Clara’s agreeing to let them use her garage.

“Naw,” he answered. “As riled up as I am, I’m likely to do more harm than good. I’m just gonna stay here and wear a hole in the floor. Who knows, maybe I’ll calm down enough to have another go at that old fart…”

“Don’t get too worked up. Your ticker might not be able to take it.”

When Drake shut the door behind him, Amos was already back to complaining.

Drake drove toward Clara’s house. He had hitched up the small trailer that held his tools; it bounced along behind. Above, clouds blotted out the sun, growing darker to the north, threatening rain. But even with a gloomier day, he found himself smiling at familiar sights, as if the small town was growing on him.

His only regret was that he wouldn’t see Clara. Last night, when he’d dropped her off, she had explained that she would have to return to the bank in the morning. Drake had frowned. He remembered the strange scene he had stumbled across: the pudgy man in his poorly fitting suit, how relieved Clara had been to see him, the fact that the banker had continued to protest about her leaving all the way up until Drake had snarled threateningly, and the way Clara avoided his questions about what had happened after they left. Last night, he had pressed her for more details, but she insisted that nothing was wrong and he’d let the matter drop.

Instead, he dwelled on their kiss…

From the moment he had watched Clara stick her head out the Plymouth’s window as they sped along and shout with joy, Drake had known that he would again try to hold her in his arms, to place his lips against hers. Still, he wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. Asking for her permission had been necessary. Fortunately, Clara hadn’t objected and so they’d kissed.

And what a kiss it had been!

Even if he’d been dreaming about it ever since he’d met her, their kiss had still been greater than his wildest expectations. The warmth of her skin. The smell of her hair. The taste of her lips. The way her hand squeezed his arm. How he’d held her in his arms as they watched the sun disappear out of sight. All of it had left Drake lying awake in his bed far into the night, wondering if he’d ever truly known happiness before Clara.

Drake turned down Clara’s street and pulled into her driveway. No sooner had he shut off the Plymouth’s engine and gotten out than the side door of the house opened and a woman came outside. She was older, her hair a silvery white with only a few darker streaks, but there was something about her that was immediately familiar to him; the soft curve of her mouth and the shape of her eyes. A damp apron was tied around her waist and she held a knife in one hand.

“Who are you?” she asked, her expression a potent mix of confusion and anger. “What do you think you’re doing parking here?”

Clara had warned him about the sort of reception he might receive from her mother. Delicately, and without much detail, she’d told him that Christine’s memory wasn’t what it used to be, and that even if she explained that he would be coming over, her mother might not remember it by the time he arrived. Clearly, her worries had been well-founded.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” he said, putting on his friendliest smile, glancing at the knife. “My name is Drake McCoy. I’m an acquaintance of Clara, your daughter. She might have mentioned me…”

Faster than he could have snapped his fingers, Christine’s expression changed. “Oh, that’s right!” she exclaimed, a hand rising to her cheek; Drake was relieved that it wasn’t the one holding the knife. “Clara told me all about it, but I plumb forgot. I’m terribly sorry.”

“There’s no need to be. I’m the one intruding.” He motioned toward the Plymouth. “I hope I won’t be putting you out any.”

“Not at all. Quite frankly, it’ll be nice to have someone else around. Most days I’m the only one here.”

“I shouldn’t be long. A couple of hours at the most.”

“Take your time.” Suddenly, Christine frowned. “I suppose you’d like to use the garage.”

“I would,” Drake replied.

Christine pointed toward the rear of the drive. Drake’s gaze followed and he saw a building in dire need of repair. Its white paint was chipped and weathered, and there was a broken pane of glass in the side door. Worst of all, the two swinging doors of the main entrance had come loose from their hinges, awkwardly tipping inward like a pair of warped teeth.

“I’m afraid it isn’t in the best of shape,” Clara’s mother commented. “Tommy’s tried to put the doors back up but he’s never managed.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“All right, then. I suppose I’ll go finish my dishes and let you get to work.”

“It was nice to meet you,” he offered.

“Likewise.”

But then, just as Christine reached the house, her hand on the door, she stopped, turned, and walked back to where Drake stood; he had been lost in thought, staring at the garage, wondering where to start. For a moment, there was an awkward silence between them. Drake began to question whether the older woman had had an episode, if she wasn’t sure who he was or what they had just talked about. There was a sudden break in the clouds and sunlight streamed down, glinting brightly off the knife’s blade.

“I have a question for you,” she finally said. “Maybe it isn’t my place to ask, but I’m having a hard time holding my tongue.”

“Go ahead,” he told her.

“What are your intentions toward my daughter?”

Somewhere down in Drake’s gut, he’d had a suspicion that this was what Clara’s mother would ask, though answering wasn’t going to be easy. “I’ve enjoyed getting to know her,” he began. “I can honestly tell you that I’ve never met a woman quite like Clara.”

Christine took a small step closer. “The reason I’m asking is because she’s been through an awful lot,” she explained. “Her husband died in the war. Tommy, though I love him dearly, is going over Fool’s Hill. Now, on top of everything else, she’s saddled with a mother who struggles to remember what day it is,” she added with a short, sad laugh. “When someone’s got so many things working against her, the slightest glimmer of hope becomes a precious jewel, something to hold on to tightly, like a life preserver in a raging sea. With the way Clara’s been acting these last couple of days, I can’t help but think that she sees you as her knight in shining armor come along to rescue her. The last thing I’d want would be for her to end up disappointed.” Christine paused. “Or hurt, intentionally or otherwise.”

Drake could see how much Christine loved her daughter. She was doing what any good parent would; she was protecting her child. In many ways, he wanted the same thing for Clara, to see her smile and be happy. But he also didn’t want to make any promises he couldn’t keep, to lead her on in any way.

When he’d met Clara, Drake had felt something between them. Other than that first night when she’d run from him, those sparks had grown, bursting into flames when they had kissed. Drake couldn’t have said for certain how high their passion might go, where it might take them, but he wanted to find out.

“I give you my word,” he finally said. “I won’t do her wrong.”

A smile brightened Christine’s face. “See that you don’t,” she answered, giving the knife one last shake for good measure.

Drake watched as Clara’s mother walked back to the house; this time she entered, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He couldn’t help but wonder if, given Christine’s memory troubles, she might soon forget what they had talked about.

He knew that he wouldn’t.

Once Drake had pulled the Plymouth closer to the garage, he decided to do something about the broken doors. Examining them closer, he saw that some screws had come free from the framing, many of which were missing altogether. He grabbed some replacements and tools and set about trying to drive them back into place, but soon found that the doors were too heavy to hold while he worked.

Instead, he popped the Plymouth’s hood, occasionally glancing up at the darkening sky, wondering just how long it would be before the rain began to fall. He began by checking the fluid levels; satisfied, he moved on to the engine’s belts, looking for any signs of wear.

He whistled while he worked.

Drake had always found comfort working with machines, especially engines. Under a car’s hood, everything had a purpose, somewhere it was supposed to be and something it was supposed to do. If even one bolt or lug nut was out of place, broken, or unable to do its intended job, then the whole car suffered. Any good mechanic knew that he had to take good care of his vehicle and do whatever work was needed to keep it running smooth and strong. Work like this had other benefits, too, such as letting him forget about all the things on his mind, allowing his hands to make the hard choices instead of his head.

He was just about to inspect the Plymouth’s hoses when he heard footsteps behind him. He figured it was Christine, but when he ducked out from under the hood, wiping his grease-stained hands on a rag, he found that he was wrong.

A teenage boy watched him warily. His hair was dark and worn longer than Drake’s had been at the same age, which he guessed to be somewhere around sixteen. He was tall and a little on the thin side, which made his clothes hang a bit loosely on his frame. Drake might’ve wondered who his visitor was if it hadn’t been for the boy’s eyes: green with flecks of gold, the spitting image of his mother’s.

“Howdy,” Drake said with a nod.

The boy didn’t answer; he just kept staring, his arms folded defiantly across his chest.

“You must be Tommy,” Drake continued, stuffing the dirty rag into his back pocket and sticking out his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Clara’s son’s stubbornness showed no signs of letting up. Drake let his extended hand linger in the air for a few seconds before dropping it.

“I’m Drake,” he said, straining to tamp down his growing irritation, reminding himself that he wanted to make a good impression.

“I know,” the boy said petulantly. “My grandmother told me.”

Tommy’s words removed Drake’s concern, that Christine wouldn’t remember who he was or why he was there.

“How do you know my mother?” Tommy blurted.

“I helped her out when her truck broke down,” Drake explained.

“That thing’s a hunk of junk.”

Drake chuckled. “It’s seen better days,” he agreed. “In return, your mother was kind enough to let me come over so I could work on my car. I’d planned on driving it into the garage…”

“But the doors are broken,” Tommy finished.

Drake had an idea. “They don’t have to be,” he said. “Not if you help me.”

The boy kept on frowning. Drake wondered if he wasn’t about to make up an excuse to walk away, but Tommy surprised him by shrugging his shoulders and asking, “What do you need me to do?”

Once he’d gathered his tools, Drake showed Tommy where to stand and had him lift one of the garage doors by its bottom edge; the boy’s knees wavered, but to protect Tommy’s pride, Drake decided not to ask if he needed any help. Instead, he aligned the holes at the hinge and began to drive the metal back into the wooden frame, one twist of the screwdriver at a time.

“So this is your car?” Tommy asked, looking at the Plymouth.

“It is,” Drake answered.

“Is it fast?”

“It better be or I won’t make any money.” Noticing the boy’s confusion, Drake explained, “I race it for a living.”

Tommy’s eyes widened a bit. “Around a track?”

“There or down a long stretch of road, the straighter the better. Anywhere someone wants to challenge me.”

“And you win?”

“Most of the time,” he answered, still feeling the sting of his loss the day before. “It wouldn’t be worth it if I didn’t.” Noticing the way Clara’s son was still staring at the car, he added, “Do you like to drive?”