Twice in a Lifetime (17 page)

“So why is it that now, when my mother needs my help, when her problems are getting worse, I don’t know what to do?” She paused, hugging herself tightly, wrestling with the day’s terrifying events. “She almost burned the house down. What do I do when she can’t take care of herself anymore? What if there’s another accident? What happens when her memory gets so bad that she doesn’t recognize me?”

For a while, Drake didn’t answer; when he did, his tone was serious. “Back on the farm,” he began, “my father thought I was one hell of a disappointment. Most days, he’d shout or shove me out of the way, complaining about some chore I hadn’t done to his liking. The only time he gave a damn about me was when we brought in the harvest. From morning to nights far darker than this, my brothers and I were like slaves to him. Sure, we had a responsibility to help our family, but whenever we complained about being hungry, cold, or tired, my father had no compassion. All he had was his belt.

“The difference between our folks,” he explained, finishing his beer and setting it on the railing, “is that yours tried and mine didn’t. So when it comes to now, to having to care for your mother, all you can do is listen to your heart and let it tell you what’s right. Even if you fail, you’ll always know that you did your best. That’s the same as your mother did by you all those years ago.”

Drake came to sit beside Clara on the swing. At first, she thought he wanted to comfort her, to pull her into his arms. But all he did was put his hand over hers; she quickly accepted his touch, entwining their fingers.

Sitting quietly beside him, Clara was nearly overcome with emotion. Tremors raced across her heart, her eyes misted, her skin grew warm. Because of Drake, she hadn’t had to face this terrible, trying day alone. He had rushed into the smoke-filled house without a thought for his own safety, remaining calm in the face of crisis. When the fire truck and the sheriff had arrived, he’d followed her lead without hesitation, helping to create a story in which the blame wouldn’t fall on her mother. And now, by telling her about the troubles he’d had with his father, he was trying to ease her burden. What she felt just then was greater than any kiss or embrace, no matter how tender. It was special. Magical. Unbelievable, even.

Sitting there, her hand in his, neither of them feeling the need to say a word, Clara suddenly realized something she wouldn’t have ever thought possible.

I’m falling in love with Drake McCoy…

E
DDIE WALKED QUICKLY
down the streets of Sunset. The early-morning sun shone brightly. He had a touch of headache and his stomach felt queasy, undoubtedly due to all the alcohol he’d drunk the day before, but he refused to let it keep him from the task at hand. While downing scotch, he’d formulated a plan: he would learn the identity of the stranger who had interrupted him and Clara.

He began by making phone calls. His newfound focus had cleared his head, although he suspected that some of his words must have been slurred. Asking around Sunset, he’d wanted to know of any recent arrivals. It didn’t take long for his efforts to bear fruit. He discovered where the man was staying: the Sunset Hotel. From there it was easy. Eddie had telephoned Edna Gilbert and learned every detail he could, beginning with the stranger’s name.

Drake McCoy…

With that nugget of information, he had made more phone calls, up and down the highways, across the countryside, all the way to St. Louis. What Eddie learned was interesting. McCoy was a race car driver, a man who pitted his skills against others’ for money; from what he gathered, McCoy won more often than he lost. How the man had met Clara was still something of a mystery. Surely it was happenstance; McCoy had stumbled across the widow, become smitten, and thought he had some sort of claim to her. And that was why Eddie was headed to what passed for a hotel in these parts.

He was going to dissuade the man.

The truth was that Eddie wanted Clara Sinclair for his wife, which meant he was insanely jealous of McCoy. What could she possibly see in such a ruffian? How could a race car driver who probably didn’t have two nickels to rub together hold a candle to someone like himself, a man who was both important and incredibly rich? The answers eluded him.

Eddie opened the front door of the hotel and stepped inside. The place was just as dingy as he remembered; the tabletops were covered in dust, the pictures on the walls had been bleached almost white by the sun, and a few windowpanes were cracked. When Eddie had been much younger, his father had gone out of his way to help Edna and her husband get the hotel off the ground and regularly brought his son with him to see how the Gilberts’ business was doing; to Eddie’s eyes, it had looked run-down even when it was new.

“Mornin’, Eddie,” Edna welcomed him from behind the front desk. The hotel’s owner looked rough, her eyes red and her hair a rat’s nest of tangles. Clearly, she’d just woken up.

“Is he here?” Eddie asked.

“Who do you mean?” the older woman answered, stifling a yawn.

“The driver! McCoy! Who else would I be talking about?” he snapped, the words coming out in a rush, startling even him with their intensity.

The banker’s anger cleared the fog in Edna’s head. She stood a bit straighter and pushed some wayward hair back behind her ear. “He and that fella with him is roomin’ up on the second floor,” she said. “I ain’t seen neither one of ’em this mornin’, so I reckon they’re still there.”

“Then call him down here,” Eddie told her.

The older woman nodded, sending her hair flying every which way, undoing the work she’d done. She reached for the phone.

Eddie folded his arms across his chest, satisfied. The last thing he wanted was to knock on McCoy’s door. He wanted their meeting to be on
his
terms.

It’s time the two of us had a talk…

“You don’t look so good.”

Drake put it as politely as he could. Amos sat on his bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He’d been asleep while Drake got dressed, snoring loudly, and had only just woken. Amos wore a stained undershirt and a pair of boxer shorts, with plenty of wrinkled and sagging skin exposed. He slowly looked up to reveal a face that seemed as if it’d been in an accident. His eyes were narrow, watery, and bloodshot; they peeked out over the top of dark bags. He hadn’t shaved in days; a patchy beard was coming in, making him look ten years older. His mouth hung open and his lips were red and chapped. As pale as he was, if Amos had been lying back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling, Drake might have wondered if he was dead.

“Thanks for noticin’,” the mechanic snarled without much humor.

“You want me to fetch a doctor?”

Amos shook his head, an act that looked to have hurt. “I ain’t got the time or the money. ’Sides, we gotta get the car ready to race tomorrow.”

Drake’s eyes narrowed. “You got them to agree to it?”

“Weren’t easy,” the older man explained. “By the time he accepted, I felt like I was beggin’.” He winced, closing his eyes. “That hillbilly was actin’ like he was doin’ us a favor.”

“He can think whatever he wants, just so long as we got a race.”

Amos scratched his cheek. “There’s one hang-up, though.”

“What is it?” Drake asked.

“He wants to see the cash up front ’fore we race. Probably thinks we’re tryin’ to bet with money we ain’t got.”

“No problem. Was he fine with the wager?”

The mechanic coughed and nodded at the same time. “If I hadn’t proposed it, I suspect he was gonna try to raise it himself. He thinks his boy could beat Zeus racin’ his damn chariot. He don’t believe it’s possible they could lose.”

“Then he’s in for a heap of disappointment.”

“That’s what I thought the first time we raced ’em,” Amos spat angrily. “We wouldn’t be in this pickle if you’da kept your damn head on what you was supposed to be doin’ ’stead of lettin’ it daydream ’bout some broad you just met.”

Drake struggled to hold his tongue as his temper rose; he knew that if he spoke now, nothing good would come of it.

But that didn’t stop Amos from stirring the hornet’s nest further. “I suppose you come back late last night ’cause you were with her.”

“That’s right,” Drake answered.

“I figured as much. I was hopin’ to have a word with you ’bout our upcomin’ race, but seems like you have different priorities. With the way you’re carryin’ on, maybe I oughta be worried ’bout you showin’ up.”

“Now, just hold on a second! You know damn well that—”

Amos interrupted with a wet cough that wheezed its way out of his lungs. “Damn it all,” the mechanic groaned. “You got no idea how happy I’m gonna be when we finally leave this two-bit town.”

Drake frowned. He’d been hoping for a better time to talk to Amos about his decision to give up racing and settle down in Sunset with Clara. He knew that his friend would disagree, that he would try to talk him out of it, but Drake was committed. The events of the day before, walking the streets with Clara, the scare of her mother’s accident, and then sharing a seat with her on the porch, the two of them holding hands, had convinced Drake that she was the woman he’d been waiting for his whole life. To leave now would be shutting the door on his one chance at love, and that was something he would not do. So while he feared breaking off his friendship with Amos, worried that the man he cared for like a father wouldn’t understand, he knew he didn’t have any other choice.

“About that,” he began. “We need to talk.”

“Oh, yeah?” Amos asked. “’Bout what?”

But before Drake could say another word, the phone rang; the way Amos reacted, wincing in agony, the sound was worse than being punched. At first, Drake considered ignoring it, but then he wondered if it might be Clara and answered. Instead, it was the hotel’s owner.

“Mr. McCoy?” she began. “Sorry to bother you, but there’s a fella down here who wants a word with you.”

“Who is it?” Drake asked.

The woman paused. “You should just come hear what he has to say,” she said. “I reckon that if he bothered to come, it’s bound to be important.”

With that, she hung up.

For a moment, Drake stood with the silent receiver in his hand. Eventually, he put it back on its cradle, his thoughts churning.

“What was that about?” Amos asked.

“I’ve got to take care of something real quick,” he answered, too curious to ignore the summons. Drake had the doorknob in his hand when he stopped, turning back to his friend and partner. “We’ve still got things we need to talk about.”

“Whenever you can find the time,” Amos replied dismissively. With a groan, he lay back on his bed, rolled away from Drake, and pulled the blanket over his head. “You know where I’ll be.”

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, Drake saw who was calling on him; it was the banker, the same man who had upset Clara a couple of days before. He stood near the front door, facing away from the staircase, one foot nervously tapping the floor. He wore an expensive suit, the fabric too tight around his waist. A gold watch chain hung from his pocket. Drake glanced at the woman who ran the hotel. She kept looking back and forth between the two men, her face sour, as if she’d just bitten into a lemon. Abruptly, she turned and disappeared through a curtain hung behind the front desk.

What in the hell’s going on here?

Drake cleared his throat.

The man spun around, looking surprised. “Ah, Mr. McCoy!” he said cheerfully, although there was an obvious fakeness to his voice, a nervous tremor. “I didn’t hear you come down. I hope you don’t mind my dropping by like this, but I thought we should meet under better circumstances.” He walked over and stuck out his hand. “I’m Eddie Fuller. I own the bank.”

Drake took the offered greeting, giving the man’s hand one firm pump before letting go; Eddie’s grip was cold and clammy.

“What can I do for you?” he asked flatly.

“Well,” the banker began, fishing in his pocket for a silk handkerchief, which he used to wipe the rapidly accumulating sweat from his brow, “I was hoping we might discuss what we can do for each other.”

Eddie smiled strangely as he talked, flashing plenty of teeth; he acted as if they were old friends. But Drake saw right through the banker’s fake cheer. Over the years, he’d met plenty of con artists, liars, and thieves: grizzled men in raggedy old suits who sold bottled tap water out of the backs of their trucks, talking as fast and slick as a carnival barker, claiming that it would cure any ailment under the sun; trashy young women who hopped from one rich man to the next, sucking their wallets drier than a creek bed in summer, getting by on their looks for as long as Father Time allowed; and so-called men of the cloth, going around the countryside preaching in God’s name, but always with their hands out and most donations finding a way into their pockets. Eddie might not be so blatantly rotten, but like those others he was out for only himself, no matter who he had to trample to get what he wanted.

“So say your bit,” Drake replied.

Eddie looked toward the hotel desk; it was currently unoccupied, but Edna couldn’t have gone far. “Let’s step into the parlor,” he suggested. Drake gave a curt nod and followed him into the hotel’s front room.

The parlor was small, but felt even tinier for being crammed with too many tables and chairs; however, with its fancy wallpaper and huge glass chandelier, it was surely the ritziest room the Sunset Hotel had to offer. Eddie took a seat near the window and beckoned for Drake to join him.

“I’ll stand,” he answered.

“Please,” the banker replied. “We don’t have to be enemies. We’re both businessmen, unless I’m mistaken and you race cars just for sport.”

Drake’s eyes narrowed.

Eddie again flashed his goofy smile. “Are you surprised that I’d try to learn something about you?”

“I shouldn’t be. I just don’t know why you’d go to the trouble.”

The rich man’s cheeks flushed. “I would have thought that to be obvious.”

Drake’s jaw tightened. “Clara…”

Eddie nodded, still unable to meet the other man’s gaze. “That’s right. I can only assume from your arrival at the bank that you’re interested in her as well. Unfortunately, that’s a problem,” he said, finally turning to face Drake.

“Is it now?”

“I’m in love with her.”

Looking at the banker, it was obvious to Drake that, from the outside, Eddie Fuller wasn’t much of a rival; his looks weren’t the sort that attracted much attention. But the fact that he was probably the richest man in town meant that dismissing Eddie out of hand would be a mistake. Drake had to tread carefully, as if driving on a wet track.

“You’re not her type,” he replied.

“Of course I am,” the banker disagreed defiantly. “She
deserves
a man like me, someone successful enough to give her whatever she desires.”

“And what is it that you think Clara wants?”

“Why, the same as every woman. A big home, a new car, jewels, fur coats, and parties at which to show it all off.”

Even though he’d known Clara for only a short time, Drake was convinced that she longed for none of those things; it was good for him that she didn’t, because he couldn’t have afforded any of them. But what he
could
give her was the thing she wanted most, even needed, and something Eddie had neglected to mention.

Love.

“When I saw the two of you inside the bank,” Drake said, “she didn’t seem all that interested in you or any of what you’re offering.”

Eddie’s ridiculous grin faltered, revealing the ugliness underneath. “She will be,” the banker insisted. “The more time we spend together, the more she will understand that there’s no better husband for her than me. What I had planned that day would’ve gone a long way toward that if you hadn’t interrupted and ruined everything.”

Eddie Fuller didn’t strike Drake as the sort of man who handled rejection well. Rich men were used to getting what they wanted. Drake was convinced that if Clara was left alone with Eddie, no matter how much she rejected his advances, the banker would pressure her relentlessly until she gave in.

“Clara would tell you otherwise,” Drake said.

Eddie shook his head. “Though it pains me to say it, right now Clara isn’t smart enough to know what’s in her own best interest.” One eyebrow rose quizzically. “I wonder if
you’re
any better.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Slowly, Eddie reached into his suit coat and pulled out a folded slip of paper. “I have something for you.” He put it on the table and slid it across to Drake, who, with no small amount of trepidation, picked it up. When he unfolded it, his eyes grew wide and his breath caught in his throat.