by Anne Calhoun
“Cady. I’m Cady, from here on out.”
Chris raised an eyebrow, but acquiesced. “With Cady.”
“So we’re good,” he said to Chris, obviously wanting to hear him say it.
“What do you want, to exchange heart-shaped necklaces and pinkie swear?” At Cady’s glare, Chris relented. “We’re good. Remember I said that when someone with deeper pockets tries to hire you away from us. Which will happen. Oh, and that song you just sang? The one that didn’t sound anything like ‘Love-Crossed Stars’? Already on YouTube and already racking up the views. Twenty bucks says I hear from Eric before the night’s over.”
* * *
“This was the stupidest idea ever,” Cady said. “Whose idea was it to wait until Christmas Eve to finish shopping?”
Conn wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her out of the flow of harried last-minute shoppers jostling for space on SoMa’s narrow sidewalks. Instantly Cady relaxed into his heat and strength and wrapped her arm around his waist.
“I’m not the one who waited until the last minute to do her shopping.” He kissed her ear, then let her go.
“Rub it in.” She looked through the shopping bags in her hands and checked the contents against the list in her phone. “You ordered everything online. That’s cheating.”
“When it comes to buying toys for kids, that’s the only smart thing to do.”
“True.” She looked him up and down. “I doubt you’d be crushed at Toys ‘R’ Us.”
“I wasn’t worried about getting crushed. I was worried about having to break up a mob fighting over the last Nintendo DS. Then I’d have to do paperwork.”
She laughed, her heart as bright as the lights strung along the overhang. “No paperwork on Christmas Eve.”
He reached for her hand, and they strolled down the sidewalk. The crowds were too harried to recognize her, and if they did, they gave her the gift of a quiet night. “What time are the McCools expecting you tomorrow?”
“I said I’d come over for the game.”
They were loading their bags into the trunk of the Audi when Cady leaned her hip on the taillight and looked at him. “Is the track open tonight?”
He laughed. “Hell yes. It gives guys an excuse to get out of the house. The weather’s turning next week. Between extreme cold and bad weather, we don’t run much in January and February.”
“How about a couple of runs tonight?”
He thought about it for a moment. Something felt different. Everything felt different since Cady showed up at his door, strong and courageous. For the first time, he would go to the track without an expectation for a particular outcome. Somehow, one one-hundredth of a second didn’t feel like the weight of all eternity on his shoulders. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s a good night for a run.”
They drove out to the airfield, and turned into the pit. A rectangle of light shone through the open doorway to the hangar, and some joker had put a light-up Santa and reindeer on the hangar’s roof, with Rudolph’s nose flashing like a warning beacon. Shane and Finn were there, tinkering with one of the other McCool racer’s cars.
“Hey,” Shane said warmly, exchanging the now familiar fist clasp and shoulder bump. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Conn shrugged out of his denim jacket and into his racing coat. “I’m feeling good tonight. And I’m too stubborn to quit.”
Shane tossed him the keys. “The weather’s perfect. Go get ’em, tiger.”
He couldn’t really explain what was different. The answer was nothing and everything. The car was exactly the same as the last time he drove it, the night Cady sent her Audi flying down the track, a maniacal grin on her face. The weather was nearly identical. But at the same time, everything was different inside him. No matter the time on the board, tonight was his last run.
He rolled up to the warming strip, shifted into first, set the parking brake, and revved the engine. Roiling, oily smoke rose above the rear end. He got a thumbs-up, released the brake, and rolled forward.
Aside from a few heated hours with Cady, he’d never been so present in his body, so comfortable in his own mind. It was, he realized, because he was alone in his mind. All the shame he’d been carrying around, the voices of his family members saying it was time to go, time to pack up and move to the next sofa or partially furnished spare room or, worse, a room crammed with hoarder’s crap were gone.
For the first time, he was racing for himself.
When the lights ticked down to green, he floored the accelerator and shot down the runway. A black watch cap over honey-colored hair caught his eye as he whipped past the bleachers. It was another detail, another stream coursing into the river of time carrying him along. The seconds felt elastic, like he had all the time in the world, could hear every revolution of the motor and drive shaft. Each shift felt magical, crisp and clean. Flow. Perfect, perfect flow.
Nine point nine-nine flashed up on the clock. When he rounded the corner to crawl back to the line of cars waiting for their run, Shane and Finn were going berserk, jumping and shouting, fists pumping in the air. People on their way to and from the concession stand made a wide circle around the two of them, turning from spots in the stands to stare, because Shane put the cool in McCool. It wasn’t a great time, but they knew what it meant to him. He’d tied his dad.
Shane jogged up to meet him at the back of the line. “Yeah!” he shouted as he leaned into the window. “Nine point nine-fucking-nine!”
“Nailed it!” Finn shouted from behind him.
“You going again?” Shane asked.
He looked over at Cady. Tears stood in her eyes, but she lifted her fists over her head and pumped them twice. “Go again!”
“Yeah.”
“Good.” Shane swatted affectionately at Conn’s helmeted head. “You own this tonight. Watch second. You still rush out of second.”
It didn’t matter if he did or didn’t have it. This was his last run. Nine point nine eight or not, he was setting down this burden and moving on. The only way to prove he was a better man than his father wasn’t to beat his time, but to be that man. With Cady, with her family, within the department.
Wait. Warm the tires. Wait some more. Watch the lights tick from red to orange to green, slowly, so slowly. Time had stretched and doubled back on itself. He had all the time in the world to step on the gas, shift through the Camaro’s range of gears. The engine purred like a kitten, a soft, sweet rumble in his chest.
He knew. Deep in his bones, in his heart, he knew. He didn’t even have to look at the clock, or turn to see Shane’s and Finn’s reactions. He could feel their energy all the way across the track. 9.97. He’d broken out. Disqualified.
Free.
He’d beaten his father’s time. The extra weight he’d been carrying was his shame, his loneliness, his fear of never belonging anywhere. He’d put down his demons and picked up Cady’s hand, trading the existential weight for a connection both weightless and stronger than steel.
He parked by Shane’s truck and got out of the car only to get rammed back into it from the force of Shane’s hug. Finn was applauding wildly, the sound muffled by the thick gloves covering his hands. Was this how Cady felt at a concert, this kind of exuberant, wild energy coming at her from the audience? Incredible.
“Damn,” Shane finished. “Just … goddamn. You did it.”
“I did.” Conn bounced the keys gently in his palm. Then he caught Finn’s eye and tossed them to him.
Finn caught them, then looked at Conn, as wide-eyed as a little kid on Christmas. “I can drive her the rest of the night? Thanks, man!”
“You can drive her the rest of your life, or hers, which will probably be shorter.” Conn reached into the glove box and pulled out the title. “She’s yours.”
Finn’s eyes got impossibly wider. “No way.”
“Way,” Conn and Shane said in unison.
“You should keep her.” Shaking his head, Finn held out the keys. “She was your dad’
s car. Your dad gave her to you.”
She was his dad’s car, his pride and joy, but to Conn an anvil dragging him down like Wile E. Coyote after he ran off a cliff. His father never gave him the car. Conn just took it on, because he wanted to be close to his dad, to cling to all he had left of him. “Now I’m giving her to you.”
“What’s Mom going to say?” Finn said, looking at Shane.
“Conn and I talked to her a couple of hours ago. She says no street racing or she’ll drive the car to the salvage yard herself, but okay.”
“I’ve got a couple hundred bucks saved,” Finn said. “I’ll get you the cash as soon as I get to the bank. Or I can transfer the money with my phone. What email address—?”
Conn held up his hand, stopping Finn midsentence. “You’re going to need that money. The head gasket’s going to blow any run.”
Finn seemed about to protest again, but shut his mouth when Conn gave him his stare. “Thanks,” he saw awkwardly. He looked to be somewhere between tears and total joy. Conn remembered what that was like, to want wheels, cool wheels, that thing that defined you to your peers.
“I catch you street racing her and I’ll have your ass in jail so fast you’ll think you were caught in a time warp. And then I’ll call your mom. Got a pen?”
“I won’t. Just the track.” He launched himself at Conn, thumping him on the back, all gangly teenage puppy energy. Conn took the pen Shane extracted from his jacket pocket and scrawled his signature on the title. Finn’s hands were shaking when he took it. “Thank you. I mean it. She’s the coolest car out here. Do you care if I tinker with the gear ratio?”
“She’s not my car anymore,” Conn said gently, feeling an unutterable sense of relief. “Turn her into a clown car like the Shriners drive. Go to town. She’s all yours.”
“Come back and race her any time,” Finn said.
“Thanks,” Conn said, genuinely surprised. “I’ll do that.”
Just like that, he turned and walked away from the fight he’d been fighting his entire life, whether to be like his dad or to leave him behind. His dad had taught him to go down fighting, locked in a cage match, but Cady taught him that sometimes the only way to win was to walk away. Before he’d had nothing to walk to.
Now he did. He had Cady.
She was waiting a few feet away, smiling. “That was a nice thing to do,” she said when he joined her.
“Looks like I’m going to be traveling a lot in the future.” He shrugged. “He loves that car.”
“Win-win.” She snuggled under his arm.
“Getting cold?”
“A little,” she said. “I’m dressed for shopping, not the track.”
“Let’s get you home, then.”
She looked up at him. “Good. A fire and some hot cocoa sound perfect right now.” She lifted her chin for a kiss, hummed when his lips brushed hers. “But I already am home, Conn. I’m with you.”
It all came together, the song and the season, Cady’s body against his, the feeling of love and belonging transformed into a sense of weightlessness that carried him off the airfield. It was true. She belonged to him, and he belonged to her.
He was home.
Read on for a sneak preview of Anne Calhoun’s next book
TURN ME LOOSE
Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
“Okay, team, huddle up.”
The evening birdsong trilled through the screen door as servers, chefs, sous chefs, and the night’s hostess gathered around Riva. She leaned against the prep table and scanned their faces, checking in with each kid, all of them involved in the East Side Community Center’s after-school and weekend programs. The servers wore identical uniforms of black pants with black shirts tucked in, and a knee-length white apron. Kiara, the night’s hostess, came in last, pen and paper poised to write down the night’s menu before transferring it to the chalkboard intended for the front porch.
“Run it down for me, Chef Isaiah,” Riva said.
Aware of his lead role in the kitchen, Isaiah straightened. “We have three mains today, the usual rib eye and chicken, and the special, salmon seared in a sauce of shallots and grapefruit, accompanied by asparagus and potatoes roasted in garlic, rosemary, and olive oil. Appetizers are bruschetta, mussels, and we have Brussels sprouts roasted in olive oil with bacon and onions.”
Riva nodded approvingly. He’d come a long way from the kid who couldn’t tell a Brussels sprout from a stalk of asparagus. “Anyone have any questions about preparation? All of the greens are from the early plantings at the farm, so they’re nice and tender.”
Her dream was to eventually quadruple her greenhouse space, but her mantra was to take it slow, grow organically, and most importantly, without drawing any attention to herself.
“Where’s the salmon from?” Amber asked.
“Alaska. Flown in yesterday,” Isaiah said without prompting. Amber made a note on her server’s pad. “It’s as fresh as you’re gonna get in landlocked Lancaster.”
“What do you recommend?” Kiara asked.
“It’s all good,” Isaiah said, “but if anyone asks, go with the salmon.”
“What are we gonna eighty-six first?”
“The salmon,” Isaiah said. He extended his hand over the large, cast-iron pan heating on the eight-burner stove, the movement automatic, practiced.
“Thanks, Isaiah,” Riva said. “I’ll come around one last time to check your stations. I’m working the front tonight, so you guys are on your own.”
Subtle signs of tension rippled through the group. “You’ve got this. It’s a Tuesday night, so we won’t be very busy, but even if we were, even if we got slammed by Maud Ward and her entire entourage, you’d still have this,” Riva said. “Work your station, and work together.”
Kimmy-Jean, a newer addition to the program, worried at her lower lip. “What if no one comes?”
In the spring Oasis operated on a pop-up basis, opening on selected evenings and promoted through social media only. “They’ll come,” Isaiah said. “You just worry about getting your mise done, yo.”
She walked through the kitchen, swiping up a bit of spilled parmesan, adding extra bowls to Carlos’s station, making sure the busboy/dishwasher, Blake, had his trays lined up and ready to go. Out front, the tables were all neatly set, silverware wrapped in linen, bud vases with a single bloom and small votive candles centered between the settings. “Let’s not light the candles just yet,” she said to Kiara.
The front was designed to look like a large, screened-in porch, the glass windows folded back to open the room to the breezes drifting in from the eastern fields, carrying a scent of warm earth and tender, growing things. The walls were covered in weathered barn boards, the tables made from smaller pieces reclaimed when she tore down the outbuildings that were ruined beyond repair. The server’s station was just outside the kitchen, making it easy for the staff to grab a pitcher of water or a damp rag as they passed through.
Looking around, Riva couldn’t believe she’d made this herself: supervised the renovation, done most of the interior work and decorating herself, scavenged and bargain shopped, painted walls and built tables. She’d come a long way in the last eight years, and the farm and restaurant were only stage one of her business plan.
Their first customers were a couple who chose the twilit section. Riva lit their candle and offered them the menu. “Do you want the windows shut?” the man asked his date. He was obviously anxious, taking out his phone and silencing the ringer, setting it on the table, then putting it in a pocket.
“I’m good,” she said, giving him a pleased smile. “The air’s still pretty warm. Maybe later.”
“I’ll be back in a minute with your drinks,” Riva said, then looked up as the door opened again.
The evening progressed smoothly, just as Riva predicted. The program was a simple one, developed in conjunction with the East Side Community Center run by Pastor Webber. Get kids who’d grown up in impoverished, blighte
d neighborhoods so common to food deserts access to fresh air, sunshine, and the earth. Teach them to grow their own food, and cook it, which enabled Riva to teach them about healthy eating. It also meant Riva could give back, pay for the mistakes she’d made, and help other kids avoid the same mistakes.
Working in the front let things develop organically, for better or worse, in the kitchen. She liked waiting tables. Most of the recipes were her own, and getting feedback directly from customers enabled her to fine-tune accordingly. It meant she was close if the kids really needed her, but not watching like one of the hawks circling over a field, ready to pounce on every single mistake like a field mouse.
She automatically looked up when the front door opened and saw a single man standing there, his face hidden by the shadows. Tall and lean, he was nothing but a silhouette of a male figure in a suit, nothing that should have made her heart thunk hard against her chest and adrenaline dump into her nervous system. All her muscles screamed at her to drop the box of matches and bolt.
Don’t be ridiculous, her brain told her body.
Then he took another step forward, far enough into the light for Riva to see his face. She knew she should have trusted her body, but by then it was too late.
Officer Hawthorn stood in her restaurant.
Kiara wore her most practiced smile as she approached him, menu in hand. Riva couldn’t hear their conversation over her blood thrumming in her ears, but she could decipher it well enough based on the way he looked around, then the way Kiara extended her arm.
She’d seated him in Riva’s section. A two-top, in the corner. He always sat with his back to the wall. Riva remembered that well enough from six years earlier. The table gave him a view of all entrances and doors, and the parking lot.
“Blaze on table fourteen,” Kiara said to Riva, using the kitchen’s slang for a hot customer.
Riva stifled a hysterical laugh. Ian Hawthorn was a blaze in every sense of the word, hot, and so dangerous she should turn and run. She could ask someone else to take the table. It wasn’t a practice she encouraged, as it led to confusion in the restaurant, and there was no advantage to it for the kids. All tips were pooled and split among the kitchen staff and servers at the end of the night. They worked for each other, not just for themselves.
