by Gun Brooke
Evie didn’t say anything at first. She observed Blythe with those dark green eyes, which didn’t give away any of her thoughts. Blythe wanted to lower her own eyes, but the brave woman across from her would consider that a sign of weakness, and she didn’t want to do anything to spoil her plans.
“You wish to resume where we left off?” Evie lifted one corner of her mouth. “Trust me. A lot has happened since then.”
“Your manager confirms that you’re planning a comeback.”
“Planning one and actually getting there are two completely different things. You might end up like before, having put tons of planning and work into something that amounted to nothing.”
Blythe heard the pain behind Evie’s defiant words. “Even if you don’t want anything to do with me, or the book, the photos are still yours, and you can use them to prove once and for all exactly what happened. I had a vantage point that the news cameras and the sports network didn’t. My pictures tell the true story.”
“You’re giving these to me, and the right to do whatever I please with them?” Evie’s voice lost some of its annoyance.
“Yes.”
“No strings attached?”
“None.”
Evie had her reasons to be suspicious. According to her manager, several publishers and editors had swamped her with suggestions and proposals. The chance that she’d accept Blythe’s offer was infinitesimal.
“If—if I should go ahead with such a project, there’d be tons of clauses and exceptions.” Evie placed a hand on top of the envelope between them.
“I’m sure we could work things out.” At last, Blythe realized there was enough oxygen in the restaurant. The waiter returned with their food and she welcomed the break in their conversation. Cautiously she tasted the puttanesca, relieved that the angel hair pasta dish was savory, but not too hot.
“Great choice, huh?” Evie said, sounding casual.
“It’s delicious. Very good choice.” Blythe smiled as carefully as she’d just tasted the pasta and, to her relief, Evie reciprocated.
*
Evie studied Blythe surreptitiously as they ate in silence. She usually wolfed down the food at Pasta Cosi, but tonight, with so many emotions fighting to overwhelm her, she had to concentrate on chewing every bite so she wouldn’t choke.
She’d recognized Blythe Pierce as soon as she stepped into the restaurant. Evie felt at ease here at Pasta Cosi, having frequented this place ever since high school, but her heart raced as Blythe walked toward her.
Blythe’s face was one of her last clear memories before the crash. During the day she couldn’t remember the pileup, but some nights it all returned in her dreams, haunting her with nauseating details of flames, smoke, and broken bodies. She shook away the destructive thoughts and instead studied Blythe. Dressed in preppy clothes, with her blond hair curling down to her shoulders, Blythe had translucent, blue eyes that grabbed Evie. How could someone who had witnessed so much in all the major hellholes in this world have such a mild gaze? Blythe’s pale, freckled complexion also belied her age and experience.
Evie had reacquainted herself with the photographer’s biography and work via her website before she agreed to meet. According to it, Blythe was twelve years Evie’s senior, but she didn’t look it. Surely you couldn’t spend months and months in Iraq and Afghanistan, in such scorching heat, without sun damage? Perhaps Blythe’s makeup protected her, but from what Evie could see, she wore only some eye shadow.
She had been certain Blythe had intended to sell those photos at a very high price, and that she would threaten to sell them to the tabloids or someone else out to use them for God knew what purpose. When Blythe simply gave them to her, Evie became speechless for several moments. The selfless act seemed without ulterior motives. Her mind raced as she tried to figure out Blythe’s next step. She began to relax as Blythe merely ate and seemed content to wait for her to make up her mind.
“I need to know more,” Evie blurted. “I’m sorry. I just can’t make a decision like this on the spot.”
“I realize that your comeback alone must be stressful enough, without having me shadow you. Still, that’s how it would be. If you eventually agree to do this book, I’ll have to be with you during practices and everything that has anything remotely to do with you as a NASCAR driver. It’s important that you understand this.”
Evie nodded, grateful for Blythe’s straightforwardness. “I do.”
“I’ll do my best to answer any questions you might have. I know that your team researched me last year. Nothing much has changed, but if you want, you can double-check my credentials and references.”
“I might. Still, that’s not what worries me. I mean, you’re well-known and everything.” Evie put down her fork, unable to finish her meal. She could tell that Blythe liked hers. Her plate was almost empty.
“What’s the problem, then?” Blythe frowned, running her fingertips along the rim of her glass. She tipped her head sideways, looking intently at Evie in a way that made something hum inside her.
“Eh…I need to talk this over with you further. In public like this, I’m sure I’d forget half the questions I meant to ask.” Evie thought for a moment and then decided to take the leap. “Why don’t you come to my family’s summer house in Plymouth this weekend? I’m having some friends over and you’re welcome to join us. I know from last year how excited they were that the famous Blythe Pierce planned to feature me in a book.”
“Are you sure?” Blythe looked taken aback. “I’d love to discuss this project more, but I don’t want to impose.”
“No problem.” Evie waved the waiter over, but before she had a chance, Blythe took the leather case from his hands, tucked in her credit card, and returned it.
“You don’t have to do that. I suggested that we meet here.” A little annoyed, Evie inhaled and slowly let the air out again. Digging deep for a more gracious approach, she forced a smile. “Thank you, though.”
“You’re welcome.” Blythe turned to the waiter and signed the receipt. “Seemed like a good compromise since I’ll be your guest this weekend. When do you want me…there?” The hastily added word and Blythe’s flushed cheeks amused Evie.
“How about Saturday, around noon? We can have lunch and, if the weather’s good, enjoy a walk on the beach.”
“It’s a deal. Why don’t you text me the address? You have my cell phone number on the business card in the envelope.”
Evie placed a hand again on the envelope that held the evidence of the event that had nearly ended her life and had definitely changed her outlook on it. The woman across the table was unlike anybody she’d ever met. Evie remembered how she had transformed from a shy recluse to a completely focused and brilliant professional photographer. Her résumé and published work suggested she wasn’t afraid to take risks and approach things in unusual ways to obtain the shot she was after. This juxtaposition between such extremes fascinated her, and perhaps this time around, Evie would have a chance to get to know her better.
They rose from the table and thanked the staff on their way out.
“I have my car over there,” Blythe murmured, seeming even more aloof than before now that they were standing close together on the sidewalk. “Can I give you a ride somewhere?”
“No, thank you.” Evie knew she sounded short, but apprehension, originating from a flicker of attraction, made her wary of being in a confined space. If she decided to collaborate with Blythe on this project, she had to keep a certain distance. She had walked from her Branford condo, and she didn’t want Blythe to feel she had to drive her home. “I’ll have my manager e-mail you directions to the summerhouse. See you then.”
“Thank you. Bye.” Blythe seemed relieved to be on her way, hurrying to her vehicle over by the park.
Evie remained on the sidewalk, people occasionally brushing by her in the warm Indian-summer evening, laughing, talking, or just walking. She stood there and followed Blythe with a strange sensation in her chest.
Pressing a hand against it, she didn’t know if she was trying to capture the feeling or perhaps hide it, push it back, but she couldn’t deny the truth. Blythe Pierce didn’t leave her indifferent or cold. Something about this woman of obvious courage, who still displayed such discomfort in social situations, had surprised Evie.
She was used to keeping people at bay. She maintained emotional barbed wire to ward them off—her father, fans, the press, paparazzi, and people out to make money from her name. Now this deceptively fragile woman had somehow found an angle, a loophole, into her inner circle. A very narrow circle at that. Watching Blythe drive away, Evie approved the fact that not only did Blythe drive an Audi A8, but she clearly wasn’t above pushing the accelerator where it belonged.
To the floor.
Chapter Two
Blythe looked up at the foreboding sky where dark clouds gathered. Plymouth was crowded in the summer, but during early fall the tourists abandoned it for attractions farther south. Glancing at the sea, Blythe shuddered as the dark gray waves created foam where they crashed against the shore. On the horizon she could detect large ships, but nobody in their right mind would go out in a small boat on a day like today.
Hoisting her overnight bag over her shoulder, she took the camera bag in her free hand, the weight of it, the sense of normalcy it created settling her onset of nerves. She turned her attention to the house that her GPS had guided her to. With its light blue exterior, white trim, and black roof, it looked like many other houses around Cape Cod Bay. Blythe snorted. At least if you compared it to other wealthy estates.
A flagstone garden path led to the front door, and she took a firmer grasp of her camera bag as she approached it. She raised an eyebrow at the oversized door knocker in the shape of a growling lion before she used it. Immediately the sound of quick steps filtered through the door before her hostess flung it open.
Evie wore light gray sweats, the expensive type, and a white T-shirt. For the first time, Blythe noticed the scar along the left side of her neck, slightly discolored and wrinkled. Her dark brown hair hung loose around her face and covered some of it. She looked much more relaxed than at the restaurant the other day. Perhaps being on her home turf put Evie at ease?
“Hello. You made it.” Evie motioned toward Blythe’s bags. “Can I take one of those?”
“Sure.” Blythe handed her the overnight bag. Nobody carried her cameras but her. “I’m the first one to arrive?”
“Yeah. My friends Colleen and Don won’t be here until dinnertime. I figured we’d get a chance to talk before they do. You know, about the details of your proposal.” Evie tilted her head, smiling. “Want to come in?”
“Oh.” Blythe realized that she was still standing on the doormat, fidgeting with the shoulder strap of her camera bag. She had to literally force herself to continue talking. “Sure. Sounds good. Us talking, I mean.” Hating how staccato her speech pattern became when her nerves got the better of her, she kicked off her shoes and stepped into a bright hallway that was part of a living room. Large windows gave a spectacular view of the rough sea. “What a lovely house.”
“Thank you. My mother tried to influence my dad’s more bohemian and wild taste while they were married, so anything stylish and elegant you see is her doing.”
Blythe managed a shy smile. “So I take it your father chose the lion?”
“The li—? Oh, the door knocker. Yes. Yes, he did.” Evie laughed. “He used to bring stuff like that home when he returned from whatever country his latest race took place. Mom was less than thrilled.” Evie’s eyes darkened as she briskly pushed her hair behind her ears. “Let me show you to the guest rooms. Since you’re first to arrive, you get to choose.” She walked over to a dark wood staircase, Blythe’s bag dangling over her shoulder as if it weighed nothing. “We have one overlooking the ocean or one overlooking the garden.”
“I’d love to have an ocean view.”
“Ah, a woman after my own heart.” Evie grinned, and if she noticed Blythe’s warming cheeks, she didn’t let on.
The room was typical New England. Dark wood, nautical theme, white and blue, with a splash of red. The only thing that stood out was a large abstract painting that hung above the headboard of the queen-size bed.
“Don’t tell me. Your dad?” Blythe indicated the painting.
“You catch on quick. The year he came second in the Monaco Grand Prix.”
“Your father is quite the legend in the racing world.”
“He sure cultivates that notion, anyway.” Evie’s lips looked tense. “Don’t get me wrong. Together with Fittipaldi, Lauda, and Stewart, he was among the best of his generation. These men, they lived this larger-than-life way that consumed them. It left very little for anything else. Or anyone.”
“Must’ve been hard for a young girl, being separated from her father during the racing season.”
“It was, and the seasons lasted beyond the actual dates of driving.” Evie didn’t volunteer anything else, and Blythe knew when to back off. She shied away from asking about personal matters like this up front. It was easier to be inquisitive and curious through the lens of her camera. It showed the truth better than words did.
Evie motioned haphazardly around her. “Want to see the rest?”
“It’s a beautiful house, so yes, I’d love to.”
“No pictures, though.” Evie glanced at Blythe’s camera bag.
“Of course not.” Reluctantly, she put the bag down on an upholstered chair in the corner before following Evie around the house. Each guest room was decorated in eclectic New England style, except for the items Evie’s father, the legendary Malcolm “Mad Mal” Marshall, had added.
“This is my favorite part of the house.” Evie opened the door to a large deck that stretched the entire length of the back of the house. “Damn, it’s windy, isn’t it?”
“Yes, those clouds don’t look too promising.” Blythe was impressed with the view, but the black clouds growing at the horizon left her feeling uneasy. “Still, I can understand why you like it out here. What a view of the ocean.”
“I never get tired of it.”
They stood on the deck, Blythe acutely aware of Evie’s unwavering gaze as they talked about the view and the history of the house.
“Honestly, I prefer my own beach house in Pawleys Island,” Evie said, holding the door open for them to get back inside. “This house has…too many memories and it’s still my father’s, not mine.”
“I see what you mean.” Blythe remembered her first condo, a small loft that she actually still owned, but sublet to an employee. “You strike me as a very private person. In fact, you did from the beginning. I’m grateful that you’ve let me and my camera in.”
“Honestly, I’m not sure if I’ve made a mistake.” She walked ahead of Blythe into the kitchen. “Can I offer you something to drink?”
“Just some water, please.” Blythe propped her hip against the counter. “How can I put your mind at ease?”
Moving gracefully, Evie grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge. As she handed one over, her fingers grazed Blythe’s. Hiding a gasp, Blythe pressed against the counter. Something had passed between them, and she couldn’t blame static electricity. Right now, her fingertips tingled and she trembled as she opened the bottle. She took a deep gulp of water.
“I don’t know. I think it’s about me and my control issues.” Evie jumped up and sat on the kitchen island. “I’m all about that. Most drivers are. If we’re not in complete control, every tenth of a second, we could get our ass killed. Well, you know. You saw.”
“Does this need for control spill over into your everyday life?” Interested, Blythe jumped up on the counter beside her.
“What everyday life? I live, breathe, and eat racing.”
“Even during your convalescence?”
“Especially then.” Evie dangled her legs sideways. “Every day at the rehab clinic, from six a.m. to eight p.m., I followed the schedule we set up.”
“Every day of the week?”
“Yes.”
“No rest? No fun?”
“I wouldn’t have beaten the paralysis and gone through the skin-graft transplants without discipline. I had two years.”
“Why two years?” Blythe was intrigued now. Evie looked defiant and passionate at the same time.
“My contract with my main sponsor, Besto Oil, stipulated that if I wasn’t back on my feet and able to drive, I’d have to find another car, another sponsor.” Evie’s smile clearly wasn’t a happy one. “So, I set the goal, what I had to accomplish each day to get my life back.”
“Did your family stay with you? Your father?”
“Mad Mal? Hardly.” Evie snorted. “He didn’t show his face after the first media frenzy died down. While there were photo ops, he was there, the doting father, but once the reporters directed their cameras to something else, he was gone. Well, after having given me his latest adamant speech about how I’ve chosen the wrong path.”
“Doesn’t he want you to race? I mean, is he concerned for your safety, as a father?” Blythe could understand that a parent would freak out watching his kid ride a vehicle that could become a death trap.
“Oh, no. It’s not that easy. Mad Mal thinks I should race, all right. He loves having a famous daughter. He hates NASCAR, though. He always pictured me following in his and Granddad’s footsteps.”
“Your father wants you to race the Formula One cars?”
“Yup.” Evie sipped her water, slamming the bottle back down on the counter hard enough to make Blythe jump. “In his mind, and in several other people’s, Formula One is the ultimate way to compete in racing. Formula One drivers are royalty. NASCAR drivers are the common man heroes, hardly worthy of his time. For his daughter to prefer the NASCAR circuit…it’s like an insult.”
