God Bless the Broken Road

by Jennifer Dornbush

  Patti Hill has no idea what Amber is going through. Think about her daughter’s future! Please. Only every single minute of every single day. But all that worrying did nothing to fill her bank account.

  Bree’s future. If she’s so worried about Bree’s future, why doesn’t she . . .

  A funny thought flashes in Amber’s mind. Maybe Patti could groom Bree for her lipstick legacy? She almost laughs out loud at the thought. She imagines Patti getting Bree all dolled up in a frilly tulle dress and eyeliner like one of those beauty-pageant toddlers to tote her wares. Beauty for everyone at every age and stage.

  She must be delirious with hunger.

  The image melts from her mind, and she sits with her sullenness.

  What good did it do to plan? Or worry? Or stress?

  Or hope?

  Tomorrow is never a guarantee. That, she had learned.

  chapter twenty-three

  Geometry Comes in Handy

  FINALLY, A DAY at the track. About friggin’ time, Joe.

  Cody looks down at his calloused, grease-stained hands as he slides his gloves on. He shoves his fingers to the tips, stretching the leather that has shrunk from lack of use. Or maybe it’s that his fingers are so swollen from the repair work. Whatever. Doesn’t matter. He’s on the track again.

  He clenches his gloved hands around the wheel. His finger joints ache, as does most of his body from rolling around the garage floor on a creeper and being hunched under the hood of a car all day. Sometimes well into the evening.

  He draws in a deep breath as he revs the engine and turns his wheels out of the pits and onto the track. The accelerator goes to the floor. Speed. Sweet, sweet speed!

  The calm of the early morning is shattered as Cody thunders his car down the frontstretch. Warm-up lap. Then two more.

  Not as smooth as the Indy track. A little off camber entering turn three.

  He’ll have to compensate by picking a higher line and cutting sharper as he exits turn four.

  “Okay, Joe, ready for a timed run,” he says into his headset.

  “Roger, ready when you are,” the reply comes back.

  Cody blasts by Joe and the crew like lightning. Nothing like an empty track and a full tank of gas!

  “Feels bumpy on that third turn. Any way around that?” Cody zips past them, completing the lap, and lets up on the accelerator, coasting the car into turn one.

  “Not a bad lap there, Cody. Do another one just like it. But this time, when you set up for turn four, I want you to push the apex of the turn as late as possible. Hold your line high and delay that entry point,” says Joe through the headset.

  “What? Too many words, Joe.”

  Cody rips open the throttle and moves from the second turn down the backstretch into turn three. He sets his gaze to line up with the top of the track near turn four. If he can hit that point and swing into the curve, he’ll be able to get the smoothest turn at the greatest possible speed.

  “Point the car at the latest possible geometric apex point . . .”

  “Joe, I failed geometry. You’re not making sense to me.” Cody pushes the gas pedal to its limit as he takes the frontstretch again.

  “Great. Now I’ve gotta teach you basic math skills on top of everything else?”

  “Please, no. I’ll do more engines. Anything. Just don’t hand me one of those protractor thingies.”

  He sails into turn four and feels his back tires bow slightly to the right. Just another inch and he’ll be fishtailing to the rails. He barely comes out of the curve. Right on the edge of crash and control. That beautiful edge. Can’t teach that. It’s in the gut.

  Cody slows as he passes the pits and waves to Joe with a smirk. Joe tips his hat. Good ole Joe.

  “Lemme explain it to you like you’re a five-year-old.”

  “Now you’re speaking at my level.” Cody can hear the pit crew laughing through the headset.

  “When you get ready to come up to a turn, point the nose of your car up to set your line about a foot higher than you’ve been doing, and at the last possible moment, when it feels like you’re just about to go straight into the rails, cut that curve. The momentum will swing you through the turn. It’s called setting the exit trajectory.”

  “Ah . . . yeah, yeah, I’ll try to set that up on the next lap.” Isn’t that what I’m doing?

  “Do you understand what I’m asking?”

  Why can’t he see that’s exactly what I’m doing? “Yes, sir.”

  Cody screams down the backstretch and lifts his foot off the gas pedal for a second as he coasts past the pit crew again and gives Joe the signal.

  “This is the one.”

  “Okay. We got you on the clock. Make it count. With patience and precision.”

  Cody makes the approach on turn one, easing into it.

  “You’re soft on that one,” Joe informs. “Make it up on the stretches.”

  Cody overcompensates, flooring it down the backstretch toward turn three. He sets his apex and aims. His foot slams down on the gas. He should be able to slingshot around the corner and gain the extra seconds he lost on the first.

  “You’re coming in too hot!” Joe screams at him through the earpiece. “Slow it!”

  “What? You want me to slow down?” That doesn’t make sense! I need the momentum!

  “Yes! You won’t be able to come out of it!”

  Yes, I will. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Gotta keep it on the edge.

  Cody hits the curve too fast, and his car starts to slide out of the edge. He works ferociously to straighten it out, fishtailing to maintain control. He struggles to avoid the rails, but he loses the edges entirely. His bumper scrapes the rail and bounces the car into a spin. He doughnuts multiple times down the track toward turn four. Cody eventually manages to steer himself out of it as he skids to a stop on the grassy infield. No other sounds can get through the ringing in his ears.

  He tries the door handle. Won’t budge. The ringing comes in waves now. Between the waves he can detect blurs of sound.

  “Cody? Hey. Cody?” He recognizes the pit crew’s muffled voices. They slowly come into focus through his protective eyewear. His brain stops whirling, and he releases his safety harness and helmet. I’m okay. I’m good. Intact.

  The pit crew helps Cody climb out of the window. The car. Is it—?

  Once his eyes adjust to the sunlight, he’s afraid to look. Thank God! The car’s in one piece. Whew. Dent in the rear bumper? That’s an easy fix.

  Wait. Am I in one piece? He shakes out each appendage. Yup. I’m all here.

  “Whew! That was a thrill, huh, Joe?” Cody yells, to compensate for his intermittent hearing.

  He looks over to where Joe is pacing back and forth a few feet from the car. If Joe were a cartoon character, there’d be steam billowing from his ears.

  “Hey, Joe, good news! No damage to the car!” Cody strides over confidently. “You can breathe again.”

  Joe turns his reddened face to Cody. “Cody, you cannot make that sharp a turn at increased speeds. I’m telling you, you will spin out every single time. And that’s irresponsible and dangerous.”

  “I was trying to use the momentum as a catapult. Gain speed. Gain time.” His full hearing begins to return.

  “No. You need to learn when to press the pedal and when to let off. Calculate each turn and each pass for maximum velocity—and safety.”

  “That’s what I was doing, right?”

  “You were riding on the edge.” How could he know that? “I’m not stupid, Cody. I’ve been training drivers since you were in diapers.”

  “I don’t get you, Joe. And I don’t get how you think slowing down is the way to win a race.”

  “I told you that you need to listen to me when you’re on the track. When I say go slow, you don’t hit the gas. I have the bigger picture here. I can help you. But only if you listen.”

  “You’re not the one out there, Joe. The track’s uneven . . . and this ca
r is a piece of—”

  “It’s not the car.” Joe eyes him. Cody glances away.

  “I’m just saying . . . if Gibbs can get me a better sponsor, then I can get a better-performing car that can take the turns faster.”

  “A better sponsor? Based on this report card? What fantasy world are you living in?”

  “So I’m stuck here until you pass me onto the next grade?”

  Joe nods. “If I pass you! And only when you get all As.”

  “I told you I failed geometry!” This is impossible! Cody throws his helmet against the inside wall. He turns and sees Joe staring at him. Cody locks eyes with the old geezer.

  “Racing for Glory tomorrow afternoon. Don’t forget,” Joe says calmly, and then waits for Cody’s response.

  “Yes, sir.” Don’t worry, old man. I’ll be there. But not because of you.

  chapter twenty-four

  Blue-collar Attitude

  I’VE PROMOTED MICKEY to day manager.” Rosie’s painful words bounce around Amber’s brain as she grabs her apron and starts clearing the back three booths, stacking dirty plates in the gray plastic dish bin. She sets the last one down hard, sending a crack through the center. It slides off the uneven stack and shatters a water glass. She can feel Rosie glaring at her from the kitchen. She doesn’t care. Rosie has made herself crystal clear. At this rate, Amber will never climb out of debt in this dead-end dive. She needs to strategize her next steps.

  Monica comes to mind. A desk job may not have been Darren’s speed, but Amber is sure she could be happy punching in on a nine-to-fiver in a quiet, professional office. It would definitely beat smelling like grease every day. She could rake in a steady paycheck. And she wouldn’t need to pawn Bree off on babysitters or her grandma.

  After work, still wearing her uniform, Amber makes a split-second decision to stop at Monica’s firm, Perkins, Standale & Stevens.

  Her pink smock and white tennis shoes immediately stick out in the sea of dark suits and skirts. The lobby’s vast marble floor and high ceilings echo conversations that filter in and out of offices down the hall and on the second level of the open-concept, modern structure. She spots the receptionist station and heads toward a blond bob in her early twenties. She wears a headset and smoothly transitions between several calls at once. She glances up at Amber with a professional but insincere smile.

  “May I help you?” says the bob.

  “Ah, yes. I want to see Monica Stevens.” Amber’s eyes follow a pair of attorneys whishing through the lobby in a heated conversation.

  “And you are . . . ?”

  “Amber Hill.”

  “And what time is your appointment?”

  “No, I . . . we’re friends and . . .”

  “One moment please.” The bob puts her finger up at Amber and takes a call. “I’m sorry, he’s not in right now, let me transfer you to his assistant.” The bob presses a series of numbers on the keypad and looks back at Amber without missing a beat.

  “When is she expecting you?” The bob smiles politely.

  “No, I didn’t make an appointment. I’m a friend.”

  “Your name again?”

  “Amber Hill.”

  “Okay. A minute please.” The bob dials a number while simultaneously typing out an e-mail message. “I’m not getting her assistant. Let me try her direct line.”

  Amber nods, suddenly super aware of her bare white legs sticking out of her skirt. After a moment, the bob shakes her head.

  “Her voice mail picked up. She must be in a meeting or out of her office. You’re welcome to take a seat and wait. I can try again in five minutes. Or, if you like, call in later and make an appointment to see her.” The reception line rings, and the bob answers. “Perkins, Standale, and Stevens. How may I direct your call?” Amber stands there feeling more and more out of place. The bob transfers the call and looks up at Amber, waiting for her decision.

  “I’ll just call later. Thank you.” Amber turns to go just as Monica clicks into the lobby in her three-inch black patent leather heels, overloaded with a shoulder bag of files.

  “Monica. Hey.”

  “Amber. Hello. How are you?” She barely slows down. “What are you doing here?”

  “I actually came to see you.”

  “Oh. Well. I wish you would have called first. I’m on my way to a partner meeting.”

  “Yeah. Sorry. I was on my way home from work and just swung by.”

  “Hey, we still need to get together. Call me. Okay?” Monica continues across the lobby. Amber trails her.

  “Yeah. I will.” Amber realizes her opportunity is slipping away. “Hey, I know you’re busy, but I was wondering if you ever have any positions open here.”

  Monica stops short of the hallway she’s about to enter. She turns and looks at Amber as though she let out a fart in church. She motions for Amber to step closer.

  “Um. Sometimes. But correct me if I’m wrong—you don’t have a college degree, do you?”

  “No. Why? Is that a problem?”

  “It’s a basic requirement for application.”

  “Even for that job?” Amber gestures slightly toward the bob.

  “Rebecca’s working on her master’s in criminology.”

  “To answer phones?”

  “She’s applied to be an FBI intel agent. This is just a fill-in job until her application goes through.”

  “Great. Then you’ll need someone to replace her.”

  “Yes, I guess we will. But you’re missing the point.”

  “Monica, please, you know I’m a fast learner.” Amber’s voice has moved into the danger zone, and things are going downhill fast. But she can’t let it go.

  “Look, Amber, on-the-job training and high-net-worth clients are not a good mix. I wish I could help you, but I can’t.”

  Amber’s blood pressure rises. She thinks fast. “I’m really good with people.”

  “But you have no office experience.”

  “Everybody has to start somewhere. I can smile and press buttons. How hard can it be?” She darts a look at the bob.

  “Harder than it looks. It’s a super fast-paced environment.”

  “So’s waitressing.”

  “At Rosie’s? Come on.”

  “You try working full-time and raising a kid. Alone.” Monica has officially crossed Amber’s insult tolerance line. She has no idea. She works just as hard as Monica!

  Monica pulls Amber into the hall where their voices won’t echo.

  “I’m really sorry about everything that’s happened in your life. I really am. I wish things could have turned out differently. And I’m here for you as a friend. But there’s nothing I can do for you at the firm. I hope you can understand.”

  “Just give me a chance to prove myself,” Amber begs. She can’t help it. She needs this plan to work.

  “I don’t make the hiring decisions.”

  “Your name is on the door.” Now Amber’s just angry. Monica’s not being fair with her. They were close once. Didn’t that friendship count for anything?

  “That doesn’t mean I can just go hiring all my friends. Look, a bit of advice. If you want to work in a white-collar world, you need to shed that blue-collar attitude.”

  Amber has had it. “Friend? You disappeared after the funeral just like everyone else.”

  “I called. I tried. I felt like you shut me out. I wanted to be there for you. But you acted like you wanted to be left alone. So finally, I did.” Monica’s mobile rings. She fishes it out of her shoulder bag.

  Amber is stung by her words. Had she really done that? Monica actually sounded hurt.

  Monica draws in a breath as the phone rings again. She checks the caller ID and lowers her voice to address Amber. “I have to take this.”

  Amber stands shell-shocked as Monica presses the phone to her ear and disappears down the hallway.

  Amber can feel the stares at her back. She turns and is met with several sets of eyes, including the bob’s. Oh yeah
. They’ve heard it all. She shoulders her purse and begins her walk of shame through the lobby. She should have called first. But even so, with friends like Monica, who needs enemies?

  chapter twenty-five

  Beautiful Again

  PATTI HAS A standing date with the wives and widows of the Disabled American Veterans, Clarksville chapter, for Beauty Saturday, which she hosts on the second Saturday of each month with her best friend and MyWay associate, Kim. Although the focus is on giving back rather than making sales, Patti and Kim have both amassed a handful of new clients from the wives and widows of Beauty Saturdays. Every woman wants to look and feel beautiful, especially during times of distress and uncertainty.

  But even more important than gaining new business is the fact that Patti has made some deep friendships, and seeing these women has become the highlight of her month. For Patti, it has become a way to connect with others who have lost loved ones in war, and it’s been the single most healing thing she has done since Darren’s death, even more so than her Sunday-morning ladies’ brunch. She is able to express things to these women, and they to her, that can be understood only in the language of loss.

  One of her favorite women is Paula, a more recent widow of forty-five with sixteen-year-old twins. When she started coming to Beauty Saturdays, her complexion was as dull and gray as her mood. She allowed Patti to give her a rejuvenating facial, but afterward she expressed nothing more than a flat thank-you. Patti took no offense.

  The following week, she gave Paula a follow-up call and left a voice mail. A day before Beauty Saturday, Patti phoned again and left a message. “I hope you enjoyed the facial. Would love to see you again tomorrow. I just got a new shade of eye shadow in, and I think it would look gorgeous on you.”