by Helen Conrad
Carrie felt numb. She couldn’t breathe. She put a hand over her mouth as though to hold back a scream, but she couldn’t have made a sound if she’d wanted to.
What was the matter with her? Why hadn’t she realized that this was about to happen? All the signs had been there. She’d been blind to everything she didn’t want to see. She’d blocked it out of her mind. Had she really been fool enough to think she’d changed him—that he wouldn’t want to race again?
“I’ll be there on the seventeenth,” he was saying. “Oh, yeah? What did she say?” His laugh was low and pleased. “You just tell her Grant Carrington is back, and I’ll prove it to her when I get there.”
She didn’t think she’d made a sound, but he must have heard her. He turned suddenly, cell phone still to his ear, and stared at her, reading right away that she’d overheard enough to know his plans. Quickly he began to wind the conversation down, his gaze on her the entire time.
“Yeah, okay, I’ll have to get back to you on that. Yeah. I’ve gotta go. No, listen, I’ve got trouble here, and I’ll have to call you back.” He flipped the phone off and dropped it on the desk.
“Carrie . . .”
“Trouble?” She found her voice at last. Her eyes warned him to stay back. “Is that what I am to you? Trouble?”
He stopped a few feet from her and swore, angry at himself for making a bad situation worse.
“Of course not,” he said roughly. “You know I didn’t mean it that way.”
“I don’t know anything anymore.” She held her arms in tightly. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t cry. He was going to race again.
That was impossible. Horrible. Beyond anything she could imagine. But she’d been so stupid to think that he would want her more than he wanted to be a winner. She knew him better than that. How could she have ignored it?
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He ran a hand through his hair.
“Because you didn’t want to know.”
His eyes were haunted, wary, and that hurt all the more. He’d kept secrets from her. He’d lied. He’d let her think. . . . But what was she thinking? He hadn’t lied at all. She’d lied to herself.
“Where are you going?” she asked stiffly.
“Upstate New York. They’ve got a new Grand Prix track, and they want every big name they can get to help launch it.”
She stared at him. “No,” she said, the word rounded and distinct.
“What?” He looked puzzled, not sure he’d heard right.
“No,” she repeated firmly.
He shook his head, frowning. “What do you mean, no?”
She stood straight and tall. “You can’t go.”
He moved restlessly, rubbing his hands together, obviously ill at ease. “Carrie, I don’t think you understand—“
“I understand, all right. I understand everything.” He was the one who didn’t understand. She could live with his past. All the terrible things he’d supposedly done she could live with, the bitterness she could live with, even Eleanor Ashland was tolerable.
But racing? Never.
“I didn’t work this hard to make you whole again just to see you go out on a racetrack and kill yourself,” she said, blazing at him. “You can’t go. I won’t let you!”
“Carrie, Carrie.” Ignoring her protests, he pulled her to him and held her tightly.- She struggled for a moment, then melted against him.
“I have to go,” he told her softly. “Don’t you see that?”
“No.” Tears were blurring her eyes. “No, you don’t have to. You’re just falling back into the old pattern. It never really made you happy before. Why do you want to go back to it?” Her face was pressed to his chest, and she balled up her hands into fists and pushed them in, wanting to hit him.
“You’re not even willing to try to change,” she said, her voice broken, her sobs just barely held back.
He kissed the top of her head. “I can’t change. I am what I am.”
She punched into his chest ineffectually, her tears coming harder. “No! I can’t accept that.”
He drew back, almost shaking her, glaring down into her face. “You’ll have to accept it, Carrie.” His voice was hard, emotionless. “I don’t know who I am when I’m not racing. I need it. I have to go. And I may never be back.”
She was living her own worst nightmare. “I can’t accept that,” she repeated.
He stepped back. “Then I guess it’s over.” He didn’t really believe that. He waited for her to do or say something that would change everything.
But she didn’t. With the last shreds of her dignity she turned away. “Yes.” She wouldn’t let him touch her. “This is it.”
He couldn’t bear to see her like this, but he couldn’t give in. She was asking him to change his life completely, and he couldn’t do that. Maybe if he gave her some time to think it over, she’d come to her senses.
“I’ve got to go into town,” he said gruffly. “I’ll talk to you later.”
She shook her head slowly. “No,” she whispered, staring out the window. “I won’t be here.”
For a moment he stood helpless. Finally he turned away. She watched him walk to the car through a misty haze of tears. He got in and started the engine, and she bit her lip, thinking of the dangerous machine he would soon be driving at speeds of over two hundred miles an hour. The tears spilled down her cheeks. She could barely make out his form any longer. But she could feel him, hear him, smell him. How was she going to live without him?
The days seemed to drag by, every minute excruciatingly long and tedious. She moved back into her old apartment. Clients were suddenly banging down her door, and that kept her busy. She saw her family and her friends more often. But it was weeks before she could force Grant Carrington from her mind for even minutes at a time.
He’d never called after their flare-up, but he’d sent a postcard from New York City. He’d scrawled “Missing you,” across the back, and then just his name, “Grant.” She’d wondered resentfully if he’d bought a dozen and signed them all the same. After all, he was headed back to the top of the heap. He, himself, had told her that he could have anything he wanted once he got there.
She couldn’t make herself throw the card away, though. She put it deep into a drawer and tried to forget it. But she couldn’t forget the happy days they’d spent together out on the cliff. The memories of those days sifted through her mind like scenes from a movie, bits and pieces of conversations-making her laugh, making her cry. Grant had been such a large part of her life, even for the short time she’d known him. She could see that it was going to take a long time to forget him.
Meanwhile she had a real life to get back to. Her friends helped a lot. Though few of them knew the details of what she’d been through, they all rallied, sensing her misery. She had more lunch and dinner invitations than she knew what to do with. It was those long, lonely nights in bed that were empty— but full of thoughts of Grant.
Luckily Mari had given up on turning the parking lots into vegetable gardens. “People just wouldn’t go for it,” she told Carrie. “Can you believe it? I don’t know what’s the matter with them. It was the perfect solution. I mean, where’s their imagination, their sense of adventure?” But she was undaunted. “I’ve got a better idea,” she told Carrie conspiratorially. “We’ll do those tourists in yet.”
Carrie laughed and shook her head. “I think the tourists are here to stay,” she told her. “We’ll just have to learn to live with them.”
“Not on your life!” Mari was nothing if not obstinate. “What do you think of this? We divide the beach into smoking and nonsmoking sections, then charge the smokers a cleaning deposit. ...”
Never a dull moment with Mari around, but this time Carrie managed to get away without committing herself to joining any of her committees.
But when Mari left, Carrie was alone again. For the first few days she ached every moment. T
ears came to her eyes easily, especially when someone asked, “Hey, whatever happened to Grant Carrington?” and she had to break off conversations suddenly to be by herself. But gradually the acuteness of her agony faded. Life had to go on, after all. And after three weeks it was almost bearable.
She met Jennifer at Mickey’s and loved her from the first. Then Janet called. They’d been swim team friends in the old days and now they had more in common—the Carrington men. Carrie got a brilliant idea and invited the two of them to have lunch with her at Windows on the Sea. Even if the Carrington men couldn’t get along, their women were becoming great friends.
The only problem was, Carrie wasn’t sure if she would ever be Grant’s woman again. It was beginning to look as though odds weren’t good.
She’d thought she would have to struggle with a decision over whether to watch coverage of the Grand Prix on television, but as the time drew near, she knew nothing was going to keep her away from the TV that day. Good or bad, she had to watch.
She began seeing short bits on the sports news in the evening. Then one night Maurie Davis was interviewed, and Grant was mentioned a few times in passing. Every time the camera panned the track, she was on the edge of her chair, feverishly searching the background for his dark head of hair. And as soon as the news report was over on one channel, she switched to another, hoping for something more.
And then, two days before the race, there he was. “Stay tuned for a live interview with Grant Carrington, a past champion who’s making a comeback this season.”
Her hands started to shake, and her heart beat like wildfire. She thought she wouldn’t be able to last through the commercial. And then the screen filled with Grant, her own sweet Grant, looking tanned and rested and absolutely gorgeous.
“We haven’t seen much of you for the last year and a half, Grant,” the announcer said, sticking a microphone in front of his face. “Why don’t you tell us about it?”
Grant stood easily, perfectly at home in front of the camera. He looked up into the lens, and Carrie caught her breath; it looked so much like he was looking straight at her. “I had some physical problems for a while,” he replied. “But I got some expert help on that, and now I’m ready to race.”
“You sure have been looking good out there, Grant. You expect to win this race?”
Grant gave a thumbs-up. “Of course,” he said cheekily as he turned away. “Don’t I always?”
The camera lingered while he put on his helmet and climbed into his silver-blue car, revved it up and took off at a speed that sent Carrie’s heart into her throat.
“Oh, dear God,” she whispered as the clip faded away. “Please protect him.”
It was an hour later that her doorbell rang and to her surprise, her cousin Mickey stood on her front porch.
“Hi,” she said. “Come on in.”
“Sorry,” Mickey said as she entered. “I’ve just been walking and walking all over town and when I realized I was in front of your place, I thought I would come on in and… and see if you could talk for awhile.”
“Of course. Come on. I’ll serve you coffee for a change.”
“No, thanks. I don’t want anything. I just need…well, to talk.”
“Okay.”
They sat on Carrie’s little couch. Carrie could see that her cousin was struggling with something. Her green eyes were dim and her fingers seemed to be trembling as she fidgeted with the buttons on her blouse
“So tell me, why are you wandering all over town?”
Mickey looked up and shrugged, opening her hands. “Robert asked me to marry him.”
Carrie gasped. “And that makes you so sad?” She leaned over and gave her a hug. “Congratulations.” As she drew back, she knew congratulations were the last thing Mickey wanted. “Or should I say, my sympathies?”
A heart-wrenching sigh escaped Mickey and she looked about as miserable as Carrie had ever seen her. “I don’t know. He’s such a good guy.”
“And so rich.”
She shook her head. “That too, I’ve got to admit. It doesn’t hurt.” She sighed. “He would give Meggie everything she needs to feel like she’s got a normal family.”
Carrie counted to ten, and then she felt she had to ask it. “Do you love him?”
Mickey drew a deep breath into her lungs and shrugged again. “Not really,” she whispered. “And he knows it.” She looked up earnestly. “I like him very much and I respect the hell out of him. But I don’t feel that deep down, pulse beating thing. You know?”
Carrie nodded. Boy did she know. “And he still wants you?”
She nodded.
“Wow. He is a good guy. Either that, or a crazy guy.”
Mickey looked even more miserable.
“Okay. Here’s the bottom line.” Carrie met her gaze frankly. “Who do you love?”
Mickey’s eyes widened, then she looked away. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Oh come on. It’s Tag and we both know it.”
Mickey’s beautiful green eyes filled with tears. “I don’t have any right to love Tag,” she said in a choked voice. “He’s too young for me. He’s a professional non-committer. He’s a drifter.” She shook her head. “But I can’t help how I feel.”
“How does he feel?”
Her gaze flashed up to meet Carrie’s then jerked away again. “I can’t talk about that either.”
“He loves you, doesn’t he?”
She shook her head. “No. He’s never said that.”
“He’s never admitted it, you mean.” Carrie made a sound of exasperation. “I hope you don’t expect advise from me. I wouldn’t even try to figure this one out. You just have to go through the private hell of figuring it out for yourself. You know that.”
She nodded, then smiled at Carrie through her tears. “I do know that. But it helps to have someone throw the facts back at you so you can get some perspective. Thanks Carrie.”
Another hug, and she was off to pound the pavement for another long, long time.
Carrie watched her go, a lump in her throat. Then she shrugged into a pea coat and went out into the gloom herself, heading for the marina. She found Tag’s boat, and luckily, he was at home.
“Hey Tag,” she called. “Can I come aboard?”
“Hey Carrie. Welcome to my humble ship.”
His grin was a friendly welcome. Reaching out, he helped her onto the boat, steadying her until she got her footing as the water heaved beneath them. But as she looked around, she had to admit, no one who knew Tag with his shaggy haircut and his tattered jeans would believe how shipshape he kept his boat.
“So where are you headed?” she asked him after he’d shown her around.
“I was thinking about going down to Mexico. Puerto Vallarta, maybe.”
“Before you go, I wish you’d do me a favor.”
He looked wary. “Sure. What would that be?”
She took a deep breath. “Could you talk to Mickey?”
His face went still. “What do you want me to talk to her about?”
“Robert just asked her to marry him.”
He turned away, looking out at the inky black sea. “That’s hardly unexpected, is it?”
She wanted to shake him. “So what are you going to do about it?”
“What do you want me to do about it, Carrie?” He looked back at her, then away again. “It’s none of my business.”
She stepped into his line of vision and forced him to look into her face. “You don’t care?”
“Caring has nothing to do with it.” His stare was no longer friendly. “Like I said, it’s none of my business.”
“You know she doesn’t love him.”
He made a sound she didn’t recognize, but she plowed on.
“You know she loves someone else, don’t you?”
His eyes widened. “She told you that?”
“No.” She shrugged. “Anyone with eyes can see it.”
He turned away again and shoved h
is hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I can’t help you, Carrie. Mickey has to do what’s best for her. Robert’s a good guy and he can give her things I…uh…not many others can.” He looked back at her and shrugged. “That’s life.”
She glared at him, furious. “You coward,” she charged, then turned on her heel and climbed back off his boat.
When she got to the end of the pier, she looked back. He was pulling in the rope that had held him to the moorings. As she watched, he began to head out toward the ocean, threading through the boats in the marina. So that was it. Tag was ready to let the woman he loved marry another man. He obviously loved his freedom and his life on the sea more than he loved anyone else. How typical!
For just a moment, her anger was hot and aimed right at all the Carrington men. To hell with them!
Tears pricked her eyes but she shook them away. Tears didn’t get you anywhere—whether your name was Carrie or Mickey. You had to count on your own strength. Turning, she headed home.
Her mother called two mornings later, knowing that it was the day of the race. “Why don’t you come on over and spend the afternoon with us?” she asked gently. “We’ll rake up autumn leaves and have a big bonfire and sing and roast marshmallows. All the neighbors are coming. You come too.”
“No thanks, Mom,” Carrie said with quiet finality. “I’ve got something I’ve got to do at home.”
“You’re not going to watch that race, are you?”
“I have to.”
She had to know how he was. She knew he was racing around at tremendous speeds in practice every day and that practice was just as dangerous as the race itself, but something about the race—she just had to see it.
It rained the day of the race—not in Upstate New York where it was actually being held, but in Destiny Bay, California, as though the skies knew something. She made a big batch of popcorn, then settled down to watch the awful thing. She was prepared to spend the entire afternoon staring at the television set, watching to catch any glimpse of Grant that she could, watching to make sure nothing happened.
