by Amy Gallow
"He'll make the record,” Raul said. “He's still faster out of the turns."
The monitor brought the Widow-Maker so close Lexie could see the tiny swirl of dust as Glenn's right knee swept over the verge as he clipped the inside of the turn. It magnified the tiny jump as he made the first gear change and she thought he'd lost the bike, bringing bile to her throat as she fought down a scream. A switch of cameras and they were watching him over the crest, the quivers of the gear changes less obvious as he kept the revs in the engine's peak range to optimize acceleration.
"He's pushing it to the limit.” Raul said. “I've never seen him ride like this."
The numbers of the digital speedometer were tumbling over themselves in a blur past the first hundred, but slowed to legibility past two hundred, peaking briefly at two hundred twenty as he reached the starting line.
"Two hundredths inside the record!” The announcer was hoarse already, his babble almost a scream. “Complete vindication of the design. Smallwood was never a top rider, even at his peak. If he can push the bike to a lap record even once, think what a top rider could do?"
"I'm glad Glenn couldn't hear that.” Raul was angry.
"He did,” Angela said. “It came through the comms set from race control while they were confirming his lap time."
"Damn! Call him in.” Raul's voice was sharp.
Angela shook her head. “I won't break his concentration.” Her face was pale, deep lines at either side of her mouth.
Lexie wanted to be brave, to trust Glenn's judgment and share his triumph, but the two people who understood the situation so much better than her were frightened and she was terrified. She turned away from Angela and from the monitor. Glenn had ridden one lap and her knees were shaking. If a little over ninety seconds could have this much effect, facing another eight and a half minutes was terrifying and a twenty-seven-lap race would shatter her. Thank God, this was his last practice. The forefront of her brain could tell her that jinxes were nonsense, but there was a gibbering idiot lurking at some primeval level that knew they were real and she'd be to blame for whatever went wrong.
She walked away, seeking sanctuary, but finding none. Speakers boomed the commentary everywhere, tormenting her as they built the excitement of the crowd. Retreating to the hospitality tent and her family seemed the only option.
Sandra understood immediately and Lexie allowed her mother to lead her away from the monitor and seat her at an empty table at the far end of the tent. She couldn't escape the commentary entirely, but it was muffled enough that she could ignore it.
A roar from the crowd welcomed another record lap ... only three more to endure.
It was cowardly. She knew it, but Lexie sat with her head bowed, trying to ignore everything but the second hand of her watch. They'd given Glenn ten minutes. Four had passed. She had another six to endure. Her hands were moving constantly, one inside the other. She'd heard the term “wringing one's hands” but never experienced its reality. She tried to still them, but failed. Her right knee was quivering, rattling her heel on the wooden floor. She crossed her ankles, tucking her right foot into her left calf to hold it still. A loose thread on the hem of her skirt captured her attention and she plucked at it ineffectually, succeeding only in making it stand out more obviously. Sandra surprised her by producing a pair of nail scissors and snipping it neatly.
"Thanks...” she began. Another roar from the crowd silenced her, stilling the beating of her heart ... until she realized it signaled another sub record lap. Two more would make the five he needed to qualify, but there'd be time for one more in the ten-minute window.
They'd called Glenn an indifferent rider, shifting the credit for his achievement to the Widow-Maker. Lexie didn't believe them. All the incidents of the past three days jelled into the certainty he'd planned everything for this moment, even their lunch at Churchill Island. She'd sensed it unknowingly when she compared him to the WWI Digger, the same focus on a future trial. His need to be away from the others explained the party and what he'd said in the Churchill Island car park could now be interpreted differently.
He didn't love her at all. She'd been a convenient excuse, nothing more. It was better to believe that than endure the terror of waiting for him to make a mistake and become another victim of her jinx.
Nonsense! Nothing was better than loving him. He'd turned her life upside down, changed her world and reconciled her family in the blink of an eye. Life without him was desolation ... and it was terrifying how quickly it could become fact.
Another roar from the crowd made her check the time. One more lap to endure!
Sandra's hand was resting on her shoulder, her mother between Lexie and the monitor. Not speaking, just sitting there as a protecting bulwark against the world. She turned towards her and felt Sandra's arm go around her body and draw her close, the other hand coming up to guide her head against her mother's breast. The familiar floral perfume filled her nostrils. Her mother had worn the same scent for as long as she could remember.
"Men do mad things.” Sandra's words held no condemnation. “With Kieran, it was Express Point."
"I didn't know Dad surfed. He's never spoken of it."
"He rode Express Point the week before we were married. I sat on the cliffs and watched him. There'd been a big storm somewhere and the swell was immense. Boards were different then, not as maneuverable, but he rode it for over an hour. He paddled ashore afterwards, gave his board to George Gray and never surfed again. Swore it would be an anticlimax."
Lexie was silent. Her father never talked about surfing, yet he'd once been passionate enough and good enough to ride Express Point at its most intense. How many other things had he done?
She was still thinking about it when a burst of applause came from the group crowded around the monitor. “He's coming in,” she heard someone say. “Five laps at record time or better. Not bad for a rider beyond his peak. The riders won't dare ban him now and I'll bet the Race Marshal accepts those five laps as qualifiers. He'll be front row on the grid."
Understanding tore Lexie's dreams apart, tears rolling down her cheeks as she realized how carefully he'd planned.
"Stand up.” Sandra intervened, not understanding. “You mustn't let him see you like this. Where's the powder room?"
Lexie was too shattered to argue.
* * * *
Glenn ignored the pit return road at Honda Corner. It would take him close to Race Control and he'd overheard too much of the background arguments through the comms set. The track marshal had been deliberately careless with his microphone switch. It saved explanation. He'd complete the circuit and take the pit entry beyond Turn Eleven. Pit Six was at the northern end.
It felt strange to be riding easily, everything ridiculously slow, the time between turns stretched to forever. There'd never be another moment like this. Five perfect laps, every one exactly to plan. It was incredible!
The first viewing mound in the Siberia loop surprised him. Everybody was standing, cheering. He raised one hand in acknowledgement as he swept past. The second mound repeated the performance. He pressed the transmit button. “They seem excited."
"Didn't you hear the roar each time you crossed the line?” Angela sounded surprised.
Glenn examined his memory. “No."
Angela's laugh had a hysterical note. “You've been centre stage since they cleared the track. Every camera has tracked you since the commentator called you a has-been."
"More a never-was.” Glenn suddenly remembered the comment. It had barely registered at the time. He'd been too focused.
"That's no longer true.” Angela sounded sad. “I've got your times in front of me. The variation is infinitesimal, the sign of a master rider."
"A little too late to be significant.” It was his turn to sound sad. “Any news of Salvatore."
"Raul's speaking to him now."
"Congratulate him for me."
The comms set went silent and the next viewing mound erupted
in cheers as he reached it. The bike was coasting through the curve so he raised both hands in acknowledgement, clasping them above his head, his knees guiding the machine for the few seconds it took to pass the mound.
"Do another lap. You've earned it.” It was the Race Marshal. “You've got time before the autograph session and it will divert the crowd."
Glenn's hand returned to the controls. “Negative.” He didn't have to think. “I'm coming in."
"That wasn't a request. You're a popular boy."
Glenn thumbed the transmit button twice to acknowledge the instruction and let the Widow-Maker coast down Lukey Heights to Turn Ten. It suddenly suited him to have a few minutes longer on his own.
The bursts of cheering punctuated his progress, particularly at the main stand, generating an odd mixture of emotions. He'd rarely been the centre of the crowd's attention and found it difficult to share the moment now. Their noisy adulation felt like an intrusion. He smiled. Some people were never satisfied.
"Smallwood.” It was the Senior Race Marshal. “We've decided to accept your last five laps both as qualifiers and for the record. It gives you the front right-hand position on the grid. Are you satisfied?"
"Yes, thank you."
"The riders have withdrawn their objection, so we'll see you on the grid tomorrow. As current record holder, you're required at the eleven fifteen a.m. autograph session."
"I'll be there.” Glenn tried not to be grudging.
As he reached Lukey Heights, the Turn Ten recovery vehicle came out on the track.
"Follow him in,” the Race Marshal instructed. “The crowd has gone beyond the barriers."
He could see the pit entry lane lined with people, a sea of faces on either side who'd ignored the barriers. The recovery vehicle slowed to a walking pace and Glenn tucked in behind it, his front wheel less than a foot from its tray. The driver blipped the horn continuously and backed it up with the flashing lights, but progress was slow.
The track marshals were at Pit Six when he arrived and he rode through the lane they'd formed to the pit. Angela and the crew were waiting, but not Lexie. She'd guessed how deliberately he'd set this up! His shoulders sagged. The price had escalated, but he had to go on. Too many people depended on him.
Angela disconnected the comms lead and took his helmet. Like the rest of the pit crew, she was looking at him as if he were someone she no longer knew.
"A drink would be nice."
She flushed, recalled to the normal routine, produced two chilled bottles of mineral water and opened one for him. Glenn drained it at a single draught and she handed him the second bottle. He'd drunk half of it when Raul appeared, cell phone in hand.
"Salvatore wants to speak to you.” He handed Glenn the phone.
The Old Man's voice was stronger. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. They've rung already."
"Maria's there?” The Old Man was being careful with his words.
"Yes. Naming rights are good."
"I'll negotiate?"
"Yes, the papers will be signed today. You have carte blanche."
Salvatore insisted on a second-by-second recital of the record laps and Glenn ignored the clamor at the pit entrance until he was satisfied.
Lexie might arrive...
Toby Gerrard came instead. “We want you at the autograph session.” He looked around. “Where's Lexie?"
"Getting something for me.” Glenn allowed him no chance to continue. “I'm showering first. The autograph session doesn't start till twelve."
"You need to be briefed. You've never attended one before."
"I'll see you there at twelve.” Glenn made his tone dismissive and turned away, leaving Gerrard no choice but to leave, especially when Angela bustled him out of her way.
Glenn picked up a towel and his holdall from the back of the pit to head for the showers, but was ambushed by the two Japanese halfway there.
* * * *
Lexie missed him in the crowd, passing within a few yards on her way back to the pit. Outwardly recovered from the ordeal of his practice, she apologized to Angela for her absence without explanation. Not that one was needed. Angela read her inner turmoil with a glance.
"Take Raul to the hospitality tent; I'll send for you when our boy returns.” The pit boss turned away. “The rest of you, start a thorough check of both machines. We've got two riders on the grid tomorrow, don't let either of them down."
Raul touched Lexie's elbow. “I think we're in the way."
She nodded and led him up to the hospitality tent. Her father, standing at the rear, looking down into the Grand Prix Paddock, beckoned as they arrived. “Glenn's got company,” he said, pointing. “They collared him on the way to the showers. Should you go and rescue him?"
His racing leathers made Glenn easy to pick, especially when he exchanged bows with a third Japanese joining the group.
"Our friend is in a rarefied atmosphere,” Raul said. “The one in the business suit is president of their motorcycle division. He has the last say in any negotiations.” He saw Lexie's questioning look. “This morning's ride has made him a commercial property and the Japanese would find him attractive. His instinctive understanding of Bushido, their way of the warrior, earns great respect in their culture. They believe business is for the new warriors, the modern Samurai."
"Are you suggesting they'd offer him a contract as a rider?” Lexie was appalled. “He's too old.” Which was not exactly what she meant.
"He improved the lap record in three laps out of five.” Raul understood her meaning, but had no sympathy to offer.
Lexie's legs failed her and she sank into the nearest chair. Sandra had helped her come to terms with Glenn riding in tomorrow's race, but the prospect of a full season's racing was too much! She'd never cope. It wasn't fair! The litany in her mind went on, but changed nothing. Glenn was forcing her to make a choice...
"They've agreed on something,” her father said. “Handshakes all round, bows right and left. He's off to the showers."
"A weight off my mind.” Raul sounded satisfied. “I worried what he'd do when my father dies."
"So did I,” Kieran said, his tone capturing Lexie's attention. Seeing her interest, he shook his head slightly, indicating he'd explain later.
Lexie smiled. Two days ago, his interference would have enraged her. Glenn had achieved more than one miracle. She turned to Raul. “How's Salvatore?"
"Glenn's news has perked him up. The doctor thought he was slipping away, but he's rallied amazingly. Even talking of going home."
"Will he?"
Raul shook his head. “Too many things are shutting down. Even if I left now, I wouldn't make it in time. His will is keeping him alive and he's ordered me to stay."
"Will he last until the race?"
"It will be a miracle, but I suspect he might. His faith in Glenn is absolute."
Lexie nodded. Glenn needed the full breadth of his shoulders to carry the load placed on them by others. Could she add to that burden?
Toby Gerrard found her. “Lexie!” He barged into the group, drawing a dangerous frown from Kieran Douglas. “Where's Glenn? I want him at the autograph session."
"He's showering. I'll bring him as soon as he's ready.” Lexie's temper hovered close to an explosion, but Toby sensed the hostility around him and fled.
"You're right about that clown,” her father said. “He's a liability to this place."
Lexie had a moment to feel sorry for her temporary boss. Her father rarely spoke without acting, so Toby was already on borrowed time.
The others recognized her abstraction and the conversation flowed around her, a courtesy she might have accepted without thought before, but was acutely aware of now ... another tribute to Glenn Smallwood.
Acknowledging how much she owed him, made her decision impossible for the moment. She'd have to put it aside...
"He's coming,” Raul said. “Do you want me to meet him?"
"No. I'll go down. It's my job to liaise with
the competitors.” Her choice of words drew sharp looks from Raul and her father, but no comment.
Like Toby before her, she fled.
"Hi.” Glenn was wary. He'd sensed something.
"Toby's panicking about the autograph session.” She avoided his eyes. One look would destroy her. “We've got ten minutes."
"I suppose we have to..."
"The fans will be interested in meeting the new record holder.” She stuck to business, even as her body betrayed her by reacting to the subtle aroma of deodorant and shampoo. A reminder of this morning's joyous romp, she could have done without.
"I need to talk to Angela first.” Glenn's tone tore at her. He was too perceptive.
"No problem.” She kept her voice bright, business-like, but didn't meet his gaze.
He didn't move immediately and Lexie's breathing paused as she waited for the inevitable challenge.
"I'll need the keys to the station wagon. I have to go back to the hotel to make some phone calls.” His words were so far from her expectations, they meant nothing to her and she stared uncomprehendingly until he repeated himself.
"C-certainly,” she said, delving into her handbag to produce the remote key. “You could use the phone in the Operations Office."
"Not for the calls I have in mind."
She waited, but he added nothing to amplify his meaning, just pocketed the key and turned to enter the pit. “Are they to Japan?"
He stopped and then turned back to her, the two movements separate.
"We saw you talking to the three Japanese. Raul thinks they've offered you a riding contract.” Lexie was prompting. “You seemed to come to an agreement."
"Do you know who the men were?” He was buying time and it angered Lexie.
"The man in the suit is the president of their motorcycle division."
"Then it's not logical for me to be calling Japan. He's the one to make decisions.” There was an edge to his voice, either anger or disappointment.
"I'll mind my own business then.” Lexie matched his tone.
Glenn nodded. “Don't make any guesses aloud. They want things kept confidential.” He'd ignored her anger and the sadness in his eyes trapped her.
