by Mateer, Anne
“I’m sure.”
With a weary smile, she gave my arm a quick squeeze before sliding into a pew near the back of the gathered group. The door shut behind me as I carried the screaming Teresa far from the confines of the church building. Lucinda belonged with those women seeking to do their part for the sake of the gospel. I felt like an outsider, the rich girl who could brazenly offer three thousand dollars with no worry at all.
Teresa hiccupped down a sob and quieted.
“There now, you see? Nothing to be so upset about.” I kissed her chubby hand and forgot all about Women’s Mission Auxiliary meetings and African faces. Instead, I found myself wondering what it would be like to have a baby all my own.
“What a picture you make with that child in your arms.”
I whirled around. Lawrence sauntered toward me, one half of his mouth raised in a smile that set my cheeks ablaze.
“I’m just watching her. For a friend.”
He put his finger into Teresa’s hand. The tiny fist closed around it. My stomach swirled. Perhaps he did find the picture attractive. But which of us beguiled him—baby Teresa or me?
“Do you like children, Mr. Trotter?”
“Lawrence, remember?” He extricated his finger from Teresa’s iron grip. “As to children, that would depend on the child.”
I studied Teresa. Her bottom lip trembled. Not a happy child. At least never for long. Jaw tight, I waited for her to bellow out her displeasure. But I still wasn’t prepared when the noise burst from those little lungs straight into my waiting ear.
Lawrence stepped back, his face twisted into a grimace. I tried to smile as I shushed the baby, rocking her back and forth in my arms. Then I noticed Lucinda hurrying across the yard.
“I’ll take her now. The meeting is mostly over.” Lucinda held my gaze for a long moment before turning her attention to Lawrence. “Excuse me, sir.” She whisked Teresa away, in the direction of her home instead of the church, leaving Lawrence and me in awkward silence.
“Dare I ask if we might extend the evening to include supper?”
For a few moments, my thoughts jumbled together and I couldn’t sort them out to speak.
His open smile, the glint of the waning sun lighting his eyes, the offer of his arm all proved too charming to refuse.
“I’d be delighted.” And for the first time that evening, I sensed I belonged.
The delightful meal, accompanied by laughter and conversation, almost quelled my unease over the money I needed to raise. But not quite. Lawrence walked me to the front door of our house and then left with a tip of his hat. His engine sparked to life, but the sound quickly faded into the distance.
I tossed my hat onto the small foyer table and sauntered out the back door, into the garden. Starlight twinkled down from the black sky. The wind ruffled my hair, lifted the hem of my dress. I stepped up into the gazebo, leaned on the railing, and filled my lungs with fresh air. There had to be something else I could do, something I hadn’t thought of yet. A trail of light across the ground caught my eye, brightness spilling from beneath the carriage house’s doors.
Webster? Working on a Sunday evening? Then again, the race was less than a week away. And I’d heard Father mention a breakdown at the factory. Webster would have been called to repair that, as well. I plopped down on the bench beneath the railing. I wanted to watch that race as much as I wanted to raise the three thousand dollars.
Father had promised to take me to see an auto race one day. Why not this one?
I imagined the dust and the smoke, the cacophony of man and machine at the Chicago Motor Speedway. Closing my eyes, I felt the vibration of the racing car’s steering wheel in my hand, the bounce of tires over the dirt oval carved from an empty field.
My eyes sprang open and I leapt to my feet. Father would pay the man who drove the race car. Why couldn’t that man be me?
I stared into the heavens. Could I do it? I’d have to have help—both in the driving and in disguising myself to drive, for my parents would never consent or approve. The heels of my shoes clomped across the board floor of the gazebo as shaking legs carried me down the steps, across the path. All the way to the garage. Then my feet refused to move. Was this too much to ask? He’d always helped me before. But this would be far different than driving in the back field, unseen and alone. With a deep breath and a quick prayer, I pushed open the door.
“Webster? You here?”
A muffled reply. I closed the door behind me, took tentative steps to reach the spot where he huddled over the racing car’s engine.
“All set?” I peered over his shoulder into the exposed motor.
“Not quite. Need to give her some test runs this week.”
“Good. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Oh?” He straightened, crossed to the workbench, chose different parts, and returned to work.
“I can drive her, Webster.”
He chuckled. “I know you can, Ally, but—”
I tugged at his sleeve until he turned. “I need to drive her.”
He straightened, hands on his hips.
I gulped in as much air as my lungs would hold. “I need to drive her in the race.”
“You what? Oh no. I can’t—”
“Yes, you can. Please, Webster? I have nothing else to give. No skill. No possession. You know I can drive. You know I can drive fast. Work with me this week. If by the time we leave, you don’t think I can, I won’t. But you’ll see. I want this more than anything.” Tears welled in my eyes, and my throat turned thick. He had to agree. He just had to. This felt so right—a way to use the unusual talent God had given me to raise money for the missionaries.
He scratched his head, toed the ground, cleared his throat. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Because I’m not a good enough driver?”
“No.” He looked up at me. “You know how they feel about women racing. They won’t allow it.”
I stepped forward, closing the distance between us. “They let Elfrieda Mais drive in that exhibition in Wichita on the Fourth of July.”
“But she’s licensed to race, even though they only let her race against Mrs. Cuneo. And Mrs. Cuneo’s quit now. Besides, you weren’t there that day. I was. The ladies thought her magnificent, of course. But the men?” He shook his head. “I can’t repeat their comments about her. I won’t subject you to that, Ally. Trust me.”
“Couldn’t we manage it so no one knows? As long as the car qualifies for speed, why does it matter who drives it?”
He huffed but didn’t argue. Then he grabbed my shoulders, his gaze locking onto mine. “What if you get hurt? What then? You could even get killed out there, you know.”
I spread my hands, palms up and empty. “My life is all I have to give.” My arms dropped back to my sides.
Silence fell between us. I tried not to move, not to blink or to breathe. Please, God, let him see this is the only way.
It seemed hours until his shoulders slumped and he ran a hand through his mop of black hair. “All right. We’ll try it. But I’m not making any promises. Not yet, anyway.”
Wild joy careened me forward, my lips finding his cheek, my arms tightening around his neck. Strong arms circled my waist for a brief moment before falling away. I stood alone. Webster hunched over the racing car’s engine again.
“I’ll meet you at eight o’clock tomorrow morning,” he said. “Be prepared for a long day.”
I grinned. I knew Webster wouldn’t let me down. I turned and ran back to the house, putting distance between us before I succumbed to the desire to throw my arms around him yet again.
12
I paced behind the stand of tulip poplars that obscured the carriage house from the garden, stopping every now and again to listen for footsteps crunching over dry grass, batting down the pistons churning in my stomach. If only they would settle. Instead, they stirred up the tea and toast I’d cajoled from Clarissa in the kitchen.
&nb
sp; “Come on, Webster. Come on.”
Back and forth. Stopping and starting.
Then he stood beside me, his grin cutting through my fear. “All ready, I see.”
A quick nod, the swipe of my tongue over dry lips. The jangle of my nerves surprised me. I’d driven fast before. Many times. It wasn’t as if speed frightened me. I pulled my shoulders back, stiffened my resolve. “Let’s go.”
We pushed the race car all the way to the road before I hopped in and he cranked the engine. A short jaunt and we turned off on the small path that led to the track.
Easing onto the smoother surface of the oval, I readied to surge forward, but Webster’s hand reached across while his other made a cutting motion across his throat. I let the engine die. Silence engulfed us.
Webster shifted in his seat, twisting his body so he faced me. “Here’s what you need to know. First, this track won’t be as fast as the board one. Chicago has built a speed bowl, for sure. Resta covered ground on it at ninety-eight miles per hour in June. There’s no reason to think this race will be any different.”
I nodded, stared down at the speedometer, with its needle pointing to zero. Could I manage the car at speeds of near one hundred? “Got it.”
“There will be four heat races first, ten laps each. Then the winners will race for fifty miles. The homestretch is a bit wider than the backstretch, so you have to watch yourself there. The turns are wider still, so there is room for shifting position. Obviously we can’t practice banked turns on this track, so we’ll just have to do our best for now. If I decide to let you drive—and I’m not saying yet that I will—there will be some practice rounds on the track to work out the kinks.”
“Okay.” I stared out over the hood of the car. The metal buckles of the leather straps cinched over the hood gleamed in the sunlight.
“For now, let’s just focus on speed. Get her up above seventy and then slowly build. Ready?” He pulled his goggles over his eyes. I did the same. Then he hopped from the car and cranked the engine. The roar of it sparking to life chased every last butterfly from my being.
I’d thought all my previous excursions would have prepared me for our practice runs. I was wrong. By the time we returned home four hours later, my legs shook, my arms ached, my head pounded.
But Webster declared me a success. Now I only had to find a way to Chicago.
It took every ounce of strength and determination I possessed to lift my feet up each step and lumber into my bedroom. It hurt even to press the button to call for Betsy.
“Would you please run a hot bath?” I asked when she appeared in my bedroom.
“Yes, miss.” Her eyes questioned, but I avoided any answers.
“And would you bring up a tray of light lunch, please? For after my bath.”
“Of course.” She disappeared to do my bidding.
I sank to the edge of my bed, fighting the pull of the mattress, the comfort of a short nap. Or a long one. I refused to show weakness. Webster would be watching. I had to revive.
A soak in steaming water soothed my muscles and cleared my head. By the time I consumed the light luncheon on my tray, I felt quite my usual self again. Or at least no more weary than after my typical drives. And I’d come up with a plan.
Webster eyed me as I climbed into my Runabout. I took care not to wince as I lifted my arms. Settled behind the windscreen, I relaxed. At least until Webster appeared outside my window.
He squinted. “What are you up to now?”
“I’m off to secure my trip to Chicago.”
His expression turned pensive. He sighed out a long breath. “I guess everything depends on that, doesn’t it?”
“Father will concede. I feel sure. He only tried to keep it a secret so Mother wouldn’t object. But she’s still in bed with the bee sting.”
“Whatever you say.” He patted the hood of my car as if it were the haunches of a Thoroughbred.
I fired up the engine and took off toward town.
“Good afternoon, Father.” I sauntered into his office and planted a kiss on his cheek.
He leaned back in his chair. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
I sat and smoothed the green silk skirt over my knees, flicked a piece of lint from the fabric. “Actually, I have a request.”
“I told you, Ally. No money for that scheme of yours.”
I sat silent for a moment, my heart aching. Didn’t he care that this was important to me? “Why? Help me understand.”
He fished a cigar from the box on the desk. “We’ve been through this before, Ally girl.”
“Not really. Explain why this incenses you so when you don’t bat an eye about Mother’s charitable work.”
He puffed on his cigar. One hand rubbed across his forehead. “I don’t trust that man.”
“Who?”
“Pastor Swan.”
“Did he try to cheat you?”
“No.”
“Did he malign you?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“I don’t know if I can even explain. It’s just that my father instilled in me the need to be independent. And it’s served me well.”
I opened my mouth, but he wouldn’t let me interrupt.
“Oh, it’s fine for you women, although your mother doesn’t see the need for religion to make her happy.”
My eyebrows arched. Happy? Not exactly the word I’d use to describe Mother, though I supposed she was happy on occasion.
And then I remembered Grandmother’s story, how she’d told Mother and Father again and again. He didn’t need another sermon from me. And it certainly wouldn’t help my efforts to get to Chicago. I needed to redirect the conversation.
Quick as a turn at full speed, I made my request. “I want you to take me with you this weekend. To Chicago. To the race.”
His large hand slapped the desktop, sending papers fluttering to the ground. “I told him not to breathe a word.”
“Don’t blame Webster, Father. I wheedled it out of him.”
His lips twitched. Then he chuckled. “I should have known I couldn’t keep a race from you. Especially one in Chicago.”
“Of course not.” I flashed a saucy grin. “Why else would you have had Webster building that car?”
He huffed and took another puff on his cigar. “The car was his idea, actually. He came to me and asked if I wanted to invest. Some prototype he developed. That man has aspirations far above a mere mechanic.”
Webster’s design? I kept the smile on my face, but my heart smarted. He’d never told me. But I couldn’t think about that now. “So you’ll take me with you?”
He lumbered to his feet. “Now, Ally, I won’t have time to chaperone you properly. I have work to do while I’m there.”
“I don’t need to be tended like a hothouse flower. I lived in Chicago. Remember?”
“Yes, but this is different. This is—” A knock at the door stopped his words.
Lawrence poked his head inside. “Oh. I’m so sorry, Mr. Benson. I’ll come ba—”
“Wait, Trotter.” Father flicked the ash of his cigar into a square of tin. “Are you an auto-racing fan?”
Lawrence swallowed, his gaze cutting to mine before returning to my father’s. “Yes, sir. I suppose I enjoy a race as much as the next man.”
“Fine. Have you considered attending the event in Chicago this weekend?”
“This weekend? No, I hadn’t considered it.”
I tapped my fingers on Father’s desk. What exactly was he up to?
“Any reason you couldn’t go? Social calendar isn’t full, is it?”
“No, sir. Nothing to keep me here.” He looked at me once more. I gave him a small smile.
“Perfect. You’ll accompany us to Chicago, then. I could use your input on a few business opportunities I’ll be considering while I’m there. And of course I’ll feel better if Ally has an escort on race day.”
I suppressed a groan, careful to keep my eager expressio
n intact. Now I had an escort for the day—and one that would report back to Father. How would I escape to drive?
Webster would not be pleased.
But if I balked, Father might turn suspicious. I gulped down my anxiety. I’d have to untangle this mess later. “I think that sounds perfect, Father.”
Then a solution burst into my head like fireworks on a starless night. “And if I can persuade Mother to come along, too, she and I could spend some time together.” As long as Mother and Lawrence each imagined me to be with the other, everything might work out.
Father grunted and plopped back into his chair. “Persuade your mother to come along, if you like. I doubt it will take more than a suggestion. Trotter, walk her to the car. Then you and I have work to do.”
I stooped to kiss Father on the cheek once more before Lawrence escorted me out the door.
“You don’t mind coming to Chicago with us, do you?”
Lawrence held the door open as we stepped into the heat of the day. “Of course not. I’m thrilled. Not only to see the race, but to accompany such a lovely lady.”
We stopped at my car. He opened the door. I stepped behind it but made no move to slide into the seat. In spite of my need to excuse myself on race day, I found myself warming to him as a companion.
“Have you made any more progress raising your money?” Lawrence leaned across the top of the door.
My heart pumped harder as his face drew near mine. “Some.”
“And you haven’t given it away yet?”
I laughed. “No, not yet.”
He eased back, brushed his fingernails on his jacket, cleared his throat. “So you found a safe place for it?”
“It’s in my bedroom, for now. Grandmother gave me a special box to keep the money in.”
“Do you think that’s wise?”
My forehead crinkled. “Why not?”
“So many people in and out of your room.”
“Betsy? She wouldn’t think anything of it, even if she ran across it.”
“Hmm.” Tiny wrinkles framed his eyes, making him look older than I imagined him to be. “Just be careful, Alyce. I would hate for anything to happen to your money.”
