by Mateer, Anne
“Thank you. Less than six weeks. I need every penny I can get. Oh—and Webster is going to sell some of my jewelry for me in Chicago. It should bring enough to replace what I gave away.”
“I see.” He glanced back toward the office building, concern rumpling his usually placid face.
“Go on. Get back to work. Father will only be patient for so long.” I settled behind the wheel, shut the door, and started the engine. I had a feeling Mother would get over her bee sting as soon as the prospect of a trip to Chicago dangled in front of her. Now to plot my disguise . . .
13
The sharp smell of wet paint enveloped me as I stepped inside the garage.
“Whew!” I flapped my hand in front of my nose. “Why didn’t you do that outdoors?”
Webster didn’t look up as his brush, wet with white paint, stroked the top of a number 7 on the engine cover. “Too much wind. Blowing grass.” He lifted his hand, squinted at his work. “That should do.”
He dumped the brush into a can of liquid. “Can’t take her out again until this dries. This evening. You okay with that?”
“So you’ll let me drive again?”
“Are you going to be in Chicago?”
I nodded. “I worked it out with Father.”
“Then I guess you’ll be driving.” One corner of his mouth lifted as his gaze of admiration fell on the race car and then lifted to my face. “She couldn’t be in better hands.”
Warmth bloomed in my cheeks as I dropped my chin.
“But don’t you think you ought to tell your father, Ally? I mean, secrets can be dangerous things.”
My stomach roiled, but at the thought of keeping silent or telling? “Good heavens, no! He’d, well, he’d never allow it. I think it’s best to keep it to ourselves. For now.”
He wiped the paint from his hands and tossed the rag onto the workbench. “But what if something happens?”
I stepped toward him, thankful I’d put off my silk dress in favor of my driving clothes. “It won’t. You’ll be there to help me. And the Lord will protect us.”
“You sure about that?”
“This is His plan to provide for the work of the gospel. It has to be.”
He stared at me for a long moment, much as he had the painted number on the car. Then he knelt on the ground to clean up his paintbrush.
I scooted onto the nearby stool. “There is one little rut in the road.”
He stopped working. “How big a rut?”
Setting my feet on the upper rung of the stool, I gripped my knees. “Lawren—Mr. Trotter is coming along.”
Scrubbing commenced again, with more agitation than before. “With your father?”
“Yes, but with me, too.”
His head shot up. “What do you mean?”
“Father insisted he come along to escort me on race day.” I hopped to the ground. My hand found his shoulder, keeping him from rising to his feet. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure Mother comes, too. I’ll tell him I’m shopping with her, that I’ll meet him there later. Besides, Father needs him there for business, too. Not just for me. And if I know my father, he’ll mix that business with the pleasure of a day at the races.”
Webster’s shoulders relaxed a bit. “You sure you can manage all that intrigue and drive, too?”
“You get me to the pits and on the track. I’ll orchestrate the rest. Just find a place where I can change clothes—and wash up. Preferably a place no one will notice.”
He rose to his feet. I found myself staring into eyes as dark as my morning coffee. And just as warm.
Midmorning on Thursday, Mother and I stood on the train platform as the whistle of the engine screeched through town, calling us aboard the Hoosier Line.
“Hurry, Alyce.” Mother stepped up into a railway car as I strained to glimpse Webster supervising the loading of the racer. Perhaps it had already rolled aboard, for I couldn’t see either man or car.
“Let’s go, Ally.” Father looked at his pocket watch. He wouldn’t come until tomorrow, but Mother needed no coaxing to leave a day early.
I began to leap up the steps, then paused and did my best to ascend in a slow, ladylike manner. From the platform, Father followed my progress to my seat. I settled next to Mother, who looked regal in spite of the heat and soot. Fresh as a blooming rose, she was, while I already felt as wilted and plain as a week-old daisy.
The train lurched forward. I pressed my hand to my purse. Two of Grandmother’s broaches, my three necklaces, a ring, and a bracelet filled the interior. I hoped the trinkets would bring in enough to cover what I’d given away.
The woman across the aisle initiated a conversation with Mother. I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the plush velvet seat. Never in my wildest dreams had I anticipated returning to Chicago with such enthusiasm. Or with two such friends as Webster and Lawrence. I thought of Webster, somewhere in the freight cars behind. Was he nervous? Excited? Afraid? This car was his creation, though he still remained secretive about that fact. Again, I felt a niggle of frustration. Why hadn’t he told me?
Stop it! No time for vain speculation. I’d never known Webster to be devious in any way. He must have had sound reasons for withholding his part in the project.
Heat wafted in through the open window. I closed it and studied my reflection in the glass. Did it matter who built the car—or who drove it? My lips curved into a grin. Or who others thought drove it. The end result would be the same: money to fund the McConnells’ work in the Gold Coast villages. A worthy endeavor.
But it wouldn’t hurt to have a bit of fun in the process.
The moment we disembarked at Dearborn Station, the bustle of the busy streets energized me. I’d truly enjoyed my two years at the Chicago School of Domestic Arts and Sciences. From cooking to household economy, my classes had fascinated and challenged me. In fact, the only things I had missed during my time away from Langston were my grandmother and my drives.
Ensconced in the hotel, Mother lounged on the sofa, sorting through a sheaf of invitations. How in the world did so many people know we’d be in town this weekend?
“We’ve been invited to dinner Saturday evening.” Mother tossed aside three other cards with barely a glance. “Everyone who is anyone in Chicago will be there.”
“Oh?” I peered into the mirror above the dresser and fluffed my curls with my fingers. I knew that those who could afford it left the city for the summer months. Perhaps that meant fewer “anyones” to invite.
“I expect you’ll not embarrass us again. Not like you did the last time I took you to a soiree.”
I stifled a giggle, giving a generic hum instead, not actually agreeing to her directive. Poor Mother. Instead of flirting with millionaires’ sons, I’d found a kindred soul with whom to discuss our faith. Maria and I had hid in a corner and talked the whole long evening.
At least I wouldn’t have to worry about my behavior until Saturday night. After the race. I hugged the thought of a first-place win, even knowing it was beyond my skill level. But all I had to do was place first in my heat, reach the finals. Then I would receive at least a slice of the prize money, even if that slice resembled a sliver rather than a feast. Whether or not my purse bulged from prize money by Saturday night, the party might provide another opportunity to garner donations for the Gold Coast.
Fumbling through my handbag, I found the picture, rumpled on two corners now. I pressed them smooth and smiled at the young children I knew by heart. How could anyone resist those faces? I felt sure my picture would find its way in front of the eyes of all in attendance at the party.
The photo went back into my purse. I needed to figure out the way to the track. To Webster. I pinned my hat in place. “I’m off to pay a call, Mother.”
“Oh?” She started to rise. “I’ll come with you.”
“No! I mean, it’s been a long day, Mother. And you’re just getting over the bee sting. You rest for now.”
She settled back down. I kissed her
cheek, allowing her to hold my hand for a long moment before my fingers drifted from her touch.
“Have fun, Alyce darling.”
I returned her smile, eager to be off on my adventure. But out on the sidewalk, guilt slowed my steps. If she knew my destination, she wouldn’t be so amiable about my leaving. With a tilt of my head skyward, I peered at the corner window on the third floor of the hotel. No shadow of movement caught my eye. I tucked my handbag closer to my body and turned my feet in the direction of an elevated train that would carry me closer to Maywood, home of the Chicago Motor Speedway.
No, Mother had no idea.
Two hours later, I left the racetrack, dejected. Few people mingled in the expanse. Fewer cars. No sign of Webster or the bright blue roadster with the white number 7. I boarded the train back to the hotel but got off at an earlier stop. I needed to walk. I needed air.
My feet scuffed against the steps leading to the street. No Webster. No drive. No reassurance that our plan would work. Even my jewelry weighed heavy in my purse, as I hadn’t yet given it into Webster’s care.
So much my heart wanted to do for others. So many unknowns littering the path.
Sunlight dappled the walk beneath my feet, dancing with the leaves that shivered in the balmy breeze. Surely Webster hadn’t forgotten that I needed to do some practice runs. He did remember that I’d never driven on boards—or over banked turns, didn’t he? I turned onto Michigan Avenue. Water lapped the shore across the way, drawing me. Careful to avoid the motorcars and the horses, I hurried over the road. Just as I reached the walk on the other side, a gust of wind wrapped my skirt around my legs. A man bumped my left arm. I toppled and landed sprawled on the pavement, my hat drooping down over my left eye.
Pairs of feet stepped around me. Passed me. Unaffected by my sorry state. Or my father’s wealth. Or my mother’s social reputation.
For an instant, I lay stunned. Alone. Unable to right myself on the crowded walk. Then a masculine hand reached down and lifted me to my feet. A tip of his hat hid his face as he disappeared into the throng.
Rescued. Not abandoned.
“Forgive me, Lord,” I whispered as people surged around me. Doubt might have tripped me up for a moment, but now that I’d regained my feet, I didn’t intend to falter again.
14
Before Mother woke the next morning, I traced my path back to the speedway. After talking my way past the guard at the gate, I hid beneath the grandstands. Pushing up on my toes, I peered between the bench seats. Today, drivers and mechanics zipped around the two-mile wooden track. Voices called. Engines started and stopped.
My toes cramped. I bent my knees to look through a lower gap. I needed to find Webster—and our car. A Peugeot skidded around the end of the oval. My stomach lurched. The diminutive driver regained control, hunched further over the steering wheel, and increased his speed on the back straightaway.
Dario Resta. My heart drummed in my ears. Could I race against such men?
I crept to the edge of the grandstand and peeked out. Father would arrive in Chicago today, but would he come early to watch the practice runs? I stepped out a little farther and looked up into the grandstand seats. A few men in suits sat watching, each separated from the other. I shrank back. If Father were here, he would be with those men, the ones whose unsullied hands doled out the money for the cars and drivers and mechanics. The ones who sought glory through the machine their company built.
But none resembled Father. Or Mr. Trotter.
Men hollered to one another. Metal clanked against metal between the growl of engines. A Duesenberg rested a few yards away, the top half of a mechanic’s body lost beneath the open engine cover. I stepped closer. The acrid smell of gasoline, burning rubber, and sweat tangled in my nose, sweeter to me than the scent of any Parisian perfume. Then a familiar whistle drifted closer. I ducked beneath the grandstand again. A man swaggered past, dirty rag hanging out of the back pocket of his white mechanic’s jumpsuit.
My fingers grazed his sleeve. The whistle silenced as he whipped around, eyes searching. My whole body tingled with warmth—different than the summer heat that dribbled beads of perspiration down the middle of my back. I stepped into the full light of the sun.
He blinked, but then the familiar grin stretched his wide mouth.
“Here I am.” My words shook a bit as my stomach swerved like Resta’s car on the curve a few minutes ago.
His head turned casually to the left and then to the right, his whistle starting up once more, though quieter this time. He pulled me into the shadows.
While one hand lifted his cap, the other raked through his dampened hair. Both hands fixed his cap back on his head before resting on his hips. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I am. Did you square things with the other driver?”
His eyes shifted as his jaw tightened and released. He returned his gaze to mine and gave a sharp nod.
“Oh, I almost forgot.” I reached into my handbag and retrieved the jewelry I’d determined to part with. “Will you sell these for me, please?”
He pulled a clean rag from the front pocket of his jumpsuit. “Put ’em here. I’ll deal with ’em later.”
I dumped the bits of jewelry into the center of the rag. He tied the ends and shoved it into his pocket. “Let’s get you dressed.” One hand on my elbow, he led me out into the sunshine but then pulled us back into the shade beneath the stands. “One more thing. The race has been moved to Sunday. Some of the drivers are backing out. What about you?”
Sunday? That gave me another day to practice. But ought I race on the Lord’s Day? Would it be proper? Should I make a stand to prove my faith to Webster, or was my effort to raise money for those precious people across the globe a holy act, one the Lord would approve of no matter on which day it took place?
Like tug-of-war in a schoolyard, my thoughts pulled back and forth, inching first one way and then the other. Webster waited. I closed my eyes, breathed a prayer, heard only silence. All I knew to do was continue on the course I’d determined. This was my last hope of raising the money I’d committed to give. And with others out, maybe I had a better chance of finishing at the top of my heat and ending with a slice of the prize money. “I’ll race.”
Webster’s chest swelled and then deflated. “All right, then. I’ve got a place for you to change. We’ll practice more than just driving today.” With a wink, he crooked his elbow. I curled my fingers around his arm and pranced into the open, determined to appear to all the world as if nothing out of the ordinary were about to take place.
Exhilaration carried me back to the hotel that afternoon. Even after my bath, the excitement of the drive pinked my cheeks. Never had I experienced such speed. And though at first the banked turns sent my stomach careening into my throat, I finally figured out I wouldn’t tip over. But could I maintain my speed with other cars fighting for space on the track? All I knew for certain was that I wanted to try.
I joined Mother in our sitting room as suppertime approached. The clock struck six. A few minutes later, Father burst into the room. With long strides, he reached Mother, leaned down, and planted a loud kiss on her cheek.
She blushed, fingers stealing up to touch the spot on her face. “Why, Harry! Whatever was that for?”
He tossed his hat on a chair. “Do I need a reason to be happy to see my wife?”
After making room for him on the sofa, she snuggled into his arms. She looked young again. Not the young of her hardscrabble youth. Young the way she wanted me to look. And the light in Father’s eyes when he looked at her stirred a bit of that desire in me, too.
Turning to leave them alone with each other, I found myself face-to-face with Lawrence Trotter. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know . . .” I glanced back at my parents, but they’d become oblivious to anyone but each other. “Won’t you, um . . .”
Ought I invite Lawrence in or invite myself out?
He took a step backward, into the hall. I followed, pullin
g the door almost shut behind me. My hands fidgeted as my gaze roamed the empty hall.
“Did you have a pleasant trip?”
He nodded and glanced past me. “Your father invited me to join the family for supper.”
“Did he? How wonderful.” My mind whirled as fast as tires on a board track. Not only would Lawrence give me a conversational companion at the table, it would afford an opportunity to put my Sunday plan into motion. I had to escape his attention on race day with a legitimate excuse. Or at least a legitimate-sounding one.
My conscience pricked. Lies atop secrets. Was this truly God’s plan? It had to be. I could see no other way.
“Should I come back later?”
Mother’s soft laughter drifted from the room, followed by the rustle of her dress. I pushed the door open a bit and peeked inside.
“Alyce? We’re taking supper in the restaurant downstairs. Is Mr. Trotter with you?”
“Yes, he is.” I swung the door wide, revealing us both.
Father reached for Mother’s hand, enfolded it within his own, then raised it to his lips, his eyes never leaving her face. “Lead the way, Trotter.”
“My pleasure, sir.” With a slight bow, he offered me his arm and escorted me to the elevator.
Mother and I sat across from each other at the dining table. We conversed of the weather and Father’s work and the hotel, until finally the waiter set our food before us. Toward the end of supper, Mother put on her company smile and turned her attention to Lawrence.
“Mr. . . . Trotter, was it?”
Lawrence inclined his head.
“So good of you to join us.” Her eyes cut to me for only a moment. “Forgive me, but I didn’t catch where you and our Alyce formed your acquaintance.”
I dabbed my napkin at my mouth as Father cleared his throat and reached for Mother’s hand.
“Mr. Trotter is my bookkeeper, Winifred.”
“Oh.” She drew out the word, as if trying to figure out what to make of that piece of information. I squirmed in my seat. The last thing I desired was a family row over what constituted an eligible beau.
