At Every Turn

by Mateer, Anne

  “We are well on our way to raising money for those poor souls on the Gold Coast. I’m pleased to announce that between contributions toward this cause and the supper and bake sale held the past Sunday—which Miss Benson, unfortunately, missed—our humble church has raised almost one thousand of the three thousand dollars.” Her brilliant smile pinned me to my seat.

  One thousand. Near my own amount. Both of us well on our way to providing our part.

  Then I noticed all eyes focused on me, as if expecting a reply. “That’s wonderful! I’m so pleased!” I cheered a bit belatedly.

  Mrs. Tillman’s mouth drew in tight but curved heavenward. “Of course it is much more difficult for us to raise such a sum, but we appreciate your encouragement. Don’t we, ladies?”

  Murmurs of assent all around. I squirmed in my seat. If I told them my father wouldn’t give me the money, that I had to raise it myself, would they dismiss it as nonsense? As half-truth, at best? And if I revealed my efforts to raise the money myself—well, they for sure wouldn’t approve of my methods. I shivered.

  “Is that so, Miss Benson?”

  My eyes widened. I’d missed her question.

  “Excuse me?” I hated the girlish squeak that edged my words.

  “I said, on our trips about town we came across a few people who said they’d contributed already. To you.”

  “That’s correct.” My heartbeat echoed in my ears.

  “How kind of you to help us reach our goal. I assume you have that money with you tonight?”

  My mouth dropped open. I’d collected over three hundred dollars from people in Langston. Well, collected and given away—and replenished through the sale of my jewelry. And Mrs. Tillman expected me to add that amount to their total? I shut my mouth and swallowed, eyes searching wildly for escape as I begged God to provide a diversion.

  The back door squeaked opened. Every head—including mine—turned. Lucinda slipped into a back pew, an apologetic grimace on her face, a teary Teresa sitting on her lap.

  I scooted over and motioned for Lucinda to come sit beside me. It was the least I could do. Timid steps brought her forward, her face as red as a rose petal. When she sat down, I heard her exhale. All of a sudden it didn’t really matter what obstacle Mrs. Tillman threw beneath my wheels. Lucinda and I would endure together.

  Lifting my chin, I met Mrs. Tillman’s haughty expression. “I’ll bring the money to you this week.”

  “Wonderful. The next item on our agenda is the design and creation of a quilt to present to the McConnells along with our money.”

  I found Lucinda’s hand and squeezed. She nudged my shoulder with hers and I smiled.

  In the face of three thousand dollars, what was three hundred more?

  It wasn’t a long meeting. Afterward, Mrs. Swan told me she’d telephone before presuming to visit. I said that would be fine. Others stopped to say they were praying for “dear Mrs. Benson.” It warmed me to know Grandmother was so loved.

  I jiggled Teresa in my arms as Lucinda visited with several of the women. But the baby started to fuss.

  “Hush now.” I swung the child from side to side and paced to the back of the church. But she wouldn’t settle, so I whisked her out the door. “Look at the pretty picture God painted for us.” I turned Teresa toward the sky, where bluish clouds streaked through the pink and orange canvas.

  Lawrence sauntered up beside me. “I thought I’d find you here.”

  “Just waiting for Lucinda.” My gaze fell to the ground. I had no desire to flirt, but his presence did flatter me. Surely he had better things to occupy his time than to find me in the churchyard.

  The baby sat with her chubby legs dangling over my forearm, my other arm around her waist, holding her secure. I lifted her toward Lawrence. “Isn’t she a sweet little lady?”

  He gave me a half smile and seemed to shy away. I pulled Teresa closer to my body and nuzzled her neck.

  “There you are. I’m so sorry.” Lucinda jogged down the steps and lifted Teresa into her arms. “I didn’t mean to be so long-winded.”

  “You’re fine. I didn’t mind.” I turned and set my hand on Lawrence’s arm. “I’ll be with you in a minute.” I hoped he’d take the hint and walk away. He did, but not very far.

  I lowered my voice. “How are things, Lucinda? I’m sorry I’ve not been over to visit lately.”

  “Miss Ben—Alyce, you have so many more important things to attend to. Don’t worry about me. And thank you again for the blackberries. We managed both jelly and a cobbler with them.”

  “I’m so glad. I’ll try to bring some more soon.” I smiled, coaxing one from her, as well. She filled me in on the rest of the children.

  “And how are things at work?” I asked.

  She ducked her head, fiddling with the ruffle on the front of Teresa’s dress. “I’m getting along fine.”

  Lawrence inched closer. Something in his manner irritated me. As if he had some superior claim to my attentions. I ignored him. “Mr. Morgan isn’t being difficult, is he?”

  Lucinda shook her head, still not raising her eyes to meet mine.

  “Alyce.” Lawrence’s hand cupped my elbow. I sighed and then promised Lucinda we’d see each other again soon.

  She shuffled from the churchyard as Lawrence led me to the Packard. His hand snaked down and pressed into mine. “I’m sorry, Alyce. I just felt you needed someone to protect you.”

  “Protect me?” I whirled to face him.

  “From the . . . well, from those who seek after your attention and your favor.”

  People seeking my attention? He sounded a bit like Mother now. “I choose my own friends, thank you.”

  “Now, don’t get all ruffled. I wouldn’t feel this way if I didn’t . . . care.”

  A small gasp caught in my throat. Were his insinuations about Webster and his dismissal of Lucinda simply misguided actions of affection? I had no idea how to respond to such a declaration, not with Mother’s voice and Grandmother’s prayers and Webster’s whistle all colliding in my head. And over them all arched the thrilling memory of my hands on a steering wheel, my foot pushed to the floor, and the checkered flag waving from the edge of the track.

  21

  I parked the Packard in the garage and made my way into an almost silent house. Long pillars of amber evening light spilled through the windows as I leaned my shoulder against the doorframe of the living room. Father looked up from his newspaper and removed the cigar from his mouth.

  “There you are, Ally. I was missing you.”

  I tossed my hat on a chair and sat on the sofa beside him. “So I hear we’re racing in Cincinnati on Labor Day.” I slipped off my shoes and tucked my feet up on the sofa.

  “You heard right. Trotter told you, hmm?” His eyes laughed at me, but I kept my tongue still. I imagined he wouldn’t be as amused if I mentioned Webster was the one who kept me informed. “And I suppose you are going to beg me to take you along.”

  “But of course.” I laid my hand on my heart and feigned surprise. “I couldn’t imagine it any other way.”

  His laugher bellowed through the room. “That was quite a ride in Chicago, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, quite a ride.” My finger traced a circle on the sofa. An oval, really. The shape of a speedbowl. “You know, Father, it might be wise to give that driver a raise after finishing so well. Three hundred miles is much more strenuous. And you wouldn’t want to lose . . . that driver.”

  It was as close as I could come to outright deception, and even as I said the words I doubted it was the right thing to do. But I couldn’t retract them now.

  “You might be right, Ally. You might be right.” He set his cigar on the brass tray on the table and turned a page of his newspaper, but his gaze sidled my way. “You know, I didn’t imagine I’d get away without you this time, though I promised your mother—again—that I’d try.”

  Now it was my turn to laugh. “Don’t worry about Mother. I intend for her to come with us.”
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  “To the race?”

  “No. Just to Cincinnati. She’s been so attentive to Grandmother. She needs a weekend free. I might even let her take me shopping.” I patted his knee and then picked up my shoes.

  “Which will most likely cost me a pretty penny,” he groused good-naturedly. And though he hadn’t committed in words, I knew he’d reward his driver with a bit extra for this race.

  “How in the world did you convince Father to leave the Mercer at home?” I climbed inside the low, powerful automobile. No doors, no top. The wooden dash gleamed, and the brass instruments and accents shone bright against the green paint and black trim. One large eyeglass-like windscreen rose up from its place on the steering column. I’d need every bit of cover I could find to not come home with half of Indiana’s earth on my clothing and my skin.

  “I told him I needed to tweak some things. And I did. I thought this would handle more like the race car, so it would be better practice than the Packard.”

  I nodded as I tucked the last bits of hair beneath my cap and set my goggles in place. I loved driving the Mercer. Its power had drawn me from the moment Father brought it home. And driving it at our makeshift track taught me that speed didn’t frighten. It exhilarated.

  “Ready?” I hit the electric starter and steered us down the road. My body adjusted to the feel of the heavier car. My eyes settled on the road while my head chided my mouth for remaining shut. Today I had more on my mind than just driving.

  “I have a favor to ask,” I called over the clamor of the engine. “Actually, two.”

  From the corner of my eye I spied his nod.

  “First, I need some of the money from my box.”

  His mouth quirked upward in an I-told-you-so kind of way. I gripped the wheel more tightly. “It isn’t what you think, Webster.”

  “One week. You can’t even hold on to the money for one week.” His head shook, as did his shoulders. Laughter I couldn’t hear but could clearly recognize.

  Glaring at the road, I pressed my foot harder against the gas pedal. Webster jerked at the unexpected thrust forward, his hand reaching for the instrument panel. “What’d you do that for?”

  “Listen.” I had to shout to be heard. “Mrs. Tillman found out about the people who gave me money. The ones in town, I mean. She assumed it was for their collection, not mine. Now I have to give it to her or—” Or what?

  “Are you sure you have to do that? Can’t you just tell her the truth?” Concern laced his voice, even at its raised volume. Why did it feel so different from Lawrence’s consideration last evening?

  “I’m sure. I couldn’t live with myself if I failed those little children and their families.”

  His lips clamped shut and I thought I heard him grunt.

  People aren’t always who they seem to be. Lawrence’s words niggled at me again. I slowed the car, my arms suddenly unable to keep the wheel steady.

  Webster leaned toward me. “Need a break?”

  I nodded as I eased us to the side of the road. Webster hopped from the car and trotted around back.

  “Probably wouldn’t hurt to add gasoline and oil anyway.” His words sounded far away, the thunder of the motor still ringing in my ears. He passed me a canteen from the storage compartment in back. I lifted it to my lips, relishing the wetness sliding down my throat.

  With one hand, I released the buttons down the front of my duster and flipped back the edges to let in fresh air. Maybe Lawrence was right in one regard. I ought to know more about this man I trusted with my secrets—and my money. I screwed the lid on the canteen, scooted my knees into the seat, and faced backward. “How’d you end up here, Webster?”

  He glanced up, one eyebrow cocked. “You drove me?”

  “I mean, how did you end up in Langston? Where did you come from? How’d you learn so much about cars?”

  Hands on his hips, he rose to his full height. “Why does it matter, Ally?”

  I pressed my lips together. “It’s just, well, I know so little about you. For instance, why build a racing car?”

  His head jerked to the left, and his jaw clenched. Seconds ticked by. He cleared his throat. “Just something I always wanted to do.”

  “So why didn’t you tell me it was yours—and that you were supposed to drive?”

  He stowed the can of gasoline and picked up the one full of oil. “Didn’t seem to matter.” He stalked toward the engine, unstrapped the hood, and lifted it.

  I scrambled to the ground, facing him across the front of the car. “But it does matter.”

  “Why?”

  Emotion clogged my throat. “Because I thought we were friends.”

  His gaze pinned me. “We are, Ally. It’s just—some things are hard to talk about. Trust me. Okay?”

  Trust him. Like he trusted me behind the wheel of his creation. I ground my teeth together to keep tears of frustration from falling. Maybe Lawrence was right. Maybe Webster wasn’t exactly the man I thought him to be.

  Two hours and miles of silence later, we chugged into the yard. I prayed my face didn’t bear the burn of being hatless in the sun. Mother would be sure to scold if it did. Out of the car, released from the heat of my duster, I lifted the curls that clustered just above my shoulders and held them on top of my head, anxious for a breath of air to cool me. But none did.

  I hurried across the garden, eager to splash the cool kitchen water against my face and neck. But before I reached the house, I heard my name and turned.

  “Lawrence.” I groaned, imagining how much dirt clung to my forehead and cheeks. Not to mention my shirt hanging limp and damp around me, caked with dust. And then there was the streak of oil smeared down the left knee of my knickers, a casualty of trying to help Webster plug a leak later in the day.

  Lawrence’s hands clasped my shoulders, wild eyes searching mine. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

  I shrugged from his grasp. “I’ve been out driving. Nothing more. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

  His focus jumped behind me, toward the Mercer. “Driving that?” His eyes bulged like a bullfrog’s.

  “Yes, that. My father’s car. Is there a problem?”

  “No. I just never imagined . . .”

  I sighed. No sense trying to explain it. I remembered how he’d condescended to me about his Grant. Likely he disapproved of all women drivers. But that fault could be overcome. Eventually.

  “Why don’t I get cleaned up and meet you in the living room?” I put one foot on the bottom step leading to the kitchen door.

  “I can’t stay. I just—” Once more his gaze roved over my disheveled appearance. I watched his neck pulse with a swallow. “I just came to tell you that your father invited me to attend the Cincinnati race. He informed me you would be there, as well.”

  I forced a tight smile. I’d have to avoid him yet again, in spite of the fact that a piece of me longed to know him better. “Wonderful. Now if you’ll let me . . .” I rose to the second step. His hand settled on the rim of the hat he’d swiped from his head when he’d approached. “I just thought you’d want to know.” He looked uncertain now. Skittish almost. He looked to the garage as Webster sauntered out the door, a whistle halting and then resuming on his lips.

  I pulled my smile higher, needing to regain Lawrence’s attention. “It will be wonderful to have you with us.”

  He grinned and took his leave, tripping over a stone in the path as he went. But it wasn’t until I lay stretched out in the bathtub that I realized he hadn’t rounded the corner of the house toward the road. Instead, he’d headed straight for the garage.

  22

  Webster handed me the money I’d requested first thing the next morning. “Mightn’t it be better to just tell the truth, Ally?”

  I hurried past him, but his footsteps sounded close behind.

  “I can’t. You know that. They would never believe . . .” It felt as though the steel frame of the racing car rested on my chest. I pressed my lips together and shook my head.r />
  Why should I explain it to him? He felt no need to explain himself to me. I climbed into the car and we rumbled to the dirt track.

  He signaled for me to cut the engine. “I think we need a communication system.”

  “Oh?” My eyebrows rose. Rich, coming from the man who refused to communicate anything about his past to me.

  “Just a few hand signals. You know how hard it was to hear during the race in Chicago.”

  “Yes. Impossible.”

  “Exactly. In fact, might be better if you don’t even have to look. Maybe we should communicate by touch.”

  Heat burst into my cheeks as I studied the horizon. Race instructions. Nothing more. Not the tender touch between a man and a woman. So why did the thought of it set my heart pumping? “Why don’t we try the signals first? See if I can take them in with just a glance.”

  He shrugged and leaned down to crank the engine. “Whatever you think. We can try it both ways.”

  I settled the goggles over my eyes, thankful to be hidden from scrutiny. As we circled the oval again, I forced my thoughts away from the possibility of his touch and focused instead on the money hidden beneath Webster’s watchful eyes. Obviously it remained safe; otherwise he would have put me off with excuses, not handed me what I’d asked for. Lawrence’s insinuations apparently had no basis in fact.

  And yet . . .

  What if he had other motives for desiring me to drive? What if it wasn’t about helping me raise money for the McConnells at all?

  Maybe he meant to blackmail me—or my father—instead.

  A turn rose up before me. A poke at my thigh reminded me to glance down. I spied Webster’s thumb turned down, his signal to slow. Every ounce of my strength held the wheel steady as the needle on the instrument panel hovered at sixty-five. I breathed relief in the short straightaway. No, blackmail couldn’t be it. Otherwise, he wouldn’t encourage me to come out with the truth.

  Another curve. Another straightaway. Webster’s thumb up and then down, his fingers left and then right.