Sweet Carolina

by Roz Lee

  “They'd rather see their car in Victory Lane.”

  Dell shrugged. “We'll get them there enough to make them happy.”

  “What did the officials say?”

  “The usual,” he hedged. “It'll blow over. It always does.”

  “How long do you think NASCAR is going to let you keep driving like your car is your own personal rocketship to hell?”

  “As long as I keep showing up to drive, they're going to let me.”

  “What about Anderson?”

  Dell closed his eyes and considered the fallout from today in terms of the team owner. Virgil Anderson was a friend. When Dell was young and green, Virgil offered him a ride when no one else would. He was the only team owner who ignored the opinion of the mighty Caudell Senior who told everyone within hearing distance his son wasn't ready to drive in the Cup series. No, Virgil wouldn't toss Dell out now, not after he'd proved himself on the track these last four years.

  “He'll come around. I've got my share of trophies in the case.”

  “I hope you're right.”

  * * * *

  The phone call wasn't unexpected, but he wished to hell, it hadn't come at seven in the morning. The NASCAR officials must have burned the midnight oil in order to deliver their slap on the hand this early.

  Dell parked in the slot with his name on it and pocketed his keys.

  “Who won yesterday?” he asked as he passed the reception desk. Penny Anderson, Virgil's wife, was more reliable than ESPN.

  “Randy,” she said. She pointed a finger at the pedestal beside the desk where the most recent trophy held sway until replaced by another.

  Dell's stomach clenched. Randy Cox was a good driver, and bringing home the trophy for the Daytona 500 was big, even for a team the size of Anderson Racing. He pasted on his I'm-a-team-player face and responded. “Hey, that's great. What does that make for Cox? Five?”

  “Six. You forgot Fontana last year.”

  “Yeah, I keep forgetting that one.” He and his wrecked car were almost to New Mexico by the time the race was over.

  “You okay, Dell?” The genuine concern in her voice grated. Why did everyone keep asking him that?

  “Fine.” Just fucking fine.

  He knocked on Virgil's door, entering without waiting for an invitation. The phone call had been invitation enough. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Have a seat, Dell.”

  Dell settled into one of the plush leather visitor chairs and crossed one ankle over his knee. “So, how much is the fine this time?”

  “No fine.” Dell raised an eyebrow. No fine? That couldn't be good.

  “What then?”

  “NASCAR has suspended you for the next three races.”

  Dell jerked to his feet. “What the…? Suspended?” He paced to the door and turned. “What about Warner? What did they do to him?”

  “That's not my concern, or yours.”

  “The hell it isn't. They're just going to let him get away with it? I don’t fucking believe this.”

  “Sit down, Dell.”

  Dell glared at Virgil, unable or unwilling to believe what was happening.

  “Sit down, son.”

  Dell returned to his chair and sat with his elbows braced on his thighs. “There's more?”

  “Look, Dell… you know I think of you as a son. Your daddy was a hard man, but he was a friend. I hate to see you doing this to yourself. Ever since he hit the wall, you've changed. You aren't the driver you were when I took you on. Caudell was an idiot when it came to you. He loved you too goddamned much, I guess. He didn't want you to race.”

  Dell forced his neck muscles to cooperate and raised his head so he could look Virgil in the face. “What are you talking about?”

  “I'm trying to tell you something – something important. Caudell and I were friends up until I gave you a ride. He never spoke to me again after I took you on, except to tell me he'd kill me if anything happened to you. I believed him. The man worshipped the ground you walked on.”

  Dell's laugh was without humor. “Let's suppose for a minute any of this preposterous story is true. Why did you give me a ride?”

  “Because you're the best damned driver I've ever seen. Or you were. Look…Dell. I hate to do this, but I owe Caudell this much. I made him a promise, and I aim to honor it. I'm taking your ride. You're done, son.”

  Dell sat up. “I don't believe this. You tell me I'm the best, and in the next breath, you take my ride? What the hell?”

  “I'm doing it for your own good, Dell. I promised your daddy I'd make sure you were safe. It was easy enough when you were driving like the pro you are, but ever since Caudell died, you've been driving like a madman. That's what the other drivers call you, behind your back. Madman. It's not a name I would have ever associated with Dell Wayne, but it fits the new you. You're a danger to yourself, and to the other drivers.”

  “You're shittin' me.”

  “No, Dell, I'm not. Your sponsor threatened to pull their support if NASCAR suspended you. They'll continue to sponsor the car, but they want another driver.” He pushed a piece of paper across his desk to Dell. “It's all there in black and white. NASCAR will ban you from the track if you ever do anything like that again.”

  Dell studied the decree handed down from NASCAR.

  “Take some time off, Dell. Get a grip on whatever it is that compels you to be a madman on the track. If you get it together, come see me. I'd like to see you back in the 21 car.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Carolina eyed her senior crew chief over the desk. What to tell him? Somehow, telling him if they didn't start winning races, he and everyone else would be out of a job, sooner rather than later, didn't seem like a good idea. She needed to instill confidence, not fear. She needed to set a positive example.

  “What happened on Sunday?” she asked.

  Russell shrugged his shoulders and cast his eyes anywhere but at her. Damn. Russell was almost as old as her father, and one of his best friends. Answering to Stewart Hawkins twenty-three-year-old daughter wasn't something he accepted easily.

  “Look, Russell. Whether you like it or not, I'm in charge now. Daddy's gone, and he isn't coming back. I own Hawkins Racing now, and I'm going to run it, so get used to it.”

  Russell fidgeted in his chair and Caro fought the urge to roll her eyes at him. This was all her father's fault. If he'd let her be a part of the business for the last few years, all this proving herself stuff would be behind her now. “Was it the car or the driver? How did the engine perform?”

  She'd already read all the stats on the engine and knew it wasn't the problem, but she wanted to hear Russell's take on the race. Would he come to the same conclusion or would he place the blame somewhere else?

  “The car was fine. It qualified well, and had the power to win.”

  She was relieved to hear him say what she already knew. “So?” she prompted.

  “I hate to place blame, but in this case, I'd say the driver was at fault. Wilson doesn't have what it takes to run with the big boys, not yet anyway.”

  “He is young,” she agreed.

  “There are drivers younger than him winnin' Cup races.”

  “True.” Caro tapped her pencil on the desk blotter. “What do you suggest?”

  “We need a driver who's got the ba…, I mean, the guts to go up against the pack. Someone who won't back down from a challenge. Wilson lets the seasoned drivers push him around. Someone cuts him off, he just moves back a position and lets 'em go.”

  “He's not aggressive enough,” she surmised.

  “I guess you could say that. He does fine in qualifying and practice runs. There's nobody on the track to intimidate him – it's just him against the clock. He's green, but if you don't stand up for yourself during the race, they're gonna eat you alive.”

  “Hmm…” Caro leaned back and thought over what Russell was saying. He could be right. She'd seen it before. Racecar drivers had a pack mentality. If you showed wea
kness of any kind, the alpha males would single you out, do their best to toughen you up, and if you didn't come up to snuff, they'd push you out of the pack. “We need an alpha driver. A seasoned pro no one will mess with.” She pinned Russell with a look. “Is that what you're saying?”

  Russell nodded his balding head. “Yes, ma'am. That's exactly what I'm sayin'.”

  “Well, that does present a problem, doesn't it? Where are we going to get a driver in the middle of the season?”

  Russell twisted his ancient baseball cap in his hands. “I don't know, Caro. I just don't know. Now, your daddy, God rest his soul, he would've whipped the kid into shape – “

  “Thank you, Russell, for pointing that out. However, my father isn't here anymore. I'm in charge and I'll figure out something – preferably something that doesn’t involve whipping.”

  Russell apologized for overstepping and exited, hat in hand, leaving Caro alone in the small office. She peered out the window overlooking the darkened garage. Everyone was gone at this hour, home to families and softball practices, and all those other things people did when they had a life.

  Ever since she started looking more woman and less little girl, her dad saw to it she was kept as far from the garage and the tracks as possible. That meant boarding schools where they'd never heard of NASCAR, and served tea in china cups. Stewart Hawkins believed it would keep his daughter away from racing, teach her about the finer things in life, things he knew nothing about. But he didn't know anything about his daughter either.

  Caro stared at the pristine garage. It was miles away from the greasy, disorganized shop she'd hung around instead of drinking tea, and though it was only a short walk from her dorm, it was light years away in every other aspect. The old mechanic who owned the place hadn't wanted her there anymore than her father would have, but she'd gradually worn him down. Her questions and book knowledge of automobiles eventually won him over and he'd taught her what he could about internal combustion engines and how to work on them.

  She'd been complimented more than once at school about her well-manicured fingernails, but no one knew she kept them polished to cover the grease stains underneath, which no amount of scrubbing could erase.

  Another four years away, studying engineering and every subject related to racing, and she'd come back to North Carolina, ready to be a part of Hawkins Racing. A year later, and she was running the family business, but not because Stewart Hawkins saw the error of his ways. No, up until a massive heart attack cut short his life, he kept Caro “in her place” – sitting around, pretending to be a lady.

  “Well, Daddy,” she said. “I'm Hawkins Racing now, and we're going to do it my way.”

  Caro turned her back to the empty garage and stared at the financial reports on her desk. There was only one driver with the ability to turn things around for Hawkins Racing, but he also had the ability to drive the final nail in their coffin.

  She'd known Dell Wayne her entire life. They'd ridden their bicycles around the infields together, and painted used lug nuts for checkers on the old game board they'd found in her daddy's hauler. Dell was different then. He was happy. Fun to be around.

  She hadn't seen or spoken to him in years, but she followed his career. Racing was as much in his blood as it was hers. About the time she'd gone off to boarding school, Dell took to racing anything with wheels. He was good. Really good. All the track announcers talked about him as the heir apparent to his father's legacy. Some speculated he would surpass his father in wins and records.

  But that was in the past. Before Caudell Senior wrecked at Darlington.

  They called him Madman now, and with good reason.

  Caro sat at her desk, twirling a pencil between her fingers. Dell was the only Cup driver who didn't have a ride, and the reason for that was the same reason she shouldn’t even consider offering him her ride. She leaned her head against the high back of the new ergonomic chair she got to replace her dad's old, worn out one, and closed her eyes. Which was worse? Taking a chance on Jeff Wilson manning up on the track and becoming the driver they needed before Hawkins Racing ran out of money? Or taking a chance on Dell Wayne? Dell either wrecked or won. The winning part was what they needed, the wrecking – not so much. Too many of those, and Hawkins Racing would redline for good.

  Dell had one more week on his suspension. If someone else had offered him a ride, they were keeping it mighty quiet – not an easy thing to do in the small world of professional stock car racing. Everyone knew everyone else's business. Just like their moonshining forefathers knew what all their neighbors and competitors were doing. Not much had changed since driving moved from necessity to sport.

  Caro contemplated her situation. It was possible Dell was off the market. There were a few people in the business who could keep their mouths shut. She stashed the grim reports in her briefcase, flicked the light switch, and shut the door behind her. With nothing more than the illuminated exit signs to light her way, she made her way to the front of the building, past trophy cases gleaming with evidence of past glories.

  Caro ran her fingertips over the hood of the display car, standing sentinel in the middle of the lobby – a testament to the heyday of Hawkins Racing, when nearly every car on the circuit ran a Hawkins engine. The garage was busy around the clock to keep up with the demand, as well as field their own drivers. Plural. When she left for boarding school, Hawkins Racing ran three cars in the Cup Series, and twice that many in the lower series.

  It was time for new trophies and past time to replace the relics of days gone by with something new. Something that would represent the future of Hawkins Racing.

  A warm breeze caressed her cheek and lifted the single strand of hair dangling from her sleek updo as she turned to lock the front door. No use dwelling on it any longer. When it came to options, no matter how she tried to convince herself otherwise, there was only one thing she could do.

  * * * *

  She didn't know what she expected, but this wasn't it. Even though she'd seen Dell on TV dozens, hundreds of times since he'd grown up, nothing could prepare her for the sight of him in person. He stood framed in the doorway, lit from a light somewhere in the cavern of his house, while Caro stood on the darkened porch, staring. Dell Wayne. All grown up. And scowling.

  “Hello, Dell,” she said.

  “Carolina?” His scowl turned to a smile as recognition dawned.

  “How have you been?” she asked.

  “Fine,” he said stepping back and sweeping his arm in invitation. “Come in, come in.”

  Caro stepped past him into the marbled entryway. The door closed behind her with a solid thunk, and she turned to her host.

  “My, my. Who would have thought little Carolina Hawkins would turn out like…” He eyed her up and down. “This.” He shook his head. “It's good to see you, Caro.”

  “It's good to see you too, Dell.”

  Silence descended as Dell stood smiling and staring at her as if he couldn't believe his eyes. “Oh, hey…come in.” He led the way and Caro followed him to the source of the light – a large den furnished with comfortable, overstuffed brown leather furniture and a flat-screen TV that would rival the giant HDTV at Charlotte Motor Speedway.

  “Have a seat. Can I get you anything? Beer, soda, water?”

  “No, thanks,” Caro said as she sank to the edge of the long sofa. “I'm good.” In better lighting, Dell was even more striking than he was on TV. He'd been a cute kid, but back then, she hadn't given a thought to the man he would become. He was tall for a driver. Nearly six feet, she guessed. His body was lean, and the way he moved suggested a well-toned musculature that obeyed his every command. His dark hair was in need of a trim, but on him, it looked good. The laughing blue eyes she remembered were still startlingly clear, but now there was something about them, a depth that wasn't there when he was younger. She supposed it went along with growing up.

  Dell wasn't a kid anymore. He was a man. A good-looking one with boatloads of money and
he drove racecars. Women probably showed up on his doorstep every day, offering him…anything he wanted. Caro swallowed hard as she thought about the things she might be inclined to offer him if things were different. If she weren't here to offer him a job.

  Dell flopped into the chair across from her and was almost swallowed up by the billowing cushions. “Wow,” he said. “I can't believe you're here. I mean… in my house. After all these years.”

  “Well…”

  “Hey,” he sat forward and his smile vanished. “I'm sorry about your dad. He was a great guy.”

  “Thanks. He liked you too.”

  Dell's smile returned. “Maybe. I seem to recall him threatening to paddle my butt a time or two.”

  A little of the anxiety that tightened her shoulders slipped away and she smiled at the memory. This was familiar territory. Between them, they shared thousands of memories. “Yes, but you always talked him out of it, even when you deserved it.”

  “I did.” Dell seemed to focus on something only he could see. His tone turned somber. “Those were good times.”

  “They were. I loved every minute of being at the tracks. I loved the giant campground, the smell of barbecue grills and the constant roar of engines. It was great place to be a kid.”

  “We had fun.”

  Neither spoke for a moment, lost in the past. Caro broke the silence. “I'm sorry about your dad. I was away…at school.”

  Dell sat back and the chair engulfed him again. “Don't worry about it.” He dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand and the gravel in his voice.

  “It must have been hard on you.”

  “So, Caro, why did you come here tonight?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Caro accepted the change of subject. Dell and his dad were at odds more than they'd ever agreed. Dell wanted to race, and Caudell didn't want him to. Dell did it anyway.

  “I heard you lost your ride.”

  “Old news, Caro.”

  “Do you have any offers?”

  “Nope. There isn't much call for a Cup driver after the season starts, unless…”