At Every Turn (9 page)

 11 

T
he moment I heard a motorcar in our lane, I slipped out the front door and met Lawrence at the gate where our yard met the road. Mother remained abed after her run-in with the bee. Father had shut himself in his study to read, though I’d heard his snore cutting through the air like a saw on logs.

“For you.” Lawrence handed me a spray of pink rosebuds, peering past me as if trying to see through the front doors and into the house.

I inhaled the flowers’ sweetness. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

“I guess we’re ready?”

I nodded, looked up, then gasped. A roadster straddled the line between road and grass, shimmering in the waning sunlight. Red body. Coal-colored running boards and wheels. A sprinkle of brass illuminating the dark trim.

“A Grant,” I whispered as we approached.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” Lawrence rubbed one sleeve over a dull spot on the hood of the car.

“Indeed she is.” I noted the newness of the auto as well as its features. My father evidently paid his employees more than I had imagined. Either that or Lawrence managed his finances well. That would please Father.

Lawrence made the pretense of helping me up onto the tufted leather bench seat, but in truth I’d sprung into the car quite on my own, eager to see inside. I caressed the soft leather, not much different from my Runabout, yet not the same, either. More supple. Like in Father’s Mercer.

He placed a lap robe across the pleated skirt of my green silk dress before starting the engine. It felt strange to set my feet against the flat floorboard, to have my hands free of the steering wheel. I tried to ignore the anxious twitch in my extremities.

“She’ll do up to forty miles per hour.” Lawrence’s voice rose above the din as we puttered down the road.

“Will she?”

“Yes, though I’d never presume to expose you to such peril.” He glanced at me before his attention returned to the road. “And I’d hate to think what moving at such a speed would do to your lovely hat.”

I put my hand to the close-fitting headpiece, pansied and feathered, more ornate than I preferred but one Mother had selected to match the dress. What would Lawrence think if I told him I’d not only ridden at such speeds but also driven in excess of them? A smile tugged at my lips.

I turned my head to watch the trail of houses leading into the center of town. Did Lawrence, with his dapper clothes and smart-looking car, put appearances above people? Like Mother did? Or could he approve of the real me, the one disguised beneath a duster and behind a pair of goggles?

As Lawrence spoke about the features of his Grant, I decided I’d best keep that adventuresome girl hidden from all but Webster Little. At least for now.

After a sedate drive through the countryside, we arrived at the church just before seven o’clock. Lawrence escorted me inside before departing with a tip of his hat. Mrs. Tillman called the Women’s Mission Auxiliary meeting to order. I pressed my toes against the floor to keep them from a nervous jiggle, wishing, suddenly, for skirts that hid my feet from view.

My left knee began to bob. I pressed it still, cupping my hands around it and arching my back just a bit.

“We are so happy to welcome Miss Alyce Benson.” Mrs. Tillman motioned toward me. The other women nodded in my direction before turning their attention back to their leader. I let out a tiny breath. Relaxed my hands in my lap as I crossed my ankles beneath the pew.

“Miss Benson has given us quite a challenge, ladies. And I intend to see that we help our church meet that lofty goal.” Her eyebrows arched. Relief loosened my shoulders. They were willing to do their part.

Please don’t let them inquire about mine.

“And to that end, I believe we need a very visible campaign.”

A middle-aged woman in a plain dress got to her feet. “We could have a bake sale—or a New England supper. That would raise some money.”

Other women nodded as she sat, a quiet buzz zipping through the room.

“Wonderful, Mrs. Graham. We need to consider every possibility so that we will not be found wanting when Miss Benson”—again Mrs. Tillman’s eyebrows lifted while her gaze angled in my direction—“presents her offering.”

My mouth went dry. My foot twitched. My knees bounced.

Mrs. Tillman continued. “I’ve already discussed things with Pastor Swan. He will support all we decide to do toward reaching our goal.” She turned a stiff smile my way. “Of course, you will only have the thrill of watching, Miss Benson, with none of the anguish of making it happen.”

“Oh, I’m happy to help.” My smile quivered. I licked my lips as Dr. Maven’s wife rose.

“I will begin our fund with a donation tonight.” She dug into her old-fashioned reticule and pulled out some paper money. “For several years now, Mrs. White has offered to purchase my old garnet broach. The Lord convicted me that the children in the Gold Coast need the money more than I need another trinket to gather dust.” A light dusting of applause followed her to the front as she placed the money in Mrs. Tillman’s hand.

Mrs. Tillman’s face softened. “Thank you, dear Mrs. Maven. Your sacrifice is greatly appreciated.”

A high-pitched wail cut off her words. Every woman in attendance turned toward the sound. Lucinda’s face pinked as she stood in the back, jiggling baby Teresa on her hip. I leapt to my feet and met her at the door.

“Let me take her.” I gathered the baby into my arms. “You go on in.”

“Are you sure?” Lucinda’s eyes flicked from me to the rest of the ladies and then back again.

“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.”