Faster Hotter (6 page)

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The news of my father’s death moves through the family and the team like a shockwave. By then, we’ve all gathered around the estate—every one of Dad’s nearest and dearest friends. We’re all together to offer our comfort and condolences. As soon as they can, the team—or family—flocks to our home to grieve.

Gus, Charlie, Bex, and all the others are constant sources of comfort for us as we get Dad’s affairs in order. The days are filled with tedious, difficult decisions and arrangements, but our nights are consumed with retelling our happiest memories, drinking wine and being together as we all try and understand what the world will be like without him.

“I remember the first time I ever met Alfonso,” Gus tells us, as we gather around the fire. It’s the night of my father’s death, and we’re holding vigil in the only way we know how. “He wasn’t even a driver yet. Just a punk kid of twenty, drag racing with his friends. I was the one who told him he should try and be a real racer. He just looked at me and said, ‘Have you seen those prissy little jumpsuits those guys have to wear? No thanks, pal’.”

“He was already a rookie driver when we met,” Mom puts in, “So I knew from the very start what I was getting myself into with the F1 world. The first race of his I ever saw, I was with a couple of girlfriends. We were all standing right at the fence as he won. He hopped out of that emerald car and looked right at me. We hadn’t said two words to each other yet, but it’s like he knew I’d be waiting there. And from that moment on, that was it.”

Enzo and I sit together quietly as these warm remembrances are traded, trying not to think about how much better all these people know our father than we do. I don’t want to think about the problems our relationship always had. I want to think about the good memories. There are plenty of them, of course. My father was tough and controlling, but he was a good man. And whatever mistakes he made, I know he loved us to hell and back.

His funeral is small and private, as per his will. Enzo, Mom, Gus and I carry his ashes out onto the estate and let them go into the wind. My father was technically an American too, but Italy is where he always wanted to be laid to rest. I watch the breeze carry him off across our land, over the rolling hills and grassy groves. It isn’t until he’s disappeared that it finally sinks in: he’s not coming back this time.

As difficult as it is to say goodbye, the outpouring of support from the F1 fans and community is staggering and strangely heartening. Our front gates are covered with flowers and letters, and one thing becomes abundantly clear. The world loved Alfonso Lazio just as much as we did, if in a different way. And that is saying something. He was a hero to so many people the world over, even to Harrison. He was our father, but he really did belong to the entire F1 world. In that way, I suppose, his memory will always live on. There’s some solace in that, a little glimmer of light in this dark moment in time.

The night after we say our final goodbyes to Dad is quiet and solemn. Our teammates and friends have left, giving us space to mourn privately. My mother, Enzo, Harrison and I are alone in the house again. After days of harried arrangements, turbulent emotions, and swells of friends’ and fans’ support, the relative silence and stillness is peculiar.

We sit around the kitchen table, a bottle of Chianti at the ready. I hold my glass between my hands, dimly wondering whether people have come to a consensus about having a little drink while pregnant. It seems like ages ago that Bex and I sat huddled in that Dallas hotel room, staring down at those little blue plus signs. But in reality, it’s only been a week. In the midst of my father’s death, I’ve had no time to deal with my secret, no time to think on it at all. There hasn’t been a spare moment to breathe these past few days, much less come up with a game plan for my surprise pregnancy.

“The flowers the owners sent over were rather tasteful,” my mother says, breaking the wilting silence.

“Sure,” Enzo agrees sullenly, “Team Ferrelli’s way of saying, ‘We’re sorry for your loss, but get back to training, would you?’”

“You’re the lead driver, Enzo,” Mom says, “It’s your responsibility to stay focused. Your father wouldn’t want you lingering here for his sake.”

“We scattered his ashes this afternoon,” Enzo points out, “I wouldn’t call this lingering.”

“No, of course not. I think you should take the week to rest,” Mom says, “All of you should, if you like. This house is far too big for one person, after all. I wouldn’t mind the company a bit.”

I look to Harrison. “You should probably check in with McClain and see when they want you to get back to the track.”

“I’ve been in touch with them,” Harrison tells me, “I told them that I’m staying with you as long as you need me.”

I feel my mother’s gaze swing my way across the table, her sentiment as clear as day. Hold onto this one, she’s telling me.

I intend to, I transmit back, meeting her gaze.

“Well then, stay for at least one more night,” I say to Harrison, “I’m pretty wiped. I think I’ll head upstairs.”

“I’ll join you,” he says, taking my hand and pulling me gently up from my chair.

We say our goodnights and make our way through the all but silent house. Our steps echo foreignly as we plod through the foyer. I don’t think this house has ever been so quiet. It’s always been filled with the vibrant energy of my father, the running feet of rambunctious kids, the exuberant presence of F1 aficionados. Maybe there will be raucous laughter and abundant happiness in this place again—when new children are born, when Enzo steps into my father’s shoes as Ferrelli’s patriarch. But for now, it’s like our home itself is in mourning.

Without bothering to change my clothes, I crawl into the bed I’ve had since I was a child and roll onto my side. A numbness has shrouded me in sorrow’s wake, and I don’t know how to dispel it. Harrison sits on the edge of the bed beside me, pulling off my shoes and placing them on the floor.

“You’re pretty good at this caretaker thing,” I tell him.

“I’m good at taking care of you,” he allows, rubbing my back in long, lingering strokes. The touch of his hand sends a faint warmth radiating through me. It cuts through the unfeelingness like a razor blade.

“I don’t know how you do it,” I say, arching my back to meet his touch, “All you have to do is touch me, and I know that everything will be OK. Even now...”

“That’s because everything will be OK,” Harrison tells me, running a hand through my hair, “We’re together, Siena. Through all of this. As long as that’s the case, we’re golden.”

“Could you just hold me for a while?” I ask him softly.

Harrison kicks off his shoes and lowers himself onto the bed beside. We lay together on top of the comforter, my back pressed against his chest. I curl up against him as his strong arms enclose me, keeping me safe from the rest of the world.

“I can’t keep terrible things from happening,” Harrison says, lightly kissing my neck, “But I can help you get through them. Just like you help me. We can take anything on between the two of us.”

My heart lifts at his words. I still haven’t said a thing about the positive pregnancy tests, the morning waves of nausea that won’t give me a moment’s peace. Is this the moment to tell him my secret? I part my lips to speak, but Harrison goes on.

“All I want is you, Siena,” he says, “This life...it’s better than anything I could have imagined. We’re young, we’re crazy about each other, we can do anything. Let’s just make this time about the two of us. We’ll travel as much as we want. We’ll party like there’s no tomorrow. We’ll take the F1 world by storm, between us. This is the perfect time, Siena. We’re free. We can do whatever we like. How exciting is that?”

I swallow down my confession and smile weakly. “It’s pretty exciting,” I say, “But, you know...anything could happen, Harrison. Maybe we’ll find that a more, uh, centered life is actually better?”

“I don’t know,” he smiles, “Centered sounds a bit square, doesn’t it?”

“I guess you’ve got a point,” I laugh, ignoring the tightening of my heart. How am I supposed to bring up the fact that there’s almost certainly a baby in our future? In my most private daydreams, I can’t help but wish for a simple life with Harrison and the little person we’re bringing into the world. Can we have our house and baby and keep our freewheeling youth as well?

My eyes close of their own accord, my exhausted body claiming sleep where it can. There will be plenty of time for this kind of thinking down the road. Right now, I just need to sink into Harrison’s embrace and finally get some shuteye.

CHAPTER FIVE

Time moves strangely, during the week following my father’s passing. The minutes slow to a crawl as Harrison, Enzo, my mother and I try and fill the days about our Italian estate. But even as each second drags on forever, the days fly by. The paradox leaves me feeling exhausted and anxious, charged and drained. In what seems like forever and no time at all, another week has somehow passed.

Like clockwork, the outside world begins to filter back into our mournful cocoon. Team Ferrelli sends shot after shot over the bow, urging Enzo to ease back into training. And it isn’t just my brother that the ownership is eager to bring back into the fold. With my father’s death, I’ve now become a shareholder myself. I’m now an important part of Team Ferrelli, my voice will finally be heard. The owners have already made it clear that this is no ceremonial title for me. My input will not only be encouraged, but necessary.

I have enormous shoes to fill, stepping in for my father, but it’s the challenge I’ve been waiting for. I can strategize and delegate with the best of them. At the end of the day, I’ll be doing what I always have been: helping Enzo succeed as a driver while bettering my team and the sport. My vacated seat as PR director will be going to none other than Bex, and even Charlie is officially coming onto the team as assistant manager to Gus. I’ll be surrounded by everyone I love...with the notable and insurmountable exception of my father.

Enzo and Harrison decide to set off together after just a few days at the Lazio estate. Their teams are eager to get them into training mode once more, and the distraction will do them good—especially Enzo. Harrison is heading back to his home in London while Enzo settles back into his bachelor pad, nearer to the Ferrelli headquarters than our home up here in the hills. I’ll follow him soon to meet with the owners and discuss my role on the team, but for now I’m hanging back. This is my chance to get some alone time with my mom and catch up on some rather crucial girl talk about a certain bun in the oven.

The four of us stand on the front steps, saying our goodbyes before the boys depart. I hug Enzo fiercely, holding on with all the strength I’ve got.

“I’ll see you soon,” I tell him, “Don’t push yourself too hard. No one’s expecting you to be one hundred percent again right away.”

“Except for me.” Enzo replies.

My brother moves to bid Mom farewell, and Harrison lays a hand on my back. His eyes are clouded with concern as he looks at me.

“I’ll be fine,” I tell him, “And I’ll see you in no time. I’ll meet with Ferrelli in a couple of days, then come find you in London. We can figure everything out then.”

“Will you stay awhile?” Harrison asks hopefully. Our situation is so unconventional that we have no idea what to do about our living arrangements in the off-season. Should I move into Harrison’s London townhouse? Should we split time between England, Italy, and America? Buy a house boat instead?

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” I say, kissing him goodbye.

Enzo and Harrison climb back into the rental car and take off down the long drive as Mom and I look on. I feel strangely grown up, standing beside my mother now. Is it only that we all feel a bit older, having said goodbye to Dad? Is it that I have a man in my life that I love more than anything? Or could it be the potential little life inside me that has me feeling so grown?

“Why don’t we have a cup of tea?” I say to my mother, “And, um...catch up a bit.”

She nods, and we head inside together. I busy myself in the kitchen, my nerves on end as I work up to telling her my news. She settles into the breakfast nook and I set the kettle to boil and ready our mugs with mindfully decaffeinated tea. I need something to settle my stomach quickly, before another round of nausea claims me. Even with my almost daily waves of sickness, I refuse to let myself believe this is really happening. Until a doctor says it’s so, everything is only hypothetical.

I carry two steaming mugs of chamomile to the wooden table, smiling nervously as I set them down.

“Thank you, darling,” my mother says, wrapping her hands around the steaming mug. She’s gone back to her usual beauty regimen in the past week, and looks as put-together as ever. If I live to be a hundred, I don’t think I’ll ever learn to be as graceful as my mother.

“I don’t know how you do it,” I tell her, “It hasn’t even been a week since Dad died, and you’re so...collected.”

“What else is there to do but keep living?” she shrugs, “Your father is...was...an F1 driver, Siena. I’ve been bracing myself for his passing for the entire course of our marriage.”