Hart's Victory (4 page)

A
LTHOUGH
H
ART
H
AMPTON
strode easily across the floor and expertly took the microphone from the flushed woman standing in front of him, his outer confidence hid a deep secret. Unseen by the crowd, he was terribly nervous.

Sure, he faced crowds of people every day on the track. He handled rabid fans who asked him to sign everything from their skin to their clothing. He charmed the media and easily dealt with having a microphone thrust in his face after a poor performance.

But these kids were chronically ill, although many didn’t look sick. While a few were in wheelchairs, most appeared positively normal except for the baseball caps they wore to hide chemo-induced baldness. Hart had a momentary pang and determined to do his best as everyone clapped strongly. He took a deep breath. “How are you all doing tonight?” he asked, his typical opening line.

The answer was another round of enthusiastic screams, and Hart’s nervousness ebbed. “That’s great,” Hart said, remembering the director’s earlier suggestion to treat everyone as if they were perfectly healthy. Don’t single them out, she’d advised. Here they are normal.

“I can’t tell you how happy I am to be here,” Hart said, his confidence growing. “Surprise.”

“You can say that again,” someone shouted.

Hart laughed, the microphone carrying the deep sound. “Yeah, I know, why am I here when I should be racing? Well, after that little roll last weekend, don’t know if you saw it�” the group collectively groaned to indicate they had “�the general consensus from my team was that I should sit this one out. Now, I’m not the kind of guy who can stand on the sidelines doing nothing, so I decided to come visit y’all. I even brought one of my show cars here.”

Cheers again erupted, and Hart totally relaxed. His aunt had been right. Just stick to the truth they’d decided to reveal, sign some autographs and lie low. The camp director stepped up at this point, a second microphone in her hand.

“As I said earlier, every family will have a chance to meet with Hart and get his autograph,” she said. “But right now, before we go out to light our bonfire and sing campfire songs, Hart’s agreed to answer some of your questions. If you have a question, raise your hand and I’ll come out to you.”

Hart watched as a little girl’s hand immediately shot up. She appeared to be about five, and his heart twinged. Did she have cancer? Or was she just a sibling of a loved one who did?

The camp director lowered the microphone. “How old are you?” the girl asked, her voice resonating in the room.

“I’m thirty-two,” Hart said.

“That’s old,” the little girl commented.

“Yeah,” Hart replied, amused by her bluntness. Although thirty-two wasn’t over the hill. Only on some days. Then again, how many children in this room would reach his age? For a moment, the thought that he’d led a blessed life humbled him. Some of the children in this room suffered from things he couldn’t even begin to imagine.

The director moved on and Hart fielded a variety of questions. How much money did he make? A lot. When did he race? Every weekend. What was his favorite race? When he won Daytona for the first time. Daytona was everyone’s dream track to win on; there was prestige for winning any race there even if it wasn’t for driver points.

Hart discovered that questions weren’t hard to answer; actually, the campers were much easier to face than the media, and thus Hart began to enjoy himself. The atmosphere was casual, especially after one precocious eleven-year-old girl asked if that was his rear end wearing Elementals boxers in the television ads. Hart had bitten his tongue, and then simply said, “Yes. It wouldn’t be right if it wasn’t.” A few people had snickered.

“Time for the campfire, so one last question,” the camp director announced and Hart watched as she approached an older boy, one of the few older children in the crowd. The camp catered to kids through age fifteen, and this boy seemed right about that age. He was a bit thin, and wore a Carolina Panthers T-shirt and a Florida Marlins baseball cap. He sat at a table with another boy his age and three adults Hart couldn’t see very well from where he was.

“Hart,” the boy began as he rose to his feet, “I’m Charlie. Except for winning the Cup Championship, what’s the one thing you wish you had, but that you don’t?”

Charlie sat back down, and Hart felt his brow begin to sweat slightly, like it did under his race helmet when the temperature in the car heated to 108 degrees.

“That’s a good question,” Hart said, using the answer designed to stall for a few seconds of thinking time. He stepped to the side so that he could see the people at Charlie’s table better.

“You know Charlie, I usually try not to think about what I don’t have. I’ve been so blessed from the beginning that I try to focus on what I do have rather than on what I don’t have.”

He paused; every face in the room was staring at him. Hart’s gaze found Charlie to see if that answer had satisfied him. He learned it hadn’t as Charlie leaned over and asked into the director’s microphone, “But if there was something you were missing, what would it be?”

“Then the one thing I wish for would be…” Hart suddenly froze. He hadn’t seen the woman before; she’d been blocked when Charlie had stood to ask his question. But Hart saw her now, and he had a pretty good view since he was only about thirty feet away.

Her blond hair was drawn back into a ponytail. She wasn’t looking at him, and her profile revealed a short, cute nose and a chin that was in perfect proportion with her face. She laughed at something the woman across the table said. Hart studied the other woman for a moment. She had a round face and was heavier set. The woman behind Charlie was thin; her pale blue T-shirt showed him that.

She turned then, and her gaze caught his for a moment. Blue eyes, Hart knew instinctively, although he was too far away to tell for sure. She blinked and glanced away, but the brief contact left him slightly rattled, as if he’d just spun out and was trying to regain control of his car.

He tried to remember what he was doing. Oh yes, answering a question. “Gosh, Charlie, your question is tough. But I will answer it,” Hart said, still searching for the reason behind his sudden gut clench rather than what he wished for.

All around him families waited with expectant, smiling faces. Younger children had climbed into their parents’ laps. Some parents had their arms draped around their children’s shoulders, just a light, casual touch that let the child know how much he or she was valued.

There was no fame or fortune here in this room, just gratefulness for another day with those you loved.

“You all are inspiring,” Hart told them, as he decided on his answer. “The way you care for each other, that’s what I’d wish for. When I have my own family, I hope I can love them half as much as the love I feel in this room tonight.”

“Aww,” the crowd said, enjoying the warm fuzzy moment his words had created.

“So any prospects?” someone shouted loudly out of turn.

“Uh.” Hart shifted his weight. His gaze trailed over to Charlie. It had been his question that had gotten Hart into this mess. Charlie caught Hart’s glance and smiled. The woman�his mother, Hart guessed�stared at her nails as if she’d never seen fingertips before.

“I wish I could give you some hot, insider gossip,” Hart said, watching the camp director come forward to free him from this mess. “But there’s nobody special in my life right now. So, to wrap up this personal thread, I will tell you that one of these days I want to be a father. But first, I need to find a wife.”

H
ART FIELDED
two more shouted-out questions, thankfully no-brainers before the director rescued him and instructed the families to go out to the bonfire. Hart watched as everyone began to file out. He exhaled the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Thank goodness none of this question-and-answer session would ever reach the press.

Heck, perhaps it was a good thing he wasn’t at Darlington, especially if he’d botched up a Q & A this bad. He’d just told everyone in the dining hall he needed to find a wife. If he’d made this statement anywhere else, his aunt, or even Hampton Racing’s official spokesperson, would be wincing and fielding media mayhem. The press field day would be followed by a deluge of mail in the ensuing weeks as bags of letters came in with marriage offers. Instead, everyone was leaving, Hart’s statement forgotten in lieu of the upcoming bonfire.

“Thank you so much for doing this. Will you be returning to your motor home for the night now?” the camp director asked.

The room had partially emptied, and if Hart went back to his motor home he could watch the Busch Series race on his plasma TV.

“I was thinking of perhaps attending the bonfire,” Hart heard himself say.

“Oh, you should,” she said. “The campers will love for you to be there. I’ll take you over in my golf cart. The camp has many golf carts, often used to transport campers who have difficulty walking.”

“Thanks, but I could use the exercise,” Hart said. “I’ll meet you over there.” He moved around her and exited.

The May night was warmer than average, and twilight had settled over the camp. Hart inhaled, smelling nothing but the fresh air of the camp’s hundred acres.

Hart had always enjoyed being surrounded by plenty of trees and green space, which is why his home and office were in hilly terrain outside a small town about fifty miles west of Charlotte. Hart drove about thirty miles one way to get to Hampton Racing, a drive he didn’t mind at all. North Carolina was home to most Cup race shops, many located just north of Charlotte and clustered near the towns of Mooresville and Concord. Some were farther north along the Highway 40 corridor, and many drivers lived on Lake Norman.

But not Hart. He’d opted for acres of woods and open fields instead of a water view.

He strolled along the camp’s main path, still behind the crowd but catching up. Designed to resemble a race track, most buildings were situated along the oval roadway. Hart followed the curve around, passing the drive that led to where his motor home was parked. He said hello to a group of people and moved past.

Ahead in the distance, Hart could see campers gathered around the flickering campfire. Counselors were organizing their assigned families, readying them for the skits the director had told him about. The whole camp concept was worth seeing in person, something he’d never done before because he’d never had the time.

He could hear the refrain of a song as it began to build, traveling unimpeded on the still night air. Being a race car driver, wind was something he always noticed, as the wind could play havoc with a car on the track.

Hart passed another set of people, greeted them quickly, and continued walking, his gaze suddenly finding the people for whom he was searching. Just ahead of him was the teenage boy who’d asked the tough question, and to Charlie’s left, his mother.
The blonde who hadn’t even given Hart a cursory glance.
But he gave her one, noticing long legs clad in fitted blue jeans. He’d observed the lack of wedding ring on her left hand. Hart shoved his hands into his jacket, and quickened the pace.

T
HEY HAD ALMOST REACHED
the campfire before Charlie’s questions began. Kellie had expected them immediately, and then prayed he’d let what Hart said pass. But her son refused to provide Kellie with any respite.

“Did you hear that, Mom? Hart said he needs a wife.”

“Charlie,” Kellie began, warning evident in her tone. Her stomach churned. Surely Charlie wouldn’t.

“My mom’s holding out for Hart Hampton,” Charlie told the Muldoon family. Kellie closed her eyes for a brief second. Of course her son would.

“It’s our family joke,” Kellie said quickly, shooting her well-meaning son an obvious glance. He raised his eyebrows at her in return and shrugged.

“What joke?” Sue said. She fell in step next to Kellie.

“Ever since my husband died, when people ask me when I’m going to start dating again, I tell them I’m holding out for Hart Hampton,” Kellie explained. “It came out of something Charlie said once. Now we’re rather quite flippant with it.”

“Makes sense,” Sue said. “It’s probably easier than worrying about other people’s perception of your marital status.”

“Exactly,” Kellie said.

“All that matters is that Hart’s here and we get to meet him,” Charlie inserted. He smirked at his mother.

“We will,” Sue said with a benevolent smile. “But don’t get your hopes up, Charlie. Hart meets lots of people. I doubt he can remember them all.”

Kellie mouthed a thank-you over Charlie’s head.

“He hasn’t met my mom,” Charlie insisted.

“You’re right, he hasn’t,” Sue said. She winked at Kellie and Kellie’s stress ebbed slightly. Thank goodness Sue had taken what Charlie said so lightly.

For that’s all Hart was. A joke. One that she’d pull Charlie aside later in private and tell him not to share with anyone else, especially here where it made her look presumptuous or, worse, stupid.

Kellie tried not to sigh with frustration. She didn’t want to burst her son’s bubble. So how did you tell your son that the fantasy was better than the reality?

The reality was that tomorrow they’d meet Hart Hampton, get his autograph and be on their way. That would be all. She hoped Charlie wouldn’t be too disappointed.

“Hey,” a deep voice said. “I’m glad I caught up with you. I wanted to tell you, that was really good question you asked.”

“Thanks,” Charlie replied, turning and stopping so fast that his motion caught Kellie off guard. She almost stumbled, but quickly righted herself. The Muldoons, who were now a few feet ahead by this point, didn’t notice anything amiss and kept walking.

“I didn’t mean to make you think so hard,” Charlie said.

“You were easier than the reporters I often face,” Hart Hampton said with a laugh.

Kellie’s insides felt as if she’d swallowed dozens of butterflies as Hart extended his hand and gripped Charlie’s.

“So you’re Charlie,” Hart stated. “Are you studying to be a journalist, Charlie? You’d make a good one.”

“No, I’m not planning on that.” Charlie wore a dazed, star-struck expression as he released Hart’s hand. Then he found the poise he’d had most of his life, composure that had carried him through his serious illness. “This is my mom, Kellie.”

“Nice to meet you, Kellie,” Hart said, his gaze roving over her.

Politeness had her answering him with a “Hi,” but she kept her hands shoved inside her denim jacket. Up close, Hart Hampton was even more impressive. Pictures and video didn’t do him justice. His green eyes were hypnotic. His chin had a slight dimple to it, and laugh lines graced the sides of his mouth, giving his full lips sexy, kissable appeal. She blinked and glanced at the ground. When she finally raised her gaze, he’d turned his attention back to her son.

“You have the makings of a good journalist,” Hart told Charlie as the trio began walking again, Hart to Charlie’s right and Kellie to Charlie’s left. “Your question certainly got me thinking. It also got me to reveal more than I ever would have. My PR person would have been having a fit. Good job.”

“Thanks,” Charlie said. He wore an intrigued expression. “I’ve never thought about journalism. I’m not that great of a writer. I should be. My mom’s an eighth grade English teacher.”

Hart glanced around Charlie, but Kellie stepped out of his line of sight. “Really?” Hart asked.

“Yeah,” Charlie said. “She took a leave of absence when her school started winter break. I have leukemia.”

“I figured it was something like that if you were here,” Hart said.

Kellie resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Few people who didn’t deal with chronic diseases knew how to handle cancer, much less talk about the disease. So that’s why it didn’t surprise her when Hart effectively changed the subject. What did surprise her, though, was how Hart chose to do it.

“So tell me Charlie, aside from your health, what’s the one thing you wish you had but you don’t?”

Charlie stopped for a moment and glanced into Hart’s eyes. With them facing each other, Kellie could see that Hart dwarfed Charlie by about ten inches, meaning that Hart was about five ten. She was five six.

Hart grinned and waved his finger at Charlie, a teasing gesture. “You see. It is a very good question.”

Charlie broke into a wide smile as he realized Hart was playing with him. “Yeah, it is, isn’t it?” he asked.

Hart reached up and gave Charlie a gentle high-five. “Tell you what,” Hart said, “I’ll give you until tomorrow to figure out your answer. You can tell me when you come by for your family session. Fair?”

“Fair,” Charlie said, his expression incredulous at having been singled out by his favorite driver.

Kellie found herself clenching her fists. Hart’s attention to her son was above and beyond what was necessary. She frowned. His interest would destroy the illusion. The fantasy. The joke.

“I’ve got one of my show cars here,” Hart was saying. “You’ll get a chance to sit in it tomorrow and you can tell me after that.”

“Show cars?” Charlie asked.

“Those are specific cars that we bring to events like this. We build at least two show cars per year, usually from retired race cars that I haven’t wrecked. These cars have engines, gauges and race seats, but they aren’t made for the track anymore. They do run and are drivable, but not at 180 miles per hour.”

“Oh.” Charlie seemed impressed. “I didn’t know there were different types of cars.”

“Neither did I until I was about your age, and I grew up with racing. I always thought racing was driving one car around the track and praying you didn’t hit anything. Even with the Car of Tomorrow, I could have up to fifteen in the shop back home, a lot of them built just to race on certain tracks. When we go to the track, we take a specific car and a backup in case we wreck during qualifying.”

“Fifteen cars. Wow. I just want to turn sixteen so I can get my license and drive any old car. I think I’m ready to take the test, but Mom won’t even let me get my permit until I’m officially sixteen.”

“I remember those days. You know it’s eighteen to get a NASCAR racing license,” Hart said.

“I didn’t know that, either,” Charlie admitted. “I’ve been studying the driver’s manual daily, though. I’m hoping that I’ll be well enough for lessons in July. You have to let me then, Mom.”

“So have you ever seen a race shop?” Hart asked when Kellie didn’t answer.

“No,” Charlie replied. “I’m new to the sport. My grandma’s a huge fan and she hooked me late last year during the Chase for the Cup. We watch the races together every time they’re on. She lives with us now, so it’s a weekend ritual. I guess she’s watching without me, though, this time.”

They’d reached the campfire, and seeing Hart, the camp director waved him over. “Looks like I’m wanted,” Hart said. “Remember, when you stop by tomorrow, I want you to tell me what your wish is.”

“Okay,” Charlie answered. “I will.”

“See you tomorrow, then,” Hart said, and he strode off. Kellie tracked his movements, her mind churning over what had just occurred. Surely Hart couldn’t be serious? Of all the campers here this weekend, he had to single out Charlie? Because of a question?

“Can you believe it, Mom?” Charlie asked.

“No,” she said honestly. The whole night had a rather surreal aspect to it.

Brad Muldoon and his family approached. “Hey, Charlie, were you just talking with Hart Hampton?” Brad asked excitedly.

“Yeah,” Charlie said. He suddenly seemed a bit dazed again, as it dawned on him that he’d actually been holding a real conversation with his idol. Kellie reached out and put her hand on his forehead, but he jerked away. Luckily his temperature was still normal.

“You gotta tell me everything,” Brad said. “I want to hear it all. That is so cool. How lucky are you!”

“Don’t forget we’re part of the skit,” Sue called as the boys moved a few yards away.

“We’ll just be right here,” Brad said. Sue frowned.

“They’re fine,” her husband stated. He gave her a hug. “Let them go. They’re boys talking racing. They don’t need prying adult ears.”

“True,” Sue replied. “I forget that Brad occasionally gets to act like a regular kid.”

“I understand,” Kellie said. “It’s like that with me, too. The illness makes them grow up so fast. Charlie is a fifteen-year-old who simply wants to get his learner’s permit. Which, of course, I keep putting off until he’s better. That’s part of what he was talking to Hart about.”

“We’ve got until December before Brad’s even qualified for that,” Sue stated. The two boys had bent their heads closely together. “I do wonder what they’re talking about.”

“Probably just Hart Hampton,” her husband answered. “Relax.”

The Muldoons’ crew chief approached. “It’s time for your skit,” she said. “Are you ready to start your engines?”

“Yes, we are,” Ed replied. “We just need to grab our son. He’s right over there.” Ed strode over to the boys.

The counselor turned her attention Kellie. “Are you part of their family? I apologize if I forgot to include you.”

“No,” Kellie said. “I’m not with them.”

The volunteer frowned. “So did you get assigned a part in a skit? I don’t want anyone left out.”

“No, we’re not in the skit, but it’s okay. Charlie and I would much rather be spectators.”

“If you’re sure,” the girl replied, taking the Muldoons with her as she moved away.

“So you and Brad look like you are becoming pretty good friends,” Kellie said. She and Charlie had moved closer to the campfire. Night had fallen, and the fire threw an odd orange glow into the star-filled sky.

“Yeah, Brad’s cool,” Charlie answered. “Do you know he even believes in ghosts like I do, plus he likes country music.”

“You two have quite a lot in common, then,” Kellie said, impressed.

Charlie pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “We do. Like me, he’s seen all those shows on the Travel Channel about the most haunted places in America.”

“So is that what were you two talking about over there, just now?”

“We were discussing tomorrow,” Charlie said quickly, glancing away. “That’s all.”

“And?” Kellie prompted. “There’s nothing else you want to tell me?”

“Nope. Nothing really,” Charlie replied, in voice a tad too high to have been totally honest. He shrugged nonchalantly. “We were just planning the activities we want to do together. Like fishing.”

“That sounds fine and shouldn’t be a problem, so long as your selections don’t involve stalking Hart Hampton,” Kellie said. “He’s here to work. Autographs to sign. A car to show.”

“Mom,” Charlie whined in a chastising tone. “Don’t be such a downer. All I have to do is tell him what I wish for. That’s during our session. I’m not going to stalk him.”

“He may not have been serious,” Kellie warned.

“He was,” Charlie insisted. He scowled slightly. “Just be happy he didn’t ask you what you wish for. You’d have to tell him that he’s your ideal man.”

Kellie drew up short. “Charlie, you’re almost sixteen. That’s a joke. Our joke. We don’t air family jokes. People aren’t that interested and it comes across being pretentious or silly. It makes me sound like an idiot. He’s not my man.”

“Mom, stop stressing,” Charlie said, deliberately ignoring her censure. “No one cares. The Muldoons thought it was funny. And life’s too short for me to worry about what people think. I want to enjoy myself.”

“You’re right,” Kellie said, his final words deflating any further argument. The last thing she wanted was to be reminded of how much time Charlie had, or didn’t have. Impulse had her drawing her son to her for a quick hug.

“Mom! Public display!” Charlie protested.

“You just said life’s too short,” she reminded him with a wicked grin.

“Ugh, are you ever going to let me win one?” Charlie asked, referring to the minor match of wits they’d just had. “I thought I had you there.”

“Never,” she teased. “Mothers always win. It’s in the rule book somewhere.”

“Yeah, sure,” Charlie said. He stepped out from her embrace, and she saw him as the grown man he was becoming. “Someday you might find out you’re wrong about that rule book. Until then, let’s just watch the skit.”