Pedal to the Metal: Love's Drivin' but Fate's Got the Pole (The 'Cuda Confessions Book 3) (58 page)

I
chose a gray pencil from the box on Dale’s hospital tray. “I need you to open your eyes. We need to talk.”

The steady rise and fall of his chest didn’t change—just as it hadn’t changed for the last two hours—or the last three damn days. I dragged the edge of the point around the chrome around the gills on the side of the ‘Cuda.

“Starting again, from the top. The 6k ‘Cuda’s over at Lee’s place. Your buddy Dutch says it’s the real deal, the one you had to pass on when Caine dropped into your life. Kolby’s buying it for us. I can get through this race with Caine’s help, so you can keep slacking off, because maybe you need the rest. But you need to hear what I have to say about Colt.”

“I know why he’s not winning, Dale. He’s pulled in two directions. He looks in the mirror and what does he see? The face of the woman that doesn’t love him. Except, that’s not the truth, is it? She loves him enough to stay away, so he don’t see that you don’t love her. You have to forgive Robyn for whatever she did to you. I think Colt’s in love. Are you going to deny him the love of two happy parents on his wedding day? That’s not the Dale Hannah I worship.”

I put the pencil down and scrutinized the sketch. I thought I’d caught the new maturity in Colt’s eyes, and the happy glow in my eyes and Caine’s. Caroline’s parted lips telegraphed that she was just about to burst into giggles as she turned her head toward Jonny. Jonny looked straight out of he page, giving the viewer an arrogant grin. Little Shelby perched on his shoulders, and her red boots drummed his white shirt while the child pulled his hair with both hands. 

Marley’s eyes held a smile I had to conjure right out of thin air. But the tender curve on Colt’s lips came right out my memory. Marley and the guys wore the racing togs I wanted for Hannah-built, royal purple, trimmed in silver. The logo sprawled across their chests.

If Dale would just open his eyes, he’d see what was at stake. Getting to my feet, I tugged the paper from the pad. Propping the sketch against the vintage cell phone from Ernie and the Autumn Leaf pitcher I’d brought from the house, playing a scientific wild-ass guess about why Dale had the goddamn thing, I bent to kiss his cheek.

“Wake up, Dale. I need your help to get Robyn out of that house. Jill’s daddy bought it.” I was past caring about the neurosurgeon’s warning to keep all conversation positive. “The preacher assaulted Caroline and he jacked their rent up sky high. I’m in over my head in so many ways. And, I need you to hold me and tell me how happy you are that me and Caine are getting married.”

Dale’s eyes were still closed when I gathered my stuff and stole from the room.

I paused by the nurse’s desk. “Has my mother been by?”

The nurse in the chair shook his head. “You’re the first visitor I’ve seen, and I came on shift at seven.”

Mom had given up visiting, as far as I could tell, maybe because Dale called out for Jill and stayed with her in his mind.

On Saturday, I turned on the race and watched the whole thing from his side. He slumbered on, even when I kicked his bed and shouted, “God fucking dammit! Marley, will you puh-leeze put Rowdy’s ass into the wall?”

When wreckers raced onto the track, ending Marley’s day on the final lap—and taking Jonny out in the process—I turned off the television and kissed Dale’s cheek. Stroking the white streaks around his face, I huffed.

“We gotta figure out what to do about Kolby. That shit is driver retaliation. You might not admit it, but there’s driving hard to win, and there’s driving like you don’t give a shit about living. Kolby’s suicidal. Maybe humiliating him backfired, Daddy.”

Nadda.

“I’m graduating tomorrow and you won’t be there. But, I forgive you, because college is something I did for myself, and you know that. But the drag race? Motherfucker, I’m doing that for all of us. Wake up, Daddy. Please, wake up.”

His chest rose and fell with the same slow rate. His eyes moved behind his closed lids, but he didn’t return my squeeze of his hand. I grabbed my purse off the spot beside my chair and slung it over my shoulder.

“Fine. Be that way. If you don’t get your ass in gear by tomorrow night, I’ll sell that 6k ‘Cuda to the first sumbitch with a cute smile, clean hands, and a dirty truck.”

T
he aubergine poplin robe was every bit as sweltering as the emerald polyester version I’d worn for my high school graduation. Flapping the hem for a breath of air, I dashed past the end of the line outside Twitchell Auditorium, hunting my spot in the processional. A few of my fellow seniors cried and said they wanted to turn back the clock. I could hardly wait to get this over with.

The professor who’d taught me Art History held a finger to her lips. The excited chatter of one hundred and eighty-three young women died.

“Shelby, you’re out of line,” Gina Habersham whispered. “What’re you doing?”

“Trust me, this is where I belong.”

I stepped in between Gina and Vickie Holloway, chin held high, just as notes swelled from the massive pipe organ inside the auditorium. Two juniors opened the tall double doors. Down front, thirty-foot maroon velvet curtains bracketed the wide stage. The opening bars of
Pomp and Circumstance
silenced the buzz of conversation in the elegant auditorium.

Swiping my palms on my gown, I moved forward, blinking back tears. My golden tassel—the second of my life—swung in front of my eyes as I started down the aisle.

Heads turned as the crowd got to their feet, but the faces were a blur. As the faculty climbed the stairs to take their places on stage, I admired their diverse regalia. I’d never wear mine again, so I wanted to memorize every moment.

Instead, my eyes were drawn to three tall figures to my left. My heart took a leap, despite knowing the men would be strangers.

I’d dreaded this moment off and on for years, and now that it was here, it was exactly what I’d have wished for—before Christmas. Mom was somewhere in the crowd. Francine was here. Caroline texted me early this morning to ask where to go once she got to the campus. I’d been so excited she was making the trip I’d forgotten to ask whether Jonny had come with her. 

My heart ached for Colt, whose first Cup start would be marred by the knowledge that Dale had yet to wake. Rick had bumped him up to drive in Barnes’ spot. Doctor Erikkson kept insisting all would be well, but we were all out of our minds with unspoken worries.

We filed into the reserved seats down front. I crossed my legs and fastened my attention on the stage. The keynote speaker must’ve been funny, since laughter rippled through the building several times during her speech. The valedictorian’s speech failed to hold my attention, either, but she was blessedly brief.

President Jamison stood to rippling applause. Resplendent in academic regalia and hat that denoted her doctorate degree, she adjusted the podium microphone and laid a piece of paper on the stand.

“I’m always both honored and intimidated on Freshman Move-In Day, when you bring us your daughters. I know what you expect. You want me—Converse—to return a polished product, a daughter you can point to with pride. A young woman prepared for the business world, a life of community service, or further study. I happen to feel we do a good job. And yet, with any rule comes the exception. I’d be disingenuous if I withheld this short essay by a member of today’s graduating class, because it illustrates precisely how we—how I—have failed. So, I beg your indulgence while I read it.”

I exchanged a glance with the girl next to me. I had a hard time imagining Dr. Jamison failing at anything.

The president’s gaze swept the rows of parents. “This piece caused me to reflect that, while we take pride in the education we offer, the most important thing we do is help the young women who walk through our gates decide which rough edges they’d like to sand away, and which to sharpen. And on that note....” She cleared her throat and lifted the paper.

“While my classmates filled out an application to get here, I told a story.”

Shock reverberated though me.
My words
.

The president’s speaking voice reflected the same easy assurance as everything else the woman did. “It was the truth as I knew it at the time, an outpouring of my soul. A story about wild nights spent drag racing on a Carolina backroad. A tale about the jarring trip from childhood to womanhood; of getting in over my head, fueled by hormones and curiosity. A tragedy about falling in love with the wrong man, with a sordid, cautionary ending about how he betrayed me.”

A few murmurs sounded, most from behind the row where I sat, but President Jamison paid no heed. “At the conclusion of my woeful tale, I was allowed to join the freshman class, despite not having all my paperwork filled out, or knowing how the hell I’d pay my tuition.”

She lifted her head to smile. “This is the part where I get to publicly thank a generous private benefactor. You’re about to see the dividend.” She lowered her eyes to the page once more.

“And yet, as I sit, staring at a blank exam booklet, charged with having to write another story to earn my way out the door of this magnificent sanctuary, several things become clear.”

“With apologies to my distinguished professors, every important thing I know, I learned from a racin’ man.”

Dr. Jamison’s thick tassel swung while she nodded. “I learned self-reliance when I was given the keys to a ’71 ‘Cuda, but wasn’t allowed to take it out of the driveway until I could change a tire, check the oil, and swap out a fuel filter to get a better run.”

“I learned everything I need to know about the laws of physics when that same car tipped up on two wheels. With apologies to my religion professors, I only learned that I truly did believe in God when I landed on all four tires, safe and sound, only to flip the same car twice, just two days later.”

“I walked away, but I cowered for a while after that accident. And yet, when a racin’ man challenged me to drive again, I got behind the wheel and clocked my fastest time to date, because he taught me that nothing feels better than facing my fear and whippin’ its ass.”

Chuckles—mostly masculine—pinged around the huge space.

“I learned money management in the front seat of a ’93 Dodge Ram, from a life-long racin’ man who could turn fifty bucks into five thousand by days’ end, may he rest in peace.”

Something dripped onto my robe, making dark dots. I swiped away the unexpected tears. Without a doubt, the strangled sob somewhere behind me belonged to Francine. 

“I learned philosophy—the difference between what we do for money and what we do for love—from the racin’ man who owns the drag strip at the county fairground back home, and I learned that when your dreams die, you’re doomed, from the man who owns the drag strip right down the road in Greer.”

“I learned to take pride in the details—and in my adopted family—when I was told, ‘hand wash or drive dirty and a Hannah never drives dirty’.”

I felt the curious gazes that turned my way, but kept my eyes on my clenched hands.

“I learned diligence, to avoid the trap of mental laziness, because one racin’ man spat the words, ‘never trust the technology’, when something important was at stake.”

“And most of all, I learned to put my nose on the start line, even if I think I’ll get beat, from a racin’ man who believes that if a thing’s worth doing, you put the hammer down and don’t look back to see what’s gaining on you, because that’s your spotter’s job.”

I squared my shoulders and raised my chin.

“In all fairness, this institution did offer me similar lessons, but the covers of a text book and the safety of a lecture hall never captured my interest half as well as the colorful phrases and adrenaline-soaked atmosphere of auto racing. While here, I think I learned as much about what I’d left behind as I did about my chosen fields of study. This education is a paint job, if you will, an attractive graphic applied over the rough-sanded metal hull of the young girl who walked through these gates, but a racin’ man helped me decipher the engine inside my own chest, and he gave me the guts to run it wide open.”

“And, if the racin’ man I love most could talk right now, I know he’d tell me that it’s time. Time to put the pedal to the metal. So, I’m going to accept my diploma, and I thank you kindly for the refuge and the education I found here. For the genteel lessons that served to buttress the rough-and-tumble education given me by every racin’ man I know.”

She cleared her throat again, and I was stunned to realize she struggled not to cry.

“And, when I turn my tassel and walk through the gates, keep your eyes on me. I never managed an A in creative writing. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to write the book that’s on my heart. I’m painfully aware that my art is too commercial to be called ‘art’, but I already have designs licensed by NASCAR, thanks to a racin’ man. And, I’ve accepted the job that will make me the Chief Operations Officer for a new NASCAR race team next season.”

She lowered the page and stared into my eyes, smiling broadly. A bright tear streaked down one cheek.

“And if anything I’ve done, or if what I do next, offends anyone, then those folks can kiss my red-headed, NASCAR-man lovin’, college-educated, country girl ass.”