Sweet Carolina (5 page)

A knock sounded on her door. Caro looked up,
grateful for the interruption. Russell stuck his head in.

“The hauler is ready to go. You wanna come
talk to the crew?”

Caro rose, dropping her pen on the desk.
“Sure. I'll be right out.” Russell nodded and shut the door behind
him. Caro raised a hand to the back of her head and checked to make
sure every strand was in place. The send-off was a race week
tradition at Hawkins Racing, begun by her father, and continued by
her. She grabbed her coveralls from the small closet behind her
desk and slipped them on over her sand-colored linen slacks and
cream-silk blouse.

The garage door was open, the hauler parked
outside – ready to head out to Martinsville for the weekend's race.
Caro smiled at the knot of mechanics, engineers and crew members
standing beside the hauler. Most of them had been with Hawkins
Racing for years and elected to remain so after her father's death.
Some, she suspected, were hanging around to see how long it would
take for her to do a face plant – something she had no intention of
doing. Hawkins was once a respected name in racing, and Caro vowed
to do everything in her power to make it one again.

* * * *

“Good afternoon,” Caro greeted the gathering.
Dell turned at the sound of her voice and surprise socked him in
the gut. This was the Carolina Hawkins he remembered – except her
hair was swept up in one of those fancy knots again, exposing the
long, graceful lines of her neck. Gone was the pristine lady of the
manor. In her place stood the grease-smeared hellion who had shown
him how a carburetor worked when she was all of eight.

A chorus of male voices returned her
greeting. Dell noted a few stepped forward to shake her hand, while
the majority hung back. Dell moved to the back of the group and
leaned his shoulders against the hauler, watching. Her Hawkins
Racing coveralls were smeared with grease, but her small-boned
hands were clean. Not a single golden strand of hair was out of
place. The coveralls hid her womanly shape as his eyes traveled
down the length of her legs to her feet. Red-tipped toes peeked
from beneath the hem. Tiny beige straps crisscrossed her foot above
her toes. He couldn't help but smile at the odd mix of class and
sass.

She took a minute to recognize the newest
member of the pit crew – a kid named Trent who came onboard to
replace a tire carrier who did something to his ankle. Dell tuned
the explanation out, content to watch her when she wasn't watching
him.

As she moved from one man to the other,
exchanging small talk and wishing them a safe trip and a win, Dell
listened for anything that would tell him who this woman was. Was
she the Caro he knew as a kid? Or was she Carolina, the princess in
the ivory office?

She finally made her way to him. Dell pushed
himself aside from the hauler and straightened.

“Dell,” she offered her hand.

“Caro,” he said as he folded her small hand
in his bigger one. Her grip was firm and warm, not a hint of
nerves, though he sensed some in her voice when she said his
name.

“I hear you're driving with the crew.”

“It's not far. Besides, I want to be there
early.” And he wanted to get to know them better. He'd only had a
few hours with them this week. Most of his time had been spent
playing the PR game – interviews, photo sessions, and making nice
with his new sponsors. A good crew could make or break you, and
their performance could be anywhere from lousy to outstanding,
depending upon their opinion of the driver. If a few hours on the
road with them could help win them over, he was willing to go
along.

“I'll see you on Thursday, then.” Dell raised
an eyebrow in question.

“I like to be there for practice. There isn't
much time to get the car as good as it can be,” she said, as if
that were her explanation. Before he could ask her what she meant,
she moved to the front of the group and raised her hand above her
head. All eyes turned her way and everyone grew quiet.

“Be careful,” she said. “We're fortunate to
have an experienced Cup driver on our team now, so let's give him
our support. I think we have a winning team. I believe in each and
every one of you.” She waved her hand. “I'll see you on
Thursday.”

Dell accepted a ride with the crew chief. If
he remembered right, Russell was a childhood friend of Stewart
Hawkins, and part of Hawkins Racing from the beginning. If anyone
knew Caro, Russell did.

“What do you think of the new owner?” he
asked.

Russell didn't take his eyes off the road,
and for the longest time, Dell didn't think the man was going to
speak at all. When he did, Dell was almost sorry he'd asked.

“She needs to get married and have a bunch of
kids, and get the hell out of the garage and the business. Ain't no
place for a woman.”

Dell flinched, but chided himself for his
stupidity. He should have known Russell would hold the same opinion
as his friend, Caro's father.

“Stewart knew what he was about. Sent the
girl away.”

“She's not a girl anymore,” Dell said.

Russell shook his head. “Anyone with eyes can
see that. And trust me, you ain't the first to notice.”

“I didn't think I was.”

“The only mistake Stewart ever made was
leavin' the business to that slip of a girl. I'm tellin' you, she
ain't got no business runnin' a race team. She's gonna to drive it
into the ground, you mark my words.”

“I don't know – she seems to know what she's
doing.”

“She don't know shit. She hired you, didn't
she?”

Dell didn't know what to say to that, so he
turned his attention to the road. He had no idea if hiring him was
a good thing for Hawkins Racing. He hadn't even considered that
aspect when Caro offered him the ride. All he was thinking about
was himself. He lived to drive and driving kept him alive. He
couldn't let anything else enter into the equation. That's not how
he worked.

They rode in silence for a while before
Russell spoke up. “Your daddy was a good man.” Dell held his
tongue. How could he forget Russell knew his father too? “Had a
good head on his shoulders. Hell of a good driver too.”

Dell had heard it all before. Most of the
racing world held the same opinion, and he'd given up on trying to
change it. It seemed everyone but him knew the Caudell Wayne that
Russell spoke of. Personally, Dell had never met that version of
his father.

“He said you'd never make a decent Cup
driver, and he was right. You got off to a good start, but it musta
been beginner's luck. Always thought the other drivers cut you some
slack your first season, because you were Caudell's son. After
that, you had to earn your spot, and you ain't done it yet.”

At last, something he could argue. “I've done
alright.”

“If you call wreckin' alright. I've seen
demolition derbies with less damage than you do on a
racetrack.”

“They aren't all my fault.”

“Don't matter whose fault it is, the result's
the same. Scrap metal ain't a trophy.”

Silence filled the truck cab again. Dell
wasn't used to defending his driving. Ever since his last argument
with his dad, he'd left the topic of his driving skill to the
commentators, and done his best to ignore them at the same time.
His avoidance skills weren't in question. They were trophy quality,
all the way.

“How's the crew?” he asked.

“They know their stuff. Might not be the best
in the business, but they're okay.” Dell had worked with less
skilled crews. “Biggest problem is, she's got some of 'em
pussy-whipped. That darn fool woman comes in the garage wearin'
those coveralls, tellin' 'em what to do.” Dell turned his head so
Russell wouldn't see him roll his eyes as the crew chief went off
on another misogynist rant. “Woman don't know her place. I blame
that on Stewart. He sent her away alright, but he sent her up
north. Filled her head with all that liberal women's lib shit.”

Dell picked up on the only part of Russell's
tirade that was pertinent. “What does Caro tell them to do?”

“Everything from engine adjustments to
bitchin' about keepin' the tools in order. I'm tellin' you, the
woman don't know her place,” he repeated.

Dell didn't know anything about women's lib,
but he did know what century it was. “Does she know what she's
talking about, with the engine adjustments?”

“Hell no! She's a woman.”

“Are the mechanics taking her advice?”
Getting useful information out of Russell was harder than finding
gold in a coalmine.

“Some.”

He'd done a bit of research on Hawkins Racing
in the last week, and no one was arguing about the quality of their
engines. “You're still building your own engines?”

“One of the few,” Russell said with pride. A
good engine builder could make a fortune building and selling to
other teams, but as far as he knew, Hawkins wasn't selling to
anyone else. He wondered why, but he wasn't going to ask Russell.
He'd bet his next trophy the answer would place the blame on
Caro.

Dell mulled that over. He wondered how much
input Caro actually had when it came to the engines. Unlike
Russell, he didn't dismiss her knowledge because of her gender. The
Caro he remembered had a good, basic knowledge of a racecar when
she was ten, and if she'd spent the last decade increasing her
knowledge, she might know what she was talking about. He'd find out
soon enough.

When Dell didn't respond, Russell continued.
“I don't know why she brought you on, and I don't give a damn why
you came. I suspect it had somethin' to do with the skirt in the
office, but as much as I hate the idea of a woman in this business,
I like that girl. I've known Carolina all her life, and so help me,
if you hurt her…well, I'll kill you myself.”

Dell turned to watch the landscape speed by
and let a smile lift his lips. The old codger might have his
backward ways when it came to women, but he was loyal to a
fault.

“Point taken,” he said.

* * * *

Dell drove the car into the stall allotted to
Hawkins Racing and killed the engine. The practice run was one of
the worst he'd ever had. The car had a shimmy on the right side and
was so loose, he almost spun out on the first turn before he
figured out how to control it through the others. He pulled his
helmet off and climbed out of the car. The crew had the hood up and
their heads together under it before his feet hit the floor.

A familiar voice caught his attention. “Chet,
adjust the track bar. Raymond and Pete, see where the shimmy is
coming from.” Dell strolled around to the front of the car and
looked under the hood. Today, her hair was in a high ponytail that
brushed her right shoulder, partially obscuring her face. She was
elbow-deep in the engine compartment.

“Hey, what's up?” he asked.

She answered without looking up. “Not much.
Just checking something. We had a shimmy like you reported once
before. Someone left a bolt out of the mounting block. It's a
simple fix, if that's what's wrong.” She pulled her arm out and
stood, brushing a stray lock from her face with her forearm. “All
present and accounted for. We'll have to look elsewhere.”

“It felt like it was in the wheel,” he
said.

“Like I said, just checking all the
possibilities.”

“Got it,” Chet called from under the car.
“We'll have to change out the shock on this side, but then she's
good to go.”

Caro praised Chet and Pete for solving the
problem so quickly and turned to go. Dell caught up with her before
she reached the hauler. “Hey, wait up,” he called.

She continued on, only stopping when she
wrapped her hand around the door latch. “The car should be ready to
go in a few minutes. See if you can get her back on the track as
soon as possible.”

“Will do, boss. I was wondering… would you
like to get a burger with me tonight?”

“You go ahead without me, Dell. I've got a
lot to do tonight.” She opened the door, but stopped and turned
half-around. “I'm sorry. Race weekends are busy for me. Maybe next
week?” she asked.

Dell nodded. “Next week then.”

He made a few more practice runs before
calling it a day. He had a few hours to himself, a few hours too
many. He caught a ride to the hotel and cleaned up before heading
out to one of the local bars. With only qualifying tomorrow, and
the race on Sunday, one beer wouldn't hurt.

The place was packed with race fans and Dell
kept his baseball cap on, pulled low over his brow. He found a
table in the corner and settled in. A waitress took his order and
he put his feet up on the extra chair, leaning back with the bill
of his cap pulled over his eyes. Conversation was lively all around
him. Two couples occupied the table to his left; their conversation
divided along gender lines. Dell tuned out the female talk about
the best diapers and zeroed in on the men's conversation. He
listened as they speculated on whether Everhart would finally win a
race this season or go down as the driver with the longest losing
streak in Cup history. Dell mentally cast his vote for the history
books, but remained silent.

His meal arrived and he took his time,
savoring the excellent burger. The table on his right emptied, only
to be grabbed up again by a group of men with mouths as big as
their beer bellies. Dell tried to tune them out, but he would have
needed noise-proof headphones to do it. Between the four of them,
they had an opinion on every aspect of racing, none of which were
based on any version of reality Dell knew of. He finished his
burger, signaled the waitress for his check and was about to leave
when their conversation turned interesting.

“How about that Sadie Hawkins?” one of them
asked as the rest guffawed and contributed more inappropriate
comments about the woman.

“Heard she was shagging the crew chief,” one
said.