Braking Points (3 page)

It's racing, Kate, not competitive knitting. Equipment gets broken, people make mistakes.
It was my turn, and now I was getting over it. Besides, I was a damn good racecar driver.

I changed from my fireproof gear into jeans and a team polo shirt. I was closing up my duffle bag when I felt the front door of the motorhome slam shut and heard Stuart's voice, “We've heard from the hospital.”

 

Chapter Four

I banged the bedroom door open in my haste to reach the front room, where Stuart and Tom stood.

“Well?” I demanded.

“He's OK,” Stuart said. “Severe concussion and a broken collarbone. They'll monitor him a day or two to make sure there's no serious brain injury.”

I swallowed. “The words ‘brain injury' don't sound good.”

“He's alive,” Tom pointed out.

Stuart nodded. “And not in surgery for anything yet. They think it's a concussion, nothing more serious, and rest will fix that. Of course, it's a month or more out of the racecar, but he should make a full recovery.”

I sat down in a kitchen chair, sorting through my emotions. Miles would be fine. Probably. I could be mad at him for his role in the wreck. A little. But he wouldn't race in NASCAR for a while, wouldn't win his third championship this season. I wondered how that sobbing woman in the paddock would react. Wondered how much worse the fan reaction might get. Being unpopular wouldn't get me fired, but it wouldn't help me attract sponsors either.

“About the media.” Tom pulled up the chair facing mine.

I took a deep breath and smelled cookies baking. “Cookies? Now?”

“Never the wrong time for cookies,” Mike put in from the couch.

“A touch of comfort,” Aunt Tee said. “You only now smelled them?”

“I was preoccupied before.” I squeezed my eyes closed, then looked at Tom. “Let's do it.”

“Kate?” Stuart's expression softened as he studied me. “I'll talk to you later?”

“Sure. And thanks—” I broke off, choking up. Two deep breaths and I was back under control. “Thanks for before.”

“Any time you need me, Kate.” He exited the motorhome, and I wondered who else understood he meant more than his professional support.

Tom brandished a notepad and pen. “I'll do our usual release, and we'll make a statement about Miles. Then you should talk to the press waiting outside.”

I was entering the acceptance stage of racing accident recovery. I'd felt denial and anger sitting in my wrecked car. Remorse I'd been working on since the medical center—and would continue to chew on. Blame was an optional stage, depending on the wreck. I hadn't dwelled long there, because the person I wanted to point the finger at exited the track on a stretcher…and I knew better. In my case, acceptance meant it was time to take on unappetizing responsibilities. I nodded at Tom. “I'm ready.”

Twenty minutes later, after a quick call home to my grandparents—the only parents I'd ever known—to assure them I was fine, I stepped out of the motorhome with Mike and Tom. Tom went to placate and prep the reporters waiting at the rope barrier. Mike went with me to talk to our crew. Fortunately, our sister car, the number 29, was celebrating a best-ever finish of fourth in class, so the team was in good spirits. No one acted like my best friend, but no one was hostile either. Distributing Aunt Tee's chocolate chip cookies along with my apologies didn't hurt.

Then it was time for the press.

The crew from SportsGroup TV had run down the paddock to catch someone else, so I spoke with the Radio Le Mans reporter and a group of print journalists first. They asked the same questions I'd answered outside the medical center: what happened, how I felt about it, was I hurt, and how did this affect our team going into the last race of the season. I gave them a bare-bones explanation and the basic platitudes.

Then the SGTV team returned—a cameraman, a pit reporter I hadn't met because he'd recently moved to the ALMS from another series, and an assistant or junior reporter, a woman. She was six inches taller than my five-foot-four, curvy in her required SGTV firesuit, and a knockout blonde. Seeing her brought a smile to my face.

“Juliana Parker?”

“Kate Reilly! There you are!” Her voice was halfway to a squeal as she threw her arms around me.

I laughed and hugged her. “Where have you been the last few years?”

She pulled back and smoothed a stray lock of hair into place. “Representing Alabama, doing broadcast news, and working my way to this gig. But look at you!”

The pit reporter with her cleared his throat.

I turned to him. “Sorry. I'm Kate Reilly.”

“Felix Simon.” He clasped my outstretched hand like a man fifty years his senior. It was usually men my grandfather's age who shook as if afraid I'd be hurt by their strength. As if I didn't race cars for a living.

“Kate.” Juliana touched my arm. “We'll catch up later.”

“Tonight at Siebkens Tavern?”

“Perfect.” She moved back, out of the camera's angle.

At a nod from the cameraman, Felix stepped close, smiled at me, and started speaking. “I'm here in the Sandham Swift paddock talking with their young, rookie female driver—certainly a better looking driver than most teams have—Kate Reilly. Kate, what happened out there today?”

He tilted the microphone to me as I fought to keep a pleasant expression on my face. In two sentences, he'd reduced me to the level of perky high school cheerleader, undermining my talent and racing credentials with every syllable.

I squeezed a response through my clenched jaw. “Hi, Felix. What happened today was an unfortunate racing incident, compounded by rain and two drivers misjudging conditions and space on the track. I'm so disappointed for my team and also the LinkTime Corvette team.” I stopped as Felix pulled the microphone away from me.

“A racing incident, Kate? How do you respond to those who have called it one hundred percent error on your part—one you shouldn't have made? Or those who call you dangerous on the track?”

The glee lighting his eyes and face as he asked his awful questions disturbed me. I reminded myself to stay calm and professional.

“I still call it a racing incident. I may have misjudged the wetness of the track there, but I was well up on his car and had the inside line, so he could have left me more room, not crowded me so much. We're racecar drivers, and in the moment, we're going to push, regardless of the weather conditions.”

I read the intention in Felix's eyes and grabbed the mic above his hand, keeping it close to my face as I went on. “Did I mean to do it? No. Is this single incident—which is all I've had this year, aside from a couple solo trips into gravel—enough to label me dangerous? I don't think so.”

Felix looked less happy when I released the mic than before I started—which didn't fit with the stories I'd heard of him being a great guy.

Especially when his smile resembled an animal baring teeth at its prey. “And how do you assess your chances at the next and last race on the schedule, Petit Le Mans, as well as in the championship?”

“I think we're still in with a fighting chance for the top three. The team's still looking good—”

A new voice cut through whatever response I might have made. A man shoved close to me against the rope line. He was in his forties, of medium height, build, and Southern drawl, remarkable only for his red face and overabundance of outrage. “Did I hear right? You think Miles
crowded
you?
His
fault? How dare you!”

Tom got in between us, offering a hand. “I'm Tom Albright, and you are?”

“Don't matter. She better understand correctly.” The red-faced man hadn't taken his eyes off me. “Miles did nothing to you. You plain ran him off the road!”

“It does matter.” Tom spoke firmly. “You know who we are. Who are you?”

He looked at Tom. “Nash Rawlings, president of the Miles Hanson fan club.”

That explained a lot.

“Mr. Rawlings,” I began.

“Bitch!”

Oops.

Rawlings leaned around Tom, shouting at me. “You got no right to talk about someone with more talent in his pinky toe than you got in your whole body. No right! You drive so bad you can't stay on the track by yourself—so you ran into him. And hurt him. They should take away your driver's license.”

It wasn't the time to point out my driver's license only worked on the street. I had a racing license to race cars.

“I think we're done here.” Tom again stepped between us.

But Nash Rawlings kept ranting. “Why do they let you damn girls drive? You're just decorations—” he looked me up and down “—you ain't even good looking. Shouldn't be allowed on the track. You weren't there, more
real
racers could compete!”

I froze. Not letting that one go, no sirree, Bob.

I pushed Tom aside. “Mr. Rawlings. I don't know what century or backwater town you're from, but in case you haven't noticed, women—
women and girls
—have been racing and winning for decades. If you want to talk about decorations, look at the pretty-boy backmarkers who have seats because they sell products well. I have
earned
my way here, and I am tired of being treated as second-class in the racing world because I don't have the right equipment between my legs—and I'm not talking about the car.

“I am a
racecar driver,
and I know sometimes I get hurt. Your favorite driver got hurt today because we both tried to be in the same place at the same time—he
did not
get hurt because I'm a woman. Now take your misogynistic, redneck views and get the hell out of my paddock!”

I flung my hand in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. Only then realizing the SGTV camera had captured every moment on tape.

 

Chapter Five

Two hours later I sat at a table in the main room of Siebkens Tavern with Tom, Mike, and my best friend, Holly Wilson, a petite, polished redhead from Tennessee. A dozen members of the Sandham Swift team and crew were elbow-to-elbow in the crowded room with at least a hundred other members or fans of the racing world.

My head hurt. “Please tell me I didn't really say ‘redneck.' Tell me I didn't lose my temper at a fan for the first time ever.”

“You sure did.” Mike smacked his lips as he polished off his second Leinenkugel lager.

Tom nodded. “It was quite a speech. As your team publicity guy, I have to say it was ill-advised.”

I dropped my head into my hands and groaned.

“But as your friend,” Tom went on, “your response was magnificent.”

I looked up in surprise. “Really?”

“I have to agree, sugar,” Holly said. “It was a moment of glory. I wish I'd been there to see it, though at least I've caught it on the news three times—make that four.” She pointed a red-tipped finger to a television mounted above the bar. “In some ways it's a feminist battle cry. In other ways…you called him a redneck.”

“I didn't, exactly.” I caught her look. “Maybe no one will notice.”

To ignore their pitying expressions, I studied the history around us. “Siebkens” referred to the Siebkens Inn, where I was staying that weekend, a collection of white, two-story clapboard buildings, originally built in the early 1900s and clustered together on a single, large block. But Siebkens also referred to the Tavern, properly the Stop-Inn Tavern, famous as the best bar on the racing circuit.

Drivers and fans had come to Elkhart Lake, Wisconsin, since the 1950s for great motor racing, and they'd been showing up to Siebkens every bit as long. Newer, trendier hotels and resorts appeared over the years, but the racing world had never deserted Siebkens and its Tavern. Everyone in racing had been to the bar at least once to meet friends, order a pub meal, and down a beer or two—and everyone at a race weekend showed up there, too.

The Tavern's décor bore witness to its colorful history. The walls, ceiling, and pillars were plastered with bumper stickers, flags, signs, and any other racing-related item that could be stuck or pinned. I liked to sit where I could see the “Sandham Swift Racing” sticker Mike and I had posted and signed the previous year.

But this time I was glad to be sitting with my back to the Tavern's north wall, near the steps leading to the screened porch, able to watch the room. The reception I'd received so far from the racing world was mixed. Some people were openly supportive, such as the other drivers and crew from Sandham Swift and my friends sitting with me. Two or three individuals, including a prototypically East Coast preppy guy, were outright angry. If looks could kill, I'd be bleeding on the floor of a thousand wounds. I tried to ignore those.

Much of the response was cautious, with the most speculative looks coming from four guys standing together: Felix Simon, two print journalists, and Scott Brooklyn, who reported for SPEED when he couldn't drum up a driving gig. The public might think I'd wrecked Miles on purpose, ignoring or not knowing wrecking was the last thing a racer set out to do. But other drivers and teams in the ALMS—even the media—would know I didn't crash deliberately. Instead, they'd be asking themselves if I was good enough. If I'd been unable to handle the pressure, the weather, and the celebrity driver. Was this a one-time thing, or had Kate choked?

I'd finally seen a replay of the accident, which showed Miles and me in our cars, ricocheting like pinballs between the concrete walls of the Kink, racking up damage instead of high score. The video confirmed my growing suspicion, and race control's determination, that Miles and I shared fault for pushing too much in the wrong conditions. I knew I hadn't lost my nerve or faltered under pressure. But only time and more racing would convince my peers.

A gust of warm air reached our table, bringing with it hints of a humid summer night. Somewhere on the other side of a score of bodies, I heard the screen door leading to the Tavern's lawn and patio slam shut.

“Kate!”

I snapped out of my daze at the sound and sight of Juliana in front of me.

“Jules.” I jumped up to hug her.

The woman with Juliana flashed a large diamond wedding ring set as she pushed her honey-blonde hair behind her ears. Her face was familiar, but it wasn't until her smile revealed the single dimple in her left cheek that I recognized Ellie, or Helen, our friend and former racing competitor.

“Ellie Grayson, how are you?” We hugged each other.

“It's Prescott now, and I'm great. No need to ask how you are. Our Kate!” She held me at arms' length and reached one hand out to Juliana. “Can you believe, the three of us together again? Almost like old times.”

I felt the tightness of regret in my chest. “It's been so long.”

Juliana looked from me to Ellie. “Seven years.”

We'd been an unlikely trio. At twenty-two, Ellie had been the mature and responsible one, innately kind, moving through the world secure in herself and confident in her actions and choices. Juliana, at twenty, was the stop-traffic gorgeous one—adept, controlled, racecar-driver Barbie, with a generous heart and fierce loyalty under the perfect exterior. I'd been the eighteen-year-old tomboy, a serious, focused, and emotional perfectionist. I studied them now. Seven years didn't seem to have changed us much.

The only females racing in a Skip Barber Formula series, we'd been forced together more by circumstance than choice. But we quickly became friends as we grumbled to each other about the lack of facilities for females at racetracks, as well as how the boys who were our competition treated us. By the end of the season, we traveled in a pack to and during race weekends and confided every slight, every racing tip, and any bit of gossip to each other. At the championship banquet, we swore undying friendship and vowed to keep in touch as the season ended.

Our resolve lasted only a couple months, until Ellie bowed to the pressures of her family to focus more on college than racing, I took the racing seat both Juliana and I had been vying for, and Juliana went off to compete in beauty pageants. I'd always been sorry about how our friendship ended.

I squeezed their hands before turning to introduce them to Holly, Tom, and Mike, who exchanged greetings and then left. Mike and Tom went to talk to friends a few tables away, and Holly left for dinner with Western Racing, the team she worked for as hospitality director. It felt almost like old times as Juliana, Ellie, and I sat down together—though in our past life we'd never done so over a clutter of empty beer bottles in a bar.

“I can't believe we're all here.” I couldn't stop smiling. “What have you been doing?”

Ellie gestured to Juliana, who spoke first. “Y'all know I'd always done both pageants and racing? With mama pushing on me, I started taking off in the pageant world and spent a year as Miss Alabama.”

“How did I not know that?” I gasped.

Juliana waved it off. “The racing world doesn't pay much attention to pageants, though I did sing the national anthem at a Talladega NASCAR race that year. I made the top ten in Miss America—almost won the talent and congeniality portions. I still say that girl who won congeniality was a faker.”

Ellie's eyes twinkled, and I burst out laughing.

“She was!” Juliana insisted.

Ellie covered Juliana's hand with hers. “And now you're working for SGTV?”

“That's right. I did a lot of on-camera work as Miss Alabama, and I got hired as a features reporter for a local station in Mobile. Then a network affiliate, then a bigger market, another bigger market. I was in Dallas for the last three years, until I went knocking on SportsGroup's door three months ago.”

“Really?” I wouldn't have called that a step up.

“I wanted to get back to the racing world,” Juliana said. “Their mix of racing and other sports coverage suits me. They've had me jumping around, covering different kinds of events, but I'm convincing them I belong in sportscar racing—and in the booth, not only in the pits.”

I'd forgotten how beautiful Juliana was. Looking at her polish and poise, it was easy to see her as a star in broadcast media. “I'm so glad you're back in racing, Jules.”

“It wasn't the way I meant to do it—thought I'd get here in that racecar you took from me.” I caught my breath as she wagged a finger my direction, though she was smiling. “But I'm here. If I learned anything from mama, it was determination.”

“Determined” didn't begin to cover Juliana's mother. “Demanding, iron-willed, and intolerant of mistakes” might.

Ellie must have remembered her also, because her smile was grim. “How is your mother, Juliana?”

“She passed on early this year. It's been a difficult time.”

Ellie and I both offered sympathy, and after a respectful pause, I turned to Ellie. “And you, Mrs. Prescott? What have you been doing with yourself?”

Ellie glowed with happiness. “For the past six years, I've worked part-time for a company that drives pace and safety cars for the IndyCar series, as well as being an instructor for a couple racing schools. My husband Ethan is the national sales manager for Dunlop Tires—”

“I met him last week,” Juliana explained. “That's how Ellie found us again.”

“We thought we'd surprise you this weekend, Kate. Ethan and I have been married four years now. Two years ago we had twins, Samuel and Chloe.” Ellie reached for her phone and showed us a photo of two adorable toddlers.

She went on. “I'm here this weekend for a couple appointments and because the ALMS is interested in the program my group provides for IndyCar. Wouldn't it be fun if we were all back together next year?”

Juliana nodded and turned to me. “There's little need to ask how and what you've been doing, Kate. Setting the racing world on fire.”

“I'd hardly call it that,” I protested. “Especially after I lost my temper today.”

“You've always worried too much, Kate,” Ellie soothed. “Everyone will understand you're a good person.”

I wanted to feel her optimism. I turned to Juliana. “Tell us about the cities you've worked in and what it's really like in broadcasting.”

As Juliana shared stories of newsroom antics and described her favorite neighborhoods across the country, Stuart joined us, a beer bottle in one hand, a drink in the other.

“Kate. Ladies.” He nodded to them as he set the glass in front of me, saying, “Orange juice, hold the vodka.” He knew I preferred water or juice to alcohol after a race—even an aborted race like this—to get my body rehydrated. His appearance, and the beverage, meant at least one American Le Mans Series official wasn't mad at me for ruining Miles' foray into sportscar racing.

I performed the introductions, though it turned out Stuart and Ellie already knew each other. Juliana batted her eyelashes, and like every male I ever saw, Stuart responded with a smile. “Can I get either of you ladies something from the bar?”

“Some orange juice, like Kate,” Ellie said. “If you wouldn't mind.”

I stopped him. “Ellie can take this one, if that's all right with her. I've had three already, and I'm feeling waterlogged.” At Ellie's nod, I excused myself to the bathroom.

As I fought my way back to the table through the crowd, the SPEED journalist jostled me on his way out the door. I couldn't tell if his roughness was deliberate or a function of the packed room, but I decided to ignore it. I heard Gramps' voice in my head, “Don't go borrowing trouble.”

Juliana sat alone at our table. I looked around to see Stuart talking to someone at the bar, but no sign of Ellie. “They left you by yourself? I'm sorry, Juliana.”

“Not to worry. Stuart apologized but was pulled away by some people from Audi corporate headquarters. And then Ellie got a call from her kids—her husband, I suppose—so she stepped outside.”

“Still, it wasn't nice of us to leave you. You don't have any headache medicine, do you, Jules? Or ibuprofen?”

“Nothing with me, sorry.” She held up a stylish leather bag barely large enough for money and a cell phone, then stood as Ellie returned. “I was only waiting for you both to come back so I could say goodbye.”

We exchanged e-mail addresses, phone numbers, and hugs, vowing to keep in touch. Juliana indicated she'd be working the pits for SGTV at the last race of the season. Ellie wouldn't be there, but we knew we'd see her the next year at race weekends the ALMS shared with IndyCar.

“Or maybe at all of the ALMS races,” Ellie said, after Juliana left.

“Something you want to share?”

She smiled, flashing her dimple again. “Not yet, but I'll let you know.”

Stuart returned a minute later and pulled up a chair next to me. Tom also drifted over, bringing with him a friend named Buddy who drove for a GT Porsche team.

I rubbed my forehead. “I need to hunt down some painkillers, if you all will save my seat here for a few minutes. Don't go anywhere. I'll be right back.”

Stuart pulled my chair back for me, and Ellie waved as I headed for the door.

Twenty minutes later, I knelt behind the Tavern next to her dead body.