Braking Points (24 page)

Chapter Forty-seven

I made it to Centennial Park in downtown Atlanta the next morning by 7:30. Tired, but on my feet. Not even hungover. Even more amazing, Tom and Holly agreed to leave our hotel at 6:45 to go with me. Stuart also made a surprise appearance, showing up right before eight o'clock. I felt guilty, seeing him there. I needed to get my head straight and apologize to him. But not in the middle of hundreds of people.

I waited with my friends and the rest of the Beauté spokeswomen and corporate reps—Lindsay Eastwood and others—near the Centennial Park Concert Stage, where the races would begin and end. The half-marathon had taken off at 7:30, with the marathon runner spokeswoman—Leslie something—and Tina the jockey joining that pack. The other four of us would go out with the 5K groups at 8:30: the soccer player and basketball player running it, the rower and me walking—with a thousand of our closest friends.

Early or not, the atmosphere was festive. The temperature was still cool, and the roads had been deserted, right up until we reached the streets around Centennial Park. The stage and multiple pop-up tents were festooned with balloons and banners—predominately pink and white—and pop music with a quick tempo blared from the speakers. Under the tents, each event sponsor distributed samples and information: makeup and product brochures from Beauté, nutrition bars from a sports food company, sweatbands from an athletic gear company, and so forth.

After ten minutes of on-stage activities, during which an energetic female emcee introduced executives and spokeswomen, invited each of us to say a few words, and pumped up the crowd, we were instructed to line up for the race start.

“Someone gonna yell ‘green, green, green' in my ear?” Holly wondered, as we followed an event volunteer to the head of the walking group.

Tom and Stuart chuckled.

As we reached the crowd, another walker attached himself to our group: my super-fan, George Ryan. He wore the same event t-shirt everyone else did and toted a camera, which he used to take a photo of me as I walked past him.

“Hi Kate,” he said, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

“Thanks for coming out today, George.” I shook his hand.

I heard Tom talking to George behind me as we approached the main pack of people—mostly women—waiting to walk the course. I felt the first flash of nerves at being a representative of an issue and an organization with so much impact. Then I felt proud to be able to contribute. I stepped forward and introduced myself to everyone in sight. I hardly noticed when the gun sounded for the 5K runners, when our group started walking, or details about the course, because I was listening to stories about why people were there and how breast cancer touched their lives.

The race route ended where we began, and we returned to the field in front of the stage for the presentation of medals to top finishers. I had no further duties, so I stayed in the crowd and applauded.

George touched my arm to get my attention. “I wanted to say good bye.”

“There was something I wanted to ask you about, George. The other day you said something about drivers' personalities, how they can be different behind the wheel. That some will always be jerks. Who were you thinking of when you said that?”

“No one I'd consider a jerk. But you know, some drivers are really aggressive in the car, but not on foot. I figure, no matter how nice they are out of the car, they're going to be strong-willed. Maybe have a temper. There's a personality trait that will be the same, even when people act differently in the two situations. It's not a well-formed theory, sorry.”

“Why didn't you think Ellie would keep driving? And how did you know Felix Simon and Zeke Andrews would end up in broadcasting?”

“I didn't think Ellie had the fire inside. Felix and Zeke?” He grinned. “They're hams. Always loved the spotlight.”

“But not Scott Brooklyn?”

“There's something more private about him. I didn't peg him to be able to stand being around racing if he wasn't behind the wheel. I always thought he wanted it more than a lot of drivers, but he didn't know how to connect for it. But he's good on-camera.”

“That's an interesting perspective.” I paused. “What about me?”

“Too soon to tell.”

I laughed and shook his hand. “Good answer. I can't think about the end of my racing career yet. Thanks again for coming this morning. It's really great of you to support the organization.”

“Anything you support, I'll support. I'll see you at the dinner tonight.”

He left as the crowd applauded the final winner. Two minutes later, the perky emcee closed by exhorting us to support our sponsors at their booths.

I snapped a phone photo of the stage and tweeted it:

“@katereilly28: Great turnout for Beauté and BCRF 5K downtown ATL. Thanks to all participants and supporters. Keep working on a cure! [pic]”

Stuart checked his watch. “I have to head back to cover some of tonight's details.”

“Thanks for coming, Stuart.” I paused, looked him in the eye. “I'm looking forward to more time to talk.”

He nodded, but I couldn't read anything in his expression. He said goodbye to the others and set out across the park.

Holly, Tom, and I agreed to do a quick walk around the tents before we left. Near the BCRF tent, we ran into Juliana and a cameraman. Tom wandered off to a nutritional supplements table while Holly, Jules, and I compared notes on what we planned to wear to the banquet—I'd be in blue, Holly in black, and Jules in red for her role up on stage.

“I hope you insisted on a speaking role,” Holly said. “Not the silent trophy girl.”

Juliana laughed. “You better believe it.”

“Jules,” I lowered my voice. “Is everything good with you and Scott? Is he OK?”

She nodded. “Why do you ask?”

“I saw the argument you had in the pits yesterday, plus he's seemed frustrated recently. He could benefit from Felix's death if a spot on the broadcast team opens up next year.”

Juliana looked annoyed, and I spoke again quickly. “I'm worried for both of us. I just found you again. I don't want to lose you also. I'm messing this up.”

“How can I get mad at you for being concerned for me? Trust me, I'm watching out for myself.” She put a hand on my shoulder and looked to Holly. “I'll see you later this evening? Looking fabulous?”

“Sugar,” Holly drawled, “you can count on it.”

Jules wiggled her fingers at us and took off.

I looked at Holly. “She didn't say anything about Scott.”

“She sure didn't.”

I looked around at the tents and the crowds. The pink and the purpose. “This has been great, but it's time to get back to the racing world and wrap up this season.”

Tom walked up in time to hear my last statement. “Shall we go? The Night of Champions banquet awaits.”

 

Chapter Forty-eight

We got back to our hotels a little before noon. Holly and I had an afternoon date at the Chateau Élan spa before the banquet that night, and she opted for a nap first. I was tired, but I knew the questions rattling around in my mind would prevent me from sleeping. One concerned something Ellie's husband Ethan had said, and I reached him at the cell number he'd given me.

When he answered, I heard a horde of children in the background, shrieking and laughing. “Is this a bad time?”

“I'm with my kids at a birthday party. Plenty of parents supervising, so I can talk.”

“I wondered about something you mentioned. What was the new job you said Ellie looked forward to?”

“SGTV cooked up a gimmick. Ellie and Juliana were going to pair up to cover the pits next year. They were going to promote the heck out of them—”

“As the ‘pit princesses.'”

“Right, you heard about it.”

“Felix mentioned the term, but didn't explain. Any idea where he'd have been?”

“The booth, Ellie was told. Guess they'll have to figure something else out now.”

“Was that the goal you said Ellie had found?”

“No.” He paused. “The goal was a year of sobriety. Ellie was a recovering alcoholic.”

I was stunned into silence.

“Surprising, right?” He gave a tired laugh. “I learned alcoholics are never who you expect.”

“But, her job? Your twins?”

“She was high-functioning. She'd cut back during her pregnancy, and the babies were on formula from day one for other reasons. She went back to her habits after they were born. That's when I found out. She'd hidden it from me for years. From everyone.”

“Was she drinking back when we were racing? I didn't see it.”

“She was good at hiding it. They usually are. Racing's what started it—she said winner's circle champagne was a trigger.”

I remembered my surprise the first time we had champagne in the winner's circle—I'd been fifteen. I'd taken a few sips, in between spraying the others on the podium, but Gramps quickly stepped in and took the bottle away. His later warnings to stay away from it until I was of legal age hadn't been necessary, as I didn't like the out-of-control feeling alcohol gave me. Later, I'd learned to enjoy a couple glasses of wine, but I'd never developed into much of a drinker.

“I can understand that. So she got sober. She was in the Tavern with us—but she ordered juice.”

“She was really proud of coming close to her year mark. We planned a special celebration, just the two of us with Sammy and Chloe. She was following all the steps, including reaching out and making amends. I don't know all the details, but I know she'd reached out to a former fiancé who she said she'd treated badly.”

I had to clear my throat to get the name out. “Stuart Telarday?”

“I think that was it. And I know it was important to talk to you and Juliana.”

“Do you know who else she talked to?”

“I'm not supposed to know—or tell, since that's her private business. But I found her notes, and it can't hurt her now.” He gave me a dozen names, among which I recognized Stuart, Zeke, Rosalie, Juliana, myself, and Scott Brooklyn.

“I don't know what she wanted to talk to me about,” I said. “I don't think there was anything she'd need to make amends to me for.”

“I don't know the details, but she'd had her heart-to-heart with Juliana, who forgave her. Ellie was glad to be free of that weight.”

“You spoke with her when she was at the Tavern, didn't you?”

“Just before she died, yes. She was happy—thrilled at seeing the two of you. At being sober and part of the racing world again. At least she had those moments, and I have the memory.” He sighed. “You know, there were times I wondered if my life would come to this. If I'd have to raise the kids without her. But then she got better…I wasn't prepared after all.”

I offered him my condolences again, and we hung up. His information left me reeling. I wanted to talk to Juliana about her conversation with Ellie. I wanted to know Scott's connection to Ellie—since he'd told me he didn't know her. Most of all, I wanted to know why Stuart, once again, hadn't told me a key part of the story.

I put those questions aside and thought instead about the Lascuolas and the cranky cousins having been in Elkhart Lake and Atlanta. Dominic Lascuola particularly interested me, because he was one of only three people in both places who also had access to the race-winner's special watches. Scott Brooklyn and Zeke were the others. Unless there were other race-winning drivers out there who'd been in Siebkens and Atlanta and hated me. I wasn't sure I was getting anywhere.

I got up to make some coffee in the two-cup pot, hoping the caffeine would stimulate some brain activity. My cell phone rang as the coffee started dripping.

“Gramps.”

“Katie, my love. How are you today?”

“Tired, but doing better now I've put coffee on. I'm more awake from the smell.”

“Best drink in the world!”

I'd learned to love coffee from Gramps, who adored the taste and brewed it fresh all day long—caffeinated until noon, decaf after. Always black and hot, even in the dead of summer.

“But not that iced garbage,” I parroted his favorite line.

“You know me well. Congratulations on the podium, Katie! All of you put in a hell of a drive. How'd you feel about leading the first half hour of the race?”

With Gramps I could crow. “Damn good—every second. Just wish I could have held on longer. That we could have won.”

“Here now, don't be greedy. Twenty cars in that class, and you ended up third. In a major, worldwide race. Nothing to be ashamed of. Besides, you finished second in the championship this year. That's nothing to sneeze at either.”

“You're right. It's something to keep pushing for.”

“Good to have goals. Hang on, Katie, here's Vivien.”

A rustling, then, “Congratulations, Katherine. I was so proud watching you take the green flag and lead those laps.”

“Thanks—and thank you for watching.”

She tsked. “Racing's not my choice, but it's yours, and I support you. I certainly won't miss when you're on television and you put on such a good show.”

“Me being out front was pretty cool, wasn't it?”

“Pretty cool, indeed.” The words sounded strange from her, and I laughed.

She went on. “We'll take you out to dinner to celebrate when you're back home. Do you know your plans yet?”

“I'll probably be a couple weeks yet. Beauté wants to do the photo shoot at the Sandham Swift shop in the next week or two, and…”
What
to do about Stuart?

“Will you spend time with that young man you've been seeing?”

Grandmother was no fool. “I think I will, for a couple days. We have to talk some things out, see if this is going anywhere.”

“Parents always want their children to know the joy of head-over-heels love. But we also want you to think things through and choose wisely. The hardest thing is finding someone you can trust as well as love. Someone who won't bow to other pressures.” She paused. “Be careful with your heart.”

“I'm being very careful I'm not hurt. I promise you.”

“Good, that's good.”

“Grandmother? I mean that about Stuart and about my father.”

Silence. I closed my eyes, afraid I'd pushed too far.

Very quietly: “I know. Be careful.”

More silence and then Gramps was back. “She's out of the room now, Katie. I didn't hear it all, but it sounded like progress.”

“It was. I love you both, Gramps. Make sure you tell her I said that. I'll see you in a couple weeks for that celebration dinner.”

“Bet your boots, we will. Now knock 'em dead at the party tonight.”

As soon as I set the phone down to pour myself some coffee, a chime heralded a message from my PR team. Matt and Lily announced media coverage of me had turned positive and would keep on improving. Even on racing blogs. As proof, they included a link to a Racing's Ringer post, which I clicked on with trepidation.

“Food for Thought About Kate Reilly,” the headline read. “Ringer Readers, tell me, have I been too hasty in dismissing Kate Reilly's abilities and potential? I watched her this race weekend, and was grudgingly impressed with her driving ability and how she handles herself. Hmmmm, do I need to rethink Calamity Kate Violent? The Ringer does hate being wrong, but I hate being a hypocrite even more. Tell me, Readers, what's your opinion?”

I almost fell over with shock.
What on Earth did I do to change his mind?
The answer: nothing. I did my job, the same as every other race weekend.

I raised my coffee in a toast. “Here's to you, Ringer, for finally paying attention.”