Turn & Burn (9 page)

I moved my attention to Doris. “If you were raised southern, you know there’s a special circle of Hell for young folks who are rude to their elders. My mama says it so, and I believe her.”

“Now, you were raised right!” Doris proclaimed. The women laughed this time. Most heads bobbed in agreement.

“I was gritting my teeth when he put the seat back to get behind the wheel. That just frosts my cookies, because people never think to put it back into the right position.”

Another ripple of guffaws from the men. Bliss Roark elbowed Jamie and cried, “Oh, I know exactly what you mean.”

I tipped my head in her direction, but moved my gaze back to Dale’s face.

“He studied the dash, ran his hands over the instruments, and wrapped gnarled fingers around the shifter. He said, ‘I never see these much no more, but every time I do, I think about the best damn racecar driver I ever had the pleasure of knowin’, and honey, I know ‘em all.’”

Interest flared in the crowd’s eyes, because I’d hooked my story to their passion.

“Now, his wife makes me look tall, but she jumped right on him. ‘Tip,’ she said, wagging a finger, ‘don’t you even get started. Look at her, she can’t be twenty. She don’t wanna stand here while you run on about some driver she’s never gonna meet’.”

The crowd laughed again, but Dale’s brows went up. Richard sat his drink down and turned his complete attention my way. So did Doris, which I counted a huge victory, since her eyelids had begun to droop as if they couldn’t hold up under the weight of those false lashes much longer.

“The man just kept sitting there, caressing that wheel. ‘Francine, I’m gonna tell this story, so you just hush the hell up,’ he said.”

I threw up my hands, much as I’d done that day. “I gave up, figuring the sooner he got his story told, the sooner I could get my sugar fix and get back to school.”

Dale shifted, putting his elbows on his knees. Linking his hands between his legs, he stared at the carpet. Colt and Caine stared holes through me. I gazed around the room, meeting more than one enraptured gaze.

Kolby got up and stalked toward the hallway leading to the garage.
Fuck you, too, jerk.

I raised my voice just a bit. “‘See, honey,’ the old man continued, ‘this guy, he grew up in an orphanage. Kid never had no car of his own, but he drove like Earnhardt. One day, up in Michigan, a fella offered to sell him one of these here cars. The young driver wanted that Barracuda so bad he could taste it, I tell you. He shook the man’s hand on a price and started puttin’ back every dime. Picked a good year to do it, because that year, he was named Rookie of the Year. I sure was proud of him, and as soon as the season ended, he asked if I’d ride with him to pick up his car.’”

“‘But, that driver, see, was better lookin’ than Earnhardt. He had a lot of luck with the ladies. Too much luck, I reckon, ‘cause before we could leave, an old girlfriend showed up and left a baby on his doorstep. Just dropped that young’un on him and run.’”

The couple and I had become close since the day I was describing. I doubted Ernie Tipton would care if I imitated his manner of speech. I sure hoped not, because I looked past the tables to see him and his wife standing just inside the atrium. Harry—and Phillip—beamed from behind the couple. I’d browbeaten Harry into driving them up. Ernie just couldn’t see to drive anymore. Francine, his wife, disliked driving after dark on unfamiliar roads.

I gestured. “Ernie, this is your story. Want to take over? Ladies and gentleman, please meet my friend, and Dale’s, Mr. Ernie Tipton.”

Ernie left Francine standing with Harry and sauntered into the atrium. His bald head gleamed. I spied the sweat popping out on his brow from the short walk, but his smile stretched from ear to ear as he picked up where I’d left off.

“Now he coulda kept racin’. I reckon that gasoline runs in his veins, but he wasn’t gonna risk leavin’ his baby boy to be raised by the state.” Ernie surveyed the intent faces, then gestured toward the memorial wall.

Bliss Roark bowed her head.

“People say it’s hard to know what’s in a man’s heart. I say it’s the easiest goddamn thing you’ll ever do. Just look at what he puts first. That young rookie never raced a second season. He took the money he put by for that car and he bought him a house and a used motor home. Fixed ‘em both up for his son, and then he begged the team owner to let him get under the hood.”

The old man put a hand on Dale’s shoulder. Dale clapped his hand over Ernie’s, but didn’t lift his head. Ernie pointed an arthritic finger at Richard Ridenhour. “But his boss man said, ‘I don’t need a damn mechanic. Mechanics are a dime a dozen. I need a driver who can win.’”

Ernie’s imitation of Richard’s gruff voice was spot-on. Everyone laughed so loud, I was sure Richard talked about winning often. When Ernie raised an age-spotted hand, the room quieted. “But I twisted his arm.” He grinned and pointed to the long line of trophies. “I make it ten championships in twenty-five years so far, since the day we had our little chat. Is my math right, Rick?”

My math sucked, but with forty or more teams out on the track for every race, I thought their winning percentage was excellent.

Richard leaned his chair back and slid his jacket open. “You know it is, motherfucker. Tell the truth. You didn’t come to celebrate nothin’. You just came to say ‘I told you so’.”

The laughter was more raucous now.

I jumped in before the crowd could start clapping or Rickard and Ernie started trading insults. “Now, I have to admit, I wasn’t much of a NASCAR fan the day I met Ernie. But I know a good storyteller when I meet one. And the cardinal rule of keeping your audience’s attention is to hook the tale to something near and dear to their hearts. But I was a little shocked when he said, ‘I appreciate your time, honey. I know you got things to do, but I never see one of these old cars that I don’t wonder if Dale Hannah ever got to buy himself one.’”

Murmurs and gasps rippled around the room.

“I just stared. Then, I reached into my wallet and took out the registration. Put the card in Ernie’s hand, because I couldn’t talk. He studied the name of the registered owner, then he handed it back with the biggest grin. He said, “Hot damn, I never knew Dale got himself a girl.’”

I had to stop and blink back tears. When I continued, the tremor in my voice was genuine. “I replied, ‘I don’t think he really had one, to tell the truth, until right this minute.’”

Taking a deep breath, I felt like shit, but I swung the hammer designed to drive a wedge between father and sons. This moment was why I’d agreed to come.

“Any eighteen-year-old can tell you a car represents freedom. I left Concord in my rearview mirror six months after my mother married Dale, and I counted myself lucky to be gone. I left the Barracuda in the carport on purpose. I didn’t care about Dale’s love for NASCAR. I certainly didn’t share it. When he brought the car to me yet again, I couldn’t understand why he’d do that.”

I moved my eyes to Colt’s face. “See, the first time Dale put the keys in my hand, it caused a huge rift between me and his sons. I couldn’t figure out why he seemed determined to turn them against me, when we were just starting to get along.”

Silence reigned. Colt’s jaw moved, as though he clenched his teeth. He cut a glance at Caine, but Caine’s eyes were riveted to my face.

“Then a funny thing happened. See, almost every person who wanted to talk about that car taught me that NASCAR runs through that ‘Cuda’s DNA. Just like the sport runs through Dale Hannah’s DNA. My stepbrothers already knew all the things I learned from talking to people like Ernie. And Dale turned out to be a lot smarter than I could ever have guessed the night my mama brought him home to meet me. He never tried to tell me who he was. He just sat me in a big purple puddle of everything he is and everything he loves. I have a hunch he knew all along, it would seep through my skin.”

Now, most eyes gleamed with tears. I had them in the palm of my hand, and I thrilled to the feeling, but I couldn’t forget why I was telling this story. “So, Colt, Caine, I hope you can forgive Dale for giving me the keys to that car, and stop holding it against me for taking them. See, I’d never have learned to appreciate the man we call father without it.”

Oh, yes.
Colt’s Adam’s apple bobbed above his tie. Caine ducked his head and rubbed his eyes. Mom’s low sob rang in the silent room. Dale seemed frozen, eyes still downcast.

“Dale, some in the room might say, so what? You had to give up racing, then you made lemonade from lemons. I’d disagree. Ernie taught me that you made gold from gasoline. Chemistry isn’t my best subject, but even I know that’s harder than adding water and sugar to lemon juice. But, when Mom told me you didn’t want Richard to make a big deal out of your twenty-fifth anniversary with Ridenhour Racing, I said, “Hey, Ernie, I see a way to pay Dale back for making it impossible to just go buy a damn doughnut, and I sure could use your help.”

Every person in the room burst out laughing. A smatter of applause broke out.

I raised my voice to be heard. “Congratulations to Dale Hannah for twenty-five years of showing up to work and showing up to win. Take it from a girl who got half her DNA from a man who never bothered to show up at all, that’s something to celebrate.”

I led the round of applause, but Bliss Roark led the crowd in rising to their feet, with Jamie close behind.

Richard stood. Doris handed him a gaudy plaque. He held it aloft and the room fell quiet.

“I thank God every day that I took Ernie’s advice, because the rest, as they say, is history. Dale, if you punch me for goin’ behind your back to do this, I’ll still fire your ass.”

He waggled the plaque, which had to be three feet long and eighteen inches wide. I wondered if Mom would banish it, too, as Richard yelled, “Here’s to twenty-five years of dominatin’ this fuckin’ sport, thanks in no small part to Crew Chief Hannah. Now, lift your fuckin’ glasses to twenty-five more, give Dale a big round of applause, and let’s party down.”

Dale gazed at the plaque Richard thrust into his hands. “Might be worth it,” he muttered, gripping the monstrous piece like a bat and pretending to swing it at his boss, who laughed uproariously.

Jamie Roark cried, “Speech! C’mon, Hannah.”

Dale scowled at the driver. “I know better’n to follow a good act with a bad one.” He cleared his throat and handed the plaque to Mom. “And I try not to cry like a little bitch in front of folks.” To my astonishment, he whirled, nearly knocking Ernie over. Grabbing his elbow, he waited till the old man steadied, then strode toward the front entrance.

“Keys are beside the seat,” I yelled, guessing what he meant to do. He threw up a hand to show he’d heard me and kept moving. I felt someone staring and turned to meet Colt’s eyes. He gave me a one-sided smile and tipped his head.

Game on, motherfucker. Let’s see how you like it when the shoe’s on the other foot
. 

Grinning like I’d just hit the lottery, I made sure I swung my hips when I moved toward the small group standing at the edge of the big Oriental rug.

Giving Harry a quick hug, I whispered. “That was timed to perfection. Thank you.”

He returned the hug. “Phillip’s actin’ like a man who just died and woke up in heaven, so we’ll just be looking around, if that’s okay? And holy shit, Shelby, Gretchen Wilson’s tour bus pulled in right ahead of us.”

“Really?” I smiled over his shoulder at the young attorney, but Phillip was too busy gawking to notice me. I glanced toward the front entrance. Sure enough, a long bus, decorated with bright graphics, blocked my view through the door. “Damn. When Richard throws a party, he throws a party.”

“Oh, that’s all Doris.” Francine Tipton smiled. I hugged her, delighted she’d come, too. “If it was left up to Rick, his idea of a good time is trying to top Ernie in telling tales,” she whispered.

Laughing, I took Francine to the table to meet Mom. “This is Ernie’s wife, Francine. The very next semester after I met them at Krispy Kreme, Francine turned up in one of my classes. She’s a Converse alumnus, and was taking the course for accreditation hours. She teaches sixth grade history.” I grinned at Francine. “Bless her heart. Kids who just found out they have hormones and American History don’t mix well, in my opinion, but someone’s gotta do it and thank God, it’s not me. Francine, this is my mother, Macy Hannah.” I went around the table, introducing the rest.

“So good to see you again, Frannie. Rick’s over the moon that y’all finally took him up on an invitation to one of our Christmas shindigs. Too bad you never made it to a cruise.” Doris waggled her fingers, but her smile promptly melted into a sad expression. “Lord, hun, I haven’t seen you since the day Dale died.” She glanced around the table. “She and I were sittin’ together that horrible day at Daytona.”

It took me a second to realize she meant Dale Earnhardt.

“Hello, Doris.” When Francine turned from the owner’s wife to Mom, the frost faded from her hazel eyes and her smile became more genuine. “We’ve enjoyed Shelby so much. Not only did she tutor me through the worst course I’ve ever had to take as a grad student, but she comes over on race day sometimes. Brings her laundry and sits at Ernie’s feet to watch the race. I get to read in peace while she listens to his stories.” She sank into Dale’s empty seat. “You’ll be lucky if I give her back after graduation, Macy. I have thoroughly enjoyed having a daughter, without the stretch marks.”

Mom raised a brow and cut me a hard look, covered by a warm smile.

“Ernie’s better than the announcers.” I looked from Colt to Caine to Jonny to keep from rolling my eyes at Mom’s little show of jealousy. “He not only explains the driver’s strategy, he fills me in on every old feud along the way. Excuse me a moment.”

Before I could reach Harry and Phillip, I heard a scream. “Asshole!”

Every head swiveled to see a young woman wearing the catering crew’s red jacket burst from the hallway that led to the garage. She rushed up to the man who stood behind the buffet table, lifting heavy lids off huge steam trays.

“I quit,” she shouted. “You don’t pay me enough to put up with being sexually harassed.” She dashed through the crowded tables, nearly bowling me over. The caterer hurried after her.