Kiss the Bricks Page 8

  He smothered a smile. “She finally agreed with me it’s time you know what we shielded you from all these years.” He shook his head. “She thinks you’ll read this and be convinced to cut all ties with them, but I’ve tried to prepare her for that not happening.”

  “It would be tough now with all the contracts.” I stared at the envelope, suddenly unsure I wanted to see what it contained. “Seriously, Gramps, why now? Why not two and a half years ago, before I got involved with Frame Savings at all?”

  He was silent a long moment. “I wish I had an answer for you, Kate. But it wouldn’t be the first time your grandmother thought she could change reality by refusing to acknowledge it.”

  “It’s part of her charm?”

  “And it’s what gives you that killer instinct.”

  I had to acknowledge that truth, even if I didn’t like it. Not for the first time, I wondered what my mother had been like, if she’d have bridged the chasm I often felt yawning between my grandmother’s attitudes and mine.

  Gramps looked down at his hands, worrying the already worn corners of the envelope. “You can’t look at these now, though—not with the race and all of your obligations this month. You need to wait until you’ve got some time to deal with it.” He blew out a breath. “Because the details are awful.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Present Day

  I crossed my arms and tucked my hands into my armpits, studying the envelope Gramps held as if it were a snake. “I’m torn between wanting to rip it open this minute and wanting to light it on fire. I guess it’s a case of ‘be careful what you ask for.’”

  “Katie, I wish I could spare you from this—we’ve tried to do that your whole life.” The corners of Gramps’ mouth pulled down. “But it’s obvious that not knowing isn’t the right answer either. You’ve got to lance the boil to start the healing.”

  I grimaced. “That sounds icky and painful.”

  “Just like this will be.”

  Do I really want to know? Of course I do. I can’t live the rest of my life in the dark. Can I wait to open the envelope? Probably.

  I nodded at Gramps, then reached for the envelope.

  But he pulled it back, out of my grasp. “I know you, Katie. Patience isn’t your strong suit, and I won’t be responsible for messing up your Indy 500—or your season. I need your word you won’t open this until you have a break in your racing schedule—and then you’ll commit to reading it all.”

  Dammit, Gramps.

  I frowned at him. “All right, I promise. But you’ve got to do something for me.”

  “Anything.” He handed me the envelope.

  “You may be sorry you said that. I need you to get along with my father.” I saw the frustration and anger on his face. “You’re going to run into him—at parties, in the garage, at the banquet, sometime. I need you both to be civil. To not cause any drama.”

  “Me? Drama?” Gramps tried to look innocent. “What about him? Can he manage it?”

  “I’ll have the same conversation with him when I see him, but I’m more concerned about it being hard on you.” I reached out and took his hand. “I don’t want to hurt you, and I hate to ask, but I need you to do it.”

  “For the good of your career, I know.” He sighed. “I’ll play nice—just don’t ask me to be his new best friend.”

  Gramps was nearly put to the test when we arrived at the Speedway late the next morning. I was focused on the practice session ahead, on the changes we might make to deal with overcast skies and a cooler track. On hoping it didn’t rain. Gramps was excited to spend the day in the garage and pits with the crew. Neither of us was prepared to see my father first thing.

  We’d entered Gasoline Alley when I saw my father approaching. I turned to Gramps. “Go ahead to my garage—on the other side of that building. Let me talk with him alone.”

  “Gladly.” Gramps scurried off, eyes on the ground.

  My father watched Gramps curiously, then moved closer and kissed my cheek. “Is that your grandfather? I didn’t know he would be here.”

  I nodded. “He’s here through the race, staying with me.”

  “Is your grandmother with him?” His voice was carefully neutral.

  “Grandmother never comes to races.” My stomach churned as I imagined trying to handle my grandmother and my father in the same city.

  “That’s a bullet dodged,” he muttered.

  I winced. “I need to put you in a different line of fire. I’m hoping you and my grandfather can agree to be polite for the next couple weeks. I can’t spend my time keeping you apart or worrying about shouting matches breaking out.”

  My father looked affronted, and I stopped him. “I’m exaggerating.”

  He nodded. “Did he agree?”

  “He did.”

  “Then I can do no less.” He pulled me in for a hug. “Don’t worry about us. Focus on the race.”

  “Thank you.” I pulled back. “There’s one other thing.”

  He raised his eyebrows and smiled. “Something else you need? A loan? A kidney?”

  I wished I could feel any levity about the situation at all.

  “Gramps brought me a packet of information about my mother—the background on whatever happened all those years ago. But he made me promise not to open it yet, not while I’m focusing on a race.” I hesitated. “He said it’s going to hurt.”

  My father went blank and opened his mouth to speak twice before he got words out. “I hope you’ll tell me if there’s anything I can do to support you when you go through the information.” He cleared his throat. “Also, I know I have no right to ask…”

  When he didn’t continue, I finished his thought. “If I can share it with you, I will. That’s all I can promise without seeing what it is.”

  “Fair enough.” He let out a long breath. “Having an explanation in your hands must be a shock.”

  I’d been trying not to dwell on the fact that the answers I’d sought for years were now tucked in a cubby on my desk at home. I’d had enough trouble going to sleep the night before with my imagination running on overdrive.

  Did Grandmother and the Reillys fight over me? Was there more to the story of my mother’s death? Who from my father’s family was at the hospital? Who gave me away—and why?

  My stomach gave another queasy roll. “It’s unsettling. But I need to put it aside for now—this race is going to be stressful enough.”

  For a while, the car was my savior. I felt the familiar magic—when I got in and put my visor down, the rest of the world went away. I didn’t think about family secrets or missing parents. I thought about air. Specifically, the airflow around my car and the dirty air caused by it flowing around other cars in close proximity to mine. Of course, at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway and at speeds topping 225 mph, “close proximity” could be five or six car lengths behind.

  The practice session was good enough to restore my optimism. It was “Fast Friday,” so named because all cars got an increase in horsepower and a single day to get used to it before a full weekend of qualification. Saturday runs would lock a car and driver into either the first through ninth positions or tenth through thirty-third positions, and Sunday runs would set our starting positions within those groups. Both were important days, but Saturday, “Bump Day,” was do-or-die day, because anyone who didn’t make one of the top thirty-three spots would be bumped from the field and wouldn’t start the race.

  Realistically, I had no shot at pole position or the top group. But I wanted to be solidly in the rest of the pack with a good enough speed that I wouldn’t have to make multiple attempts or spend anxious minutes waiting to be bumped. The team had put my car back together so well from my accident I was relatively confident for qualifying—but anything could happen.

  That day we dealt well with the extra boost, ending twenty-second on
the speed chart, but fifteenth with the aerodynamic “tow” from another car. I’d managed to get behind other cars a number of times, working on my feel for handling in different airflows, and I’d picked up speed when I followed another car that was breaking the air for both of us. When I didn’t have to create a tunnel through the air, I went faster.

  That speed was encouraging overall, but it wouldn’t help for qualifying, when each car took to the track alone for four timed laps. Still, we were in better shape than we might have been, given my mistake the day before.

  I sat on the pit wall for a few minutes talking with Alexa and Nolan about how the car had felt over the full fuel runs (pretty good), where it had felt light in the rear (the middle of Turn 4), and where it had wanted to push or not turn (entering Turn 2). We talked about what speeds might be reached in group qualifying the next day (231 mph max) and what our target was (227) to be safe in the field of thirty-three. We also discussed strategy for making additional qualifying attempts if I didn’t reach our target speed the first time, but I excused myself when Nolan and Alexa started to drill down on their spreadsheets, getting into excruciating detail of comparison speeds, track temperature, and time of day.

  As I walked back to my garage, I ran into Alexa’s mother, Diane, walking with a curvy woman sporting a series polo shirt and long, salt-and-pepper hair.

  “We were coming to find you,” Diane said. “Meet Vallorie Westleton, from IndyCar Timing and Scoring. This is our Kate, who did so well in first practice.”

  Vallorie and I shook hands as Diane continued, “Vallorie’s been in racing as long as I have, even if she’s a couple years younger. I know you’re curious about PJ. Vallorie knew her well.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  May 1987

  Vallorie found PJ slouched against the wall inside her garage, arms wrapped around herself. “Have they gotten anywhere?”

  PJ glanced at her friend. “They are not sure yet. Perhaps.”

  Vallorie nudged PJ over and leaned against the wall with her. She studied the mechanics working on the car. “The car shouldn’t have changed so dramatically. It doesn’t seem logical.”

  PJ raised her eyebrows. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Do you think someone has done this?”

  “Deliberately?” Vallorie blew out a breath. “No.”

  “But you are not sure?”

  “I don’t think anyone’s sabotaged your car deliberately. That would be crazy. But it’s hard to understand how you could be the fastest and then the slowest.”

  “Conditions change. I crashed the car and the rear assembly was fixed. The other cars got faster. Perhaps I am losing my nerve.” PJ said the last lightly, but Vallorie could hear the hurt in her tone.

  A tall, lanky young man poked his head into the garage and jogged over to Vallorie, arriving as she told PJ, “That’s bullshit. Utter bullshit, and I won’t hear it.”

  PJ smiled, and directed Vallorie’s attention to the newcomer.

  Vallorie turned. “Tom, sorry. What’s going on?” She saw him glance at PJ and introduced them. “Tom Barclay, an intern with my uncle’s team this summer, and less of a pain in the butt than most.”

  He was older than a typical teenage intern, maybe mid-twenties, but PJ could see he was still wide-eyed at the glories of the racing world. She shook his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Ditto.” He turned to Vallorie. “Bill said to remind you to go to the bank and the cleaners tonight, ‘or we’re screwed.’” His face reddened. “That’s a direct quote.”

  Vallorie chuckled. “Got it. Tell Uncle Bill it’s covered. And thanks.”

  Tom left with a last glance at PJ and a wave for both women, and Vallorie wasted no time returning to the previous topic. “The idea you’ve lost your nerve is bullshit. You don’t believe that.”

  PJ quirked her mouth in the faintest of smiles. “You are so positive.”

  “I know you. You wouldn’t lose your nerve. The people saying so are fools.” Vallorie grabbed her by both shoulders. “Tell me you don’t think it.”

  PJ looked Vallorie in the eye for a long moment, then smiled. “Thank you, my friend, for your faith in me. I haven’t lost my nerve or my desire to win. But I’m sad people think so.”

  Vallorie nodded as she released PJ. “If they wanted to talk about fear of spiders or roller coasters, I might believe them. But not speed or racecars. Not that you’re suddenly afraid to race.”

  “They look for an explanation. The weak girl is an easy one.”

  Vallorie frowned. “I suppose so. I wonder…”

  An amused male voice spoke from behind them. “What do you wonder?”

  PJ and Vallorie turned to see PJ’s team owner, Ronnie Arvin. Everyone called him Arvie.

  “PJ,” he said, then turned to Vallorie. “Val, I can’t believe you left me this year.”

  “Arvie,” Vallorie hugged him. “You know I couldn’t turn down my uncle when he asked me to work for him.”

  “But you’re with the old fogies. This is where the young, happening people are.” Arvie snapped his fingers and pointed them at the two women.

  “He’s not that old,” Vallorie protested.

  Arvie laughed and flipped up the collar of his polo shirt. “But he’s not pushing the envelope like we are. We’ve got the only girl driver. Young, talented crew members. Fresh ideas for sponsorship and marketing. If we can’t win the race, we’ll at least get lots of attention. Right, PJ?”

  She nodded and started to speak, but Arvie kept going. “In fact, here are a couple of our new partners.” He turned to welcome two men and a woman who stepped from the sun into the shade of the garage. “Gentlemen and lady, welcome!”

  Vallorie started to move away. “I’ll get out of your way.”

  “Please, stay,” PJ whispered.

  “Stick around, Val. You’re as much a part of the family as anyone, even if you’ve deserted us.” Arvie beamed at her. “Girls, meet Chuck Gaffey, Nathan Standish, and Libby Conroy. Everyone, this is my history-making driver, PJ, and a friend and former member of the team, Vallorie.”

  Everyone shook hands while Arvie kept talking. “My buddy Chuck has a small but growing company offering insurance for racing teams and drivers, with clever options for keeping us all in business. And Nathan and Libby represent a new chain of hotels and spas—they’ve come on board in a big way for PJ in this race.”

  “We appreciate your partnership.” PJ shook everyone’s hands.

  “Have you been to one of our resorts?” Nathan asked.

  “I have not, but I will look forward to experiencing it.”

  “Especially the spa—that’s what all women want.” Libby peered at PJ’s face. “Getting so sweaty all the time in those helmets must be hell on your skin.”

  Does she mean my skin looks bad?

  PJ eyed the tall redhead with the perfect wedge haircut. “The balaclava is the worst. But sweat,” PJ shrugged, “it’s a part of racing. I don’t mind.”

  “Good for you, I’m sure.” Libby’s expression showed she thought the opposite.

  Arvie jingled change in his pocket, the broad smile still affixed to his face. “See? The spa aspect of your resorts is a natural fit for female race attendees who’ll be drawn to PJ’s participation in the race—or it’ll give the men good gift ideas. Don’t you think, Vallorie?” He glanced at her, then returned to the sponsors again. “Val, here, may be young, but she’s third-generation. Her uncle runs another team—that’s who stole her from us this year. Her father raced, and her grandfather was a mechanic back when the mechanics rode in the car during the races.”

  “How interesting.” Nathan sounded sincere. Libby looked bored.

  “You bet,” Arvie said. “Would have been more to insure then, eh, Chuck?”

  “I’m sur
e my grandfather tried to make those deals.” Chuck winked at Vallorie.

  “You aren’t new to the series, like us?” Nathan asked him.

  Chuck shook his head. “My family’s been in racing for years, but I didn’t go the driver route. I’ve focused on filling a need I saw to provide care and security for participants and loved ones in case anything goes wrong.”

  “Insuring drivers, I never knew,” Libby mused, though she appeared more interested in the neon yellow on her fingernails than the conversation.

  “Drivers and crew against injury or loss of work—even teams against the loss of revenue. That’s our new product.”

  Arvie clapped Chuck on the shoulder. “That’s what finally got Gaffey Insurance on our cars. PJ, be sure to talk with Chuck about insurance, in case you don’t have any—he’ll get you a good deal.”

  “Yes, of course, I am interested.” PJ nodded at Chuck.

  When an official pulled Arvie aside for a question, Vallorie filled the silence. “Nathan and Libby, is this your first race? Have you been involved in racing before?”

  While they chatted, Chuck moved to PJ and handed her a business card. “Don’t feel I’m pressuring you. Arvie’s like that with everyone.”

  PJ returned his smile. “Always enthusiastic.”

  Chuck laughed. “Exactly. No obligation. Let me know if you’d like information. Otherwise, I’ll wish you luck and provide what support I can.”

  “That is very kind of you.” PJ studied him, noting his friendly, open expression and piercing green eyes.

  He shrugged. “I’m in Arvie’s corner, and I like what you’re trying to do. I hope you get back to where you were on the first day of practice.”

  “I wish the same.”

  Arvie returned from conferring with the crew member. “Chuck and Nathan, let me show you the car. PJ, show Libby around our hospitality area and the gift shop.”

  Vallorie saw the frustration on PJ’s face and took pity on her. “Or maybe Libby’d like a tour of other garages? To meet other drivers? Mario Andretti’s driving for Paul Newman’s team next to mine. We can go see if they’re there.” She grinned at PJ. “Maybe we’ll even run into PJ’s boyfriend, who drives for my team.”