“Wait a minute. Slow down. We’re not leaving just yet.”
“We’re not?” Cody turns to see Joe removing the tarp from the bed of the pickup.
He leans over the side of the bed and sees the kid-size go-kart with the words “Racing for Glory” emblazed in gold paint on the side.
“The name of the Clarksville church derby car team,” says Joe. “Gimme a hand.”
Seriously? “We’re doing this now?”
“Yup. Kids’ll be out any second. I want you to show them the ropes. Okay?”
Do I really have a choice?
“Joe, I’ve never even driven one of these things, and you expect me to teach a bunch of kids?”
“This is not optional, by the way. This is part of your training,” says Joe.
Submission has never been Cody’s strong suit, but he’s curious to see where Joe’s unorthodox training methods are taking him.
As if on cue, kids stream out through the front doors of the church and circle around Joe and his kart, bombarding him with questions and excitement.
“Okay, who wants to take a spin?” says Joe.
Every hand shoots up. Kids start to push their way to the kart. Must be at least twenty of ’em. Great. We’re gonna be here all afternoon.
“Back up. Ease up. You’ll all get a turn,” Cody tells them, holding up his hands to push the crowd back. “Line up along the sidewalk.”
And do what? I don’t know how to deal with kids. They’re smelly. And they say really inappropriate things at all the wrong times. Cody steps forward, looking at the unruly bunch. “Um . . . All right, everyone. Away from the kart. On the sidewalk. Um, I’m gonna need it boy girl boy girl, shortest to tallest, down the line.”
Joe gives him a puzzled look. Cody shrugs. Makes sense to me. He starts moving bodies like chess pieces until he’s satisfied with the equal gender order. He places Bree and David next to each other, since they’re the same height.
“Okay. They’re all ready, Joe.” Cody steps back and folds his arms across his chest. “Now what?”
“Well. Now. Fire up the kart,” Joe says, reaching into his truck for a few helmets.
Cody goes around to the rear of the kart, primes the choke on the lawn mower–size engine, and pulls the starter cord. The go-kart fires up, and the kids go crazy with shouts and cheers.
Doesn’t take much to entertain these country bumpkins.
“You.” Cody points to a wide-eyed boy at the front of the line. “You’re first.”
The boy steps up. Cody gets him into the kart and shows him how to use the gas and brake. The kid catches on quickly, and Cody sends him to circle the parking lot.
When he returns, the kids in line cheer. The boy loses concentration and almost runs over Cody. Cody grabs the steering wheel. “Foot off the pedals!” He pulls him over to the side and wheels him to the start line. Joe helps the driver out of the kart and starts removing his safety gear.
“Next driver!” Cody calls out, noticing a minivan pulling into the far end of the parking lot. A woman in a pink waitress uniform gets out and stands near the van to watch. She catches his eye. Cody smiles. It takes a moment before a small smile forms and then quickly disappears. Does she know she’s late for church?
“You going to punch in and coach up our next driver?” says Joe.
Cody jolts back to Joe, who follows his gaze. “Don’t even think about it.”
“What?”
“She’s outta your league.”
“How do you know?”
“That’s Bree’s mom. Amber. And she’s had a rough go of it.”
“What happened?” Cody glances at Joe’s stern jawline.
“She lost her husband in Afghanistan. And she doesn’t need your shenanigans in her life right now.”
“You don’t think much of me, do you?”
“Focus on your training.”
“I will. When it starts.”
“It already has.”
Bree steps up, next in line, grinning ear to ear. Joe hands her the helmet. “She’s all yours. I’ve gotta take a pit stop inside.” Joe heads off, leaving Cody with Bree.
“You ever driven one of these before?” Cody asks. Bree shakes her head. “Okay, hop in. Grab the steering wheel.”
He helps Bree into the kart. “There are two pedals on the floor. Right is gas. Makes it go. Left is brake. Makes it stop.”
Bree nods.
“Which one brakes?”
“Left.”
“Which one goes?”
“Right.”
“You got it. Give it a little gas and steer around the cones. Okay?”
Bree takes off, flying expertly across the parking lot. Wow, another Danica Patrick in the making. He can see her smile growing bigger as she eases around the second turn. This is an altogether different Bree than the one he met this morning. That gloomy face is gone. She feels free. Cody knows the feeling well. It’s the thing that keeps him coming back to the track.
Cody glances over at the minivan. Lady in pink is back in the driver’s seat. Cody can see her head resting against the headrest on the driver’s side. Wonder why she isn’t out here watching her daughter.
David sidles up to Cody as Bree coasts to a stop. Cody helps her out of the car.
“You did great out there, Bree.” She takes off her helmet and hands it to David.
“Are you g-going to help us b-build our own g-go-karts?” says David.
“Looks like that’s going to be part of my sentence.”
“Were you in prison?” asks David.
“Do you know David’s uncle?” asks Bree.
“He’s d-doing a sentence in J-Jackson.”
“We pray for him.”
Cody changes lanes fast.
“Okay, here you go, David hop in.” He checks David’s helmet. It’s snug.
“Is it a m-m-manual or an a-automatic?” David slides right into place and buckles the seat belt.
“Automatic. Right gas. Left brake.”
“Okay. I got this.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I c-c-cut the grass at home with a riding m-m-mower.”
“You do? My dad would have never let me do that at your age.”
“Oh, I d-d-don’t have a d-d-dad.”
Open mouth. Insert foot. “All right. Ready?” Cody gives the kart a push. “Gas!”
David zips off. Another natural. Cody and Bree watch him take a lap.
“Does it cost anything?” Bree asks.
“Does what cost anything?”
“Building the go-kart?”
“Oh, uh, I don’t think so. This is my first day, so . . .”
“How fast do they go?”
“Fast enough.” Cody keeps his eyes on the parking lot. “David! Eyes on the road!”
David rounds the last turn and swings out too wide. “Pull it in! Pull it in, David!” The steering wheel gets away from him and his kart beelines for Joe’s truck.
“Foot on the brake! Hard!”
David does the opposite. The kart lurches forward just a few seconds from T-boning Joe’s antique Ford. At just that moment, Joe exits the church and sees his aquamarine beauty about to be rammed.
“Braaaaaaake!” Gotta save that beautiful Ford! Cody dives after David’s kart.
David throws his hands up off the wheel and covers his eyes.
“Grab that kart, Jackson!” yells Joe, running across the parking lot.
Cody leaps into action, grabbing the back of the kart and using all his weight to stop it. The kart drags to a stop, its nose lightly grazing the vintage Ford’s fender. Cody cuts the choke and the engine sputters out.
“David, you okay?” Cody asks, coming around to help him out. David gets out of the kart on shaky legs. “Hey, you okay, buddy?”
David nods.
“I thought you said you could drive a riding mower.”
“It doesn’t go this fast.”
“How bad is it?” Cody can’t look. Joe
rolls back the kart to inspect a three-inch scrape on his fender.
“Nothing to cry over. You can buff and paint that in the morning.” Joe pushes the kart toward the start line. “Next rider!”
I can buff and paint? When do I get to drive? Cody is not some hired hand. He’s not here to help with all Joe’s little pet projects. He’s here to drive.
“I know what you’re thinking. And the answer is soon enough.”
Joe heads inside the church, leaving Cody with seventeen more eager and impatient drivers.
chapter eleven
The Little Mustard Seed
HOW DARE PATTI waltz into Amber’s life—after being absent for almost two years—and pretend that beauty products are the solution to all her problems! Amber sits wearily at the kitchen table, still dressed in her waitress uniform, fuming over her mother-in-law’s surprise visit to Rosie’s. Become a cosmetics saleslady? Get real, Patti. And why exactly does she think Amber would be a successful salesperson for anything related to makeup? Amber’s lucky if she has enough time to slap on loose powder and a few strokes of mascara. For Pete’s sake, she still owns the same eye shadow compact she bought for her wedding. Besides, MyWay is expensive. She can hardly feel right about promoting products she herself can’t afford. Drugstore-brand facial cleanser and a five-dollar bottle of moisturizer work just fine.
Amber tries to lay her angst aside as she pages through the Sunday paper a customer left behind at Rosie’s. She flips through until she finds the classified ads in the back and scans down the columns, trolling for something promising.
Patti’s stunt keeps distracting Amber’s thoughts. Glancing up, she sees the MyWay starter kit Patti had forced on her. Eye shadow and lip gloss? No, thanks.
Truth is . . . Patti hit a sore spot. Amber does need a better-paying job. She shoves her newspaper at the box and flips it off the table, out of her line of sight. It lands on the floor with a soft thwunk. The little act of aggression somehow makes her feel slightly better. And also slightly ungrateful.
Amber folds up the newspaper, revealing the real enemy. The foreclosure envelope. She hasn’t had the courage to open it all day. Now here it sits, like a ticking time bomb waiting to explode her life. Time to dismantle.
Amber slits the envelope open with her nail and begins to read. The letter is from Mr. Jim Wellington, CEO and bank president. Her loan is in default. Her house is going into foreclosure. This is her first notice to vacate the property within thirty days.
It’s way worse than she imagined. Her heart races. There must be a mistake or a loophole. Had she really fallen that far behind in payments? It was only the last two months that she missed. Maybe this was just a bank formality. Maybe all she needs to do is catch up. Surely she can find the money somewhere. She’ll head over in the morning and convince this Wellington to help find her another option.
“What’s that?” Bree asks, bouncing in and seeing the discarded items sprawled across the dining room floor. “What happened here?”
Amber looks up from the letter but doesn’t reply. Bree joins her, setting a four-inch clay pot painted pink and rimmed in green on the table. She then bends over and picks up the box, placing it next to her mother.
“Isn’t this the stuff Glam-ma sells?”
“Glam-ma?”
“Yeah. Grandma and glamorous. Glam-ma. Get it?”
“I get it.” Amber marvels for a second at Bree’s ingenuity. And she’s right. Patti is beautiful and glamorous and successful and confident. Everything that Amber is not. Bree definitely inherited Patti’s glamour and spunk. Amber feels a twinge of guilt that Patti and Bree haven’t seen much of each other. It hasn’t been intentional. But neither has exactly reached out, either. So there. The phone rings both ways. Bree busily applies the MyWay lip gloss and puckers her lips.
“Can I have this?”
“No. It’s going back to Grandma.”
“Glam-ma!”
“Go wipe it off.”
Bree heads into the kitchen, and after a moment Amber hears the water running. What is she doing in there? Amber circles a couple of job possibilities she’ll look into in the morning. Hospitality manager, Dunsbrook Inn. Cook, Clarksville Elementary. Nursing-home staff. Must have CNA. Amber’s always wanted to be a nurse. She wonders how much schooling she would need to get her CNA certificate. Also where the money would come from to pay for it.
Bree scurries back in with a cup of water and carefully adds a drizzle to her pink terra-cotta pot.
“So, how was church today?” Amber mutters with her head still in the paper.
“Great. We met this new guy at church named Cody. And he and Uncle Joe are gonna help us make go-karts.”
“Yeah, I think I saw you guys when I came to pick you up.”
“Did you see David hit Uncle Joe’s truck?” she asked excitedly.
“He did?”
“Yeah. When it was David’s turn, the brake broke on the kart, but he didn’t know it and he almost hit Joe’s . . .” In her excitement, Bree tips over the cup of water, and it spills onto the table and all over Amber’s newspaper.
“Bree, c’mon. Watch what you’re doing.” Amber sends Bree a sharp look.
“Sorry, Mom.” Bree tries to mop up the water with her shirtsleeve.
“No, don’t. I got it.” Amber dashes into the laundry room off the kitchen and grabs a towel, returning quickly to soak up the water, which drips into a puddle below the table.
“What is that thing in there, anyway?”
“This is my mustard seed. We planted it in Sunday school.”
“A mustard seed? Why not a bean or marigold?”
“Because Jesus says if you have a little faith, this tiny seed can turn into the biggest tree in the world.”
Amber looks at Bree, unsure. Bree soldiers on.
“And in science class I learned that plants like to be talked to so they’ll grow.”
“They do, huh?”
“I think he needs a name.”
“He? It’s a he?”
“Yeah. And I can’t just call him ‘Hey, seed.’ ” Bree scrunches up her nose in thought. “Matthew! Matt for short.”
“Why Matt?”
“Because of the Bible verse. Matthew seventeen.”
“I see.” Amber wishes she had even an ounce of Bree’s humble, unwavering faith. Even when Bree learned that Daddy wasn’t coming home, her first question was “Is he with Jesus in heaven?”
“Where do you think we should keep him? He needs lots of light.”
“Honey, don’t get your hopes up. Some seeds just don’t grow where we live.”
But Bree is undaunted. “Mom, this one will.”
Amber gives in to her persistence. “Put him in your room. Your windows have southern exposure. It’s the best sun in the house.”
And with that, Bree scoops up Matt and darts for the stairs. Amber can hear her footsteps ascend the wooden staircase and pad into her room, above the dining room.
What is she going to tell this child when, two weeks from now, there’s nothing but dry dirt staring back at her? What was Hannah thinking?
chapter twelve
Everything She Can
AMBER WAITS IN the plush, tranquil lobby of First National Bank in downtown Clarksville, clutching her purse and foreclosure notice as her foot taps anxiously beneath her. It doesn’t take long before she’s summoned into the tinted-glass office of Jim Wellington, a half-bald, pasty man with the wit of an accountant. She knows the type. Spends his days behind a desk and his weekends unwinding in his lakeside condo doing crosswords with his wife and walking his yippy Yorkshire terrier.
Amber takes a seat in a velveteen armchair opposite Jim’s dark walnut desk, sparsely topped with a computer, several stacks of paperwork, and a single silver-framed family photo. Not a paper is askew. He takes his thick fountain pen between his thumb and forefinger, using it like a pointer as he goes through Amber’s file.
Amber’s nerves are on edge, and
adrenaline courses through her slight, thin form. The concerned expression on Jim’s face does not escape her. She rubs her palms together in an attempt to dry the sweat from them.
“What caused you to fall behind in your payments, Mrs. Hill?” Jim begins.
“Well, I never meant to get behind, actually.” Connecting her thoughts to her words feels like stirring molasses. “I’m not sure what happened. But I want to make it right.”
“I appreciate your willingness. Why don’t you tell me a little bit about your personal accounting process.”
“Okay. Basically, I pay all my bills the old-fashioned way. I write checks and mail them.”
“That’s perfectly fine. I always encourage my clients to do what works for them.” This puts Amber more at ease. “So, how do you budget for your bills?”
“Budget? Well, I just pay the bills off when I get them in the mail. But I wait until the end of each week. So I pay off whatever has come that week.”
Jim nods and purses his lips. Amber can tell this is the wrong answer.
“And what happens when there’s not enough money in the account to pay all the week’s bills?”
“Well, I write the check and mail it a couple of days later.”
“After you’ve deposited more money?”
“Sometimes. Not always. I’m not great at keeping track.”
“Mrs. Hill, it’s a reactive, rather than proactive, system you’re working there. And it’s the reason why you missed the last three house payments.”
Amber nods. “I’m willing to make adjustments.”
“That’s good to hear. I’d like for you to make an appointment with my assistant and financial adviser, Kendra Drake. She can help you fine-tune your budget. Would you be willing to do that?”
“Yes. Of course. Will that help me keep my house?”
“It’ll be a start. But I’ll be honest, I’m not sure this is a salvageable situation without some significant outside help.”
“What are you saying?”
“The only way you can stall this process is if you can come up with the missing payments, plus this current month’s payment.”
Amber pauses. At a loss. That’s a lot of money. More money than she makes in a month.
God Bless the Broken Road Page 5