by Gina Wilkins
She had a cowardly urge to tell Kent she wasn’t going to make it to the race, which would give her a week and a half before she would have to face him again. She was still so angry with him for lying to her. So hurt that he’d felt the need to do so. She couldn’t help flashing back to the pain she’d felt when Michael had repeatedly lied to her, until she hadn’t been able to trust anything he said to her.
But Kent wasn’t Michael, she reminded herself. He wasn’t anything like her ex-boyfriend.
She remembered her conversation with Trevor. Was she really being overly judgmental? Hypercritical? Was she overreacting to a little white lie?
The problem was, it didn’t feel like a little white lie. It seemed a lot more serious, since it had been such a significant event in Kent’s life, despite his claims to the contrary.
And yet, as Trevor had also said, people would notice if she didn’t show up for the first race of the season. She had told everyone before all this came up that she intended to be there. Unless she was ready for the whole racing world to know that she and Kent were having problems, she really needed to go.
“I’ll be there the Sunday morning of the race,” she said, compromising. She wouldn’t spend the night with Kent in Florida, but she would be there to watch him battle for the win. “Tell Cappy we can get an early start, if he wants.”
“I’ll let you know what time you’ll be picked up.” He didn’t sound as pleased as she might have expected, possibly because he’d guessed at some of the thoughts that had just crossed her mind.
“Okay. I’ll see you at the race, then. Good luck qualifying.”
“Thanks,” he said, his voice stilted. “I’ll see you, Tanya.”
“Yeah. See you, Kent.”
As she hung up, it occurred to her that he hadn’t told her he loved her. Maybe that was a good thing, she thought, turning off the light and sliding beneath the covers. She needed time to analyze her own feelings. Time to try to understand why this whole incident had shaken her so badly.
KENT WAS NOT HAPPY with his qualifying laps on the Sunday before the opening race. The car was tight, his concentration was shaky, and the team was atypically tense that day, all resulting in a qualifying run that was only the fifteenth fastest of the day. He hadn’t done any better in the non-points exhibition race prior to qualifying, an indicator of how far from ready his team was for the new season.
The good news was that he still had a shot to start close to the front if he performed well in the 150-mile qualifying race on Thursday. The starting lineup for this opening race of the season was determined differently than for any other race, with only the first two positions set by single-car qualifying. He would compete in the first of the twin races to secure his final starting position. If the team could pull together by then, and if he and Neil could set their personal problems aside, then he had a chance of starting in the third position for the big race. He could live with that.
Even better news, as far as Kent was concerned on a private basis, was that his dad had the fastest qualifying speed of the day, guaranteeing that Dean would start from the inside pole for Sunday’s race. Kent was waiting to congratulate his father afterward, hanging around Dean’s hauler until after Dean had finished the interviews and photographs that came with winning the pole for the season opener. Because the crowds were thick and autograph hunters were prowling hungrily, he stayed inside the hauler, chatting with members of his dad’s team until he spotted Dean approaching. He moved outside then to meet him.
Dean beamed when he saw his son waiting for him. A dozen cameras recorded the moment as they hugged enthusiastically. Accustomed to being the focus of attention, they ignored the spectators and grinned at each other.
“Way to go, Dad,” Kent said. “You were a rocket out there.”
“I’ve got a great car,” Dean replied. Shorter and more squarely built than his tall, angular son, Dean had thick brown hair and the Grosso brown eyes. Kent’s bright blue eyes had come from his mother, but there was still enough resemblance between Kent and Dean that there was no doubt they were father and son.
They were both still wearing their colorful uniforms. Kent wore a medium blue uniform with bold red accents, the “Flying V” logo of his primary sponsor, Vittle Farms, emblazoned across his chest. Dean’s uniform was a lighter, pastel blue accented with white, decorated with the emblem of his own sponsor, Smooth-tone Music.
“So, you had a little trouble out there today?” he asked, his expression sympathetic.
“You could say that,” Kent muttered. “My car was junk. It’s a miracle I finished as well as I did.”
Dean searched Kent’s face intently. “Still having problems with Sanchez?”
Squeezing the back of his neck with one hand, Kent shrugged. “Just a rough patch. We’ll get it straightened out.”
“I don’t know, son. You can’t let that hothead interfere with your career. As admirable as your loyalty to Sanchez is, you’ve got to put the welfare of your team first.”
Dean had been giving his son professional advice since Kent drove in his first quarter midget race when he was five years old. Even though Kent had been racing professionally now for more than a decade and had made quite a name for himself in the sport, Dean still felt the need to offer those suggestions. And because he both loved and respected his father, Kent paid attention.
But this time, he had to say, “I’ll deal with it, Dad. Neil and I have been talking, and he swears he can get back in the game.”
Not looking overly reassured, Dean shook his head. “Just think about what I said, okay?”
“We’ll see how things go in the qualifying race. Then we’ll try to make some decisions,” Kent promised.
“Come to dinner tonight. Your mom wants to talk to you.”
Kent swallowed hard. “Uh—”
Dean leveled a look at him. “You got better plans than having dinner with your parents?”
“No, sir,” Kent answered automatically.
“Then we’ll see you at the motor home at seven.”
Before Kent could come up with any more excuses, he and his father were interrupted by a group of fans wanting photos and autographs. They scrawled their names, smiled obligingly, then headed for their respective haulers to get away from the limelight, their dinner plans set.
THE DRIVERS, OWNERS and crew chiefs’ motor homes were parked in a restricted lot, away from the areas reserved for race fans. Security was tight, so the racing insiders could feel safe there with their families, like in a gated community where everyone knew everyone else.
Which didn’t mean, of course, that they all liked each other, particularly.
Heading for his parents’ motor home, Kent was distracted by a group of his associates’ kids playing parking-lot soccer. The children spent a lot of time together during the seasons, participating in programs designed to keep them safe and entertained, so lifelong friendships were forged among them. He was thinking about how different life was for the families since motor homes had become common practice, as opposed to earlier years when the drivers and team members stayed in hotel rooms and the families often stayed home, when he literally bumped into someone else walking the opposite direction through the maze of RVs.
Quickly regaining his balance, he scowled. “Well, hell. If you’re not crashing into me on the track, you’re running me down in the motor home lot.”
Cocky as always, Justin Murphy narrowed his gleaming brown eyes and twisted his mouth into a wry smile. “You’re the one who was looking in one direction and walking in another. A lot like you were driving today, actually. What’d you finish? Twentieth?”
Justin knew full well that Kent had finished fifteenth, but Kent wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of arguing with him. Instead, he murmured, “You didn’t look so hot out there, either. Who got the pole? Oh, yeah, that would be Dean Grosso.”
“Yeah, your old man showed you up pretty good, didn’t he?”
The slight stres
s on the word old made Kent’s eyes narrow. He’d heard the whispers that implied Dean was getting too old to compete in the sport. The pointed questions about when Dean was going to give up on pursuing the elusive championship and retire gracefully.
Even though racing was a sport that accommodated drivers from teenagers to those well into middle-age, there was still a perception that the “young guns,” as they were called, had the advantage. Justin and Kent, at twenty-nine and thirty respectively, were already edging toward the older group, and Kent knew Justin was as aware of it as he was every time they were beaten by one of those hotshot nineteen-year-olds.
“My dad can still leave anyone on that track in his dust,” Kent said, sheepishly aware that this was quickly turning into a schoolyard-type confrontation. “You just stay out of his way out there, you got it? And stay out of mine.”
Justin looked fully prepared to retaliate—probably with something equally as juvenile—when they were interrupted by a laugh and a drawled, “Okay, boys, break it up before this turns ugly. Save the competition for the track.”
One of those older drivers who had just crossed Kent’s mind, a forty-five-year-old, three-time champion highly respected by nearly everyone in the racing community, had paused nearby, arms crossed over his burly chest as he watched them in deceptively lazy amusement. Both Kent and Justin immediately dropped the aggressive posturing in respect of Sam O’Connor in whose shadow they had both grown up.
Muttering unintelligibly, they moved away like chastened adolescents. Kent was still dealing with that uncomfortable feeling when he arrived at his parents’ motor home, knowing he was in for a grilling from his mother, who had probably realized that something had been bothering him for the past week.
CHAPTER FIVE
“WHAT’S GOT YOUR PANTIES in a twist?” Dean asked humorously when he got a look at Kent’s face a few minutes later.
Entering his parents’ home-away-from-home, Kent shrugged. “I just ran into Justin Murphy. Literally. We came around a corner and crashed into each other.”
Patsy looked around from the stove, where she was stirring something in a big pot. “You aren’t hurt, are you?”
“Just my pride,” Kent muttered, thinking of how embarrassing it had been to be caught by one of his racing idols swapping insults with Justin. Because he didn’t want to get into that, he sniffed the air appreciatively and said, “Something smells good. What are you making, Mom?”
She smiled at him. “It’s just spaghetti. I brought some of my homemade sauce that’s warming now, and I’ve got garlic bread in the oven. I made up three individual green salads. They’re in the fridge, if you want to get them out and set the table.”
“Sophia’s not joining us tonight?”
“No. She and Alicia had other plans. And Milo and Julianna are dining with friends. So it’s just the three of us.”
Kent was a little disappointed by that news. Not that he wanted to see his sister all that badly that evening, but Sophia and her best friend, Alicia, would have provided a distraction from any talk that might lead to Kent’s relationship with Tanya.
While not as ostentatiously luxurious as Kent’s new motor home, his parents’ coach was still quite comfortable, decorated in soothing tones of celery and buttery cream with touches of Patsy’s own casual country style. There was plenty of room for Kent to move around in the galley with his mother while he set the table and she finished preparations for their meal. Dean had to make a couple of quick, work-related phone calls, which he completed by the time dinner was on the booth-style table.
Sliding onto the bench across from his parents, Kent picked up his fork and stabbed a cherry tomato in his salad bowl. He had just lifted it to his mouth when his mother asked, “So, what’s going on with you and Tanya?”
It was a good thing he hadn’t yet put the tomato in his mouth, he thought, lowering the fork. It would have been embarrassing to choke right here in front of his folks. He regretted again that Sophia had other things to do that evening, leaving him alone in the hot seat. “What makes you ask that?”
He’d known better than to try the blankly innocent response, but at least he’d bought himself a bit more time. Patsy leveled a stern look at him. “Don’t you try to pull that on me, Kent Andrew Grosso. You’ve gotten a funny look on your face every time one of us has mentioned Tanya this week. Something’s going on and I want to know what it is.”
“Could be he doesn’t think it’s any of your business,” Dean murmured into his food.
With a delicate snort, Patsy shook her head. “He knows I only want to help. He knows we love him and we love Tanya and if something’s wrong, we’re here for them. He knows—”
“He can hear everything you’re saying,” Kent interrupted wryly. “Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here, Mom. You know that makes me crazy.”
“Sorry, dear. But I’m sure I’m right that something’s wrong between you and Tanya. Maybe we could talk about it?”
Setting down his fork, Kent gave her a somber look across the table. There was no way he could talk about his problem with Tanya, of course, without explaining what had caused it in the first place.
Maybe he should use this opportunity to tell his parents the whole story. It would feel good to get it off his chest. He looked at their faces, one and then the other. And he swallowed the words before they could leave his tongue.
He just wasn’t ready.
He wished he could talk to Tanya again. If she could only understand why he’d done what he did, and why he had been so reluctant to tell her about it….
“Kent?” Patsy persisted. “Are you going to tell us?”
“No,” he said gently, picking up his fork again. “Not tonight. Tanya and I have some things to work out, but right now it’s between us, okay? I appreciate the concern, and I’ll let you know if there’s anything you can do to help.”
His mother frowned, concern in her perceptive blue eyes. “But, Kent—”
“Leave the boy alone,” Dean cut in, reaching for his wineglass. “When—or if—he’s ready to talk, he’ll talk. Nagging him won’t help anyone.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Rolling spaghetti onto his fork with an expert flick of his wrist, Kent took a big bite, chewed and swallowed appreciatively. “Mm. Good, Mom, as always. Would you pass the parmesan cheese?”
Patsy looked as though she wanted to argue, but after a moment, she let it go, to Kent’s relief. “Here you go. Eat your salad, too. You need the vegetables.”
Smiling indulgently, he stabbed into a sliced carrot. “I’m eating.”
“What did Justin Murphy say that had you scowling so big when you got here?” Dean wanted to know.
“Oh, you know. Just running his mouth.” Kent had no intention of mentioning Justin’s subtle dig against his father’s age.
“I don’t want to hear about you getting into a fight with Justin,” Patsy warned, pointing at Kent as if he were the teenager he’d compared himself to after his run-in with his rival. “Or anyone else. That’s not the way I taught you to behave in public.”
Kent shrugged. “I do my best. I just don’t like the guy.”
With a shrug of her own, Patsy said, “Then stay away from him. Considering everything, it’s best if the Grossos and Murphys keep a wide berth of each other.”
“That’s pretty much what I try to do. It’d be easier if he’d keep his distance on the track this season.”
“The boy does cause more than his share of pileups,” Dean agreed. “But maybe it’ll be better this year. I hear Hugo’s been working on him during the off-season, trying to convince him not to be so aggressive and reckless behind the wheel.”
Justin’s uncle, Hugo Murphy, served as Justin’s crew chief. Hugo had no more use for the Grossos than any of the Murphys, seeming to find some credence in the old rumors that Dean had something to do with the hit-and-run accident that had killed his brother, Justin’s father.
“I just wish everyone would forget about a
ll that stuff in the past and treat the Grossos and the Murphys just like any other competitors out on the track,” Patsy complained. “Neither of you have ever done anything to harm Justin, so there’s no reason for him to have a grudge against either of you, other than his uncle poisoning his mind about his father’s death. Could we talk about something else now, please?”
“How about today’s qualifying?” Dean asked with a grin. “Who was it who took the pole again? Oh, yeah. That would be me.”
Kent laughed. Patsy smiled faintly, but said only, “Could we talk about something other than racing?”
Father and son stared blankly at each other.
Sighing loudly, Patsy muttered, “Oh, that’s right. As far as you two are concerned, there is nothing else to talk about. Fine, talk about qualifying. I’ll just sit here and eat my spaghetti.”
The slightest hint of bitterness in his mother’s voice made Kent look at her in concern. She often made joking remarks like that, but she hadn’t sounded particularly amused this time. Was she really so annoyed that Dean wouldn’t consider retiring yet? Couldn’t she understand that racing was Dean’s whole life?
They made it through the rest of the meal without stepping on any more conversational landmines. Afterward, Kent kissed his mother, gave his father a manly shoulder hug, and headed back toward his own palatial—but empty—motor home.
Just as he passed the place where he’d bumped into Justin earlier, something his mother had said suddenly popped into his mind. Something about Justin having a grudge against him. He paused for several long minutes, staring thoughtfully at that empty spot.
IT WAS A SMALL BUT LOVELY wedding. The bride and groom had one attendant each—the bride’s sister and the groom’s brother. Less than fifty guests were in attendance, and every person there seemed to genuinely love the marrying couple, an architect and an engineer both in their early thirties.
The bride wore her late mother’s wedding gown, a satin-and-lace sheath that highlighted her tall, slender physique. With it, she wore her grandmother’s lace veil. She carried bright orange roses, because they were her favorite color, tied with a bow that almost exactly matched the blooms. The pleasant-faced groom wore a dark suit with a vivid orange tie. They both looked radiantly happy.