by Eden Connor
“Ladies, come with me.” The way the head of the college stressed the word ‘ladies’ made my ears burn. Surely someone, somewhere had written some wise and pithy saying that being ladylike was overrated. Unfortunately, Dr. Jamison and Francine Tipton had fed me the majority of my quotable quotations, and they were of one mind on how a lady conducted herself. I doubted any of Dale’s pithy racing quotes would help.
While I stalked down the center aisle behind Joelle, I felt the weight of every stare, but I still thought one of my red boots would look nice up her ass.
The president sailed into her office, gesturing toward the pair of wing chairs facing her desk. I slammed into the closest one and stuck my feet under the edge of the desk, forcing Joelle to go around.
I gripped the chair arms. “She said that Dale had—”
“I heard what she said. Unfortunately, character is weighty matter. Can’t install it on an unstable foundation.”
Joelle gasped. “My character’s in question here? I guess you don’t know what little Miss NASCAR wrote on my car. Fortunately, I took pics.” Joelle scrolled through her phone, then slid the device across the desk.
Dr. Jamison leaned over to peer at the screen. Her brows rose. I wanted to give her a defiant look. Joelle was a cunt. I just couldn’t quite make my eyes meet Dr. Jamison’s. I admired this woman more than anyone I knew, except Dale.
“I see.” Straightening her spine until I thought surely it would pop, Dr. Jamison put the fingertips of both hands together and stared. I couldn’t help it. I squirmed like a naughty toddler. “Shelby, I think you intended to strike Joelle.”
I nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I had every intention of striking her. And, I can’t say I’m sorry for what I wrote on her car.” I darted a look at Joelle. “If the shoe fits and all that.”
“Redneck,” Joelle fanned her fingers and inspected her manicure.
“Miss Hannah, I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice that women lose ground every day in the fight for equality. If we could just stop tearing each other down, I’d be more hopeful that we could prevail. And need I say, that after four years here, I fail to grasp why we’re having this conversation.”
Dr. Jamison sighed, but she focused on Joelle. “Ms. Fitzgerald, it might interest you to know that both sides of my family raised tobacco for centuries in North Carolina, beginning in 1764. If the treasure chest underneath your family tree had indeed been filled as many generations ago as you like to pretend, you’d also have ancestors who grew the crop. Therefore, you’d know how hypocritical such people look when they ridicule tobacco users. But, I see that’s news to you.”
It took me a second to figure out why Joelle stiffened. Oh, honey, did she just say your family was new money? I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing out loud. Talk about a rich girl bitch slap.
“Shelby’s a scholarship student, as you know. She happens to be one by choice, rather than need. Hence, due to her current family emergency, the kitchen staff is short-handed this week. Therefore, if you expect to walk with your class, I’ll see you in the cafeteria every morning at six-fifteen, from now until Sunday. You’re excused, Ms. Fitzgerald.”
Joelle nearly fumbled her phone. “But... but, it was only a joke! You’ve got to be kidding. I’ve never worked in a kitchen!”
“In that case, in the morning, you’ll need to bring along a thousand-word essay on what constitutes appropriate humor.”
Even Joelle knew to quit when she was losing. She stalked out of the office with a dark look that boded me no good. I waggled my fingers. Bye, honey.
“As for you, Ms. Hannah.” Dr. Jamison jerked her center desk drawer open and withdrew an exam blue book. “You told me a story to get in here.” She spun the booklet across the wide expanse of walnut. “If you expect to get out of here this weekend with a diploma, you will tell me another. It needs to be just as riveting as the first.”
One exam book? Twenty-four pages, three-quarters the size of normal notebook paper. Not to mention wide-ruled lines. How could I hope to write anything ‘of equal merit’ to an essay that’d run over three hundred double spaced computer pages?
While I tried to work up the courage to ask what topic she had in mind, she rose and tugged the bottom of her jacket into place. “Professor Joyner and I had a chat last night. He’s agreed to grade this essay on its merits, and use the result for his two exams, rather than have you sit through them. I’m sure you want this over with so you can get back to your family. Therefore, you have this exam period to work. At one p.m., Dr. Winston expects to see you for his exam. And I. Absolutely. Without fail. Expect to see you and your mother on Sunday.”
None of that was a request. I couldn’t refuse, not after all this woman had done for me. My old high school principal could learn a thing or three from Dr. Jamison. It was odd how different she and Dale were, and yet, to me, they seemed built of the same stuff. Both gave me confidence and endless inspiration—along with the occasional bucketful of humility.
“I have a meeting that will run past lunch, so you may use my desk. Thanks to you and Joelle, my stomach’s going to growl the entire time. I’ll let my secretary know you’re to turn in the booklet to her by noon.”
Sweeping around the desk, she bent, slipping her arm around my shoulders. I inhaled her Oscar de la Renta perfume with a pang of loss I couldn’t decipher.
“I was very proud when I saw your press conference—even after you lost your temper. You’re a credit to Dale Hannah and to this institution. I will pray for Dale’s complete recovery without ceasing.” Tears swam in her honey brown eyes.
She’d disappeared from sight before I realized she hadn’t assigned a topic.
Which meant, there could be only one. In twenty-four slim pages, she expected me to explain what happened between the first time I’d landed in this chair, and now.
I gulped, but took out the pen Caine had used this morning, rolling it between my palms.
***
Later that evening, I scanned my note, crumpling the page with a cry of frustration. Who knew a stupid Dear John letter would end up being the most difficult thing I’d written today? My head pounded, but I smoothed out the paper.
Dear Robert,
I took this ring because, at a moment when I surely needed one, you looked like Prince Charming. But, Prince Charming would’ve rented a belt sander and bought a quart of paint. Because Jessica Whitley deserves to enjoy sex without recrimination, same as you and your frat brothers, but you can’t see that, so I can’t marry you after all.
Good luck in law school. Pot holes aren’t really my thing.
Shelby
I doubted Robert would connect the graffiti on his bedroom door with the note, and thus, the message would make no sense to him, but I was all worn out with what other people thought. I had places to go and no more time for the boy who might or might not have proposed so his daddy could get his name in the papers as the man to hire if you wanted to sue NASCAR.
Dead potted plants and colorful streamers littered the frat house patio. Except for the leafy trees and green grass, the place looked as derelict as it had in January. The back door sat ajar, so I held my breath and stepped inside. The soles of my shoes made a hideous squelching sound on the grubby linoleum.
The stench of vomit and stale beer made me heave, so I hurried down the hallway. The bedroom door popped open with a nudge. Tiptoeing across scattered clothing and pizza boxes, I propped the note against Robert’s pillow and turned to leave.
Something red caught my attention. Pushing aside the Little Caesar’s box, I lifting the scrap with the toe of my boot and studied the feminine underwear. Cautiously, I raised my foot until I could grab the elastic. I tossed the panties that weren’t mine beside the note.
“Not planning to tell me goodbye to my face?”
I whirled, heart lodged in my throat. “Robert.”
He sauntered into the room. “I guess that’s my ring?” He gestured toward the folded paper.
“Yes.”
He brushed past me. Lifting the panties, he scowled. “You know half the frat brings girls in here, right?”
“Robert, it’s not about cheating. It’s about—”
“Your stepbrother. The dark-haired one. What’s his name?”
“Caine.” Why couldn’t I speak above a whisper?
He dropped the underwear and slid his fingers into the front pockets of his khakis, but soon tugged them free.
Raking a hand through his hair, he demanded, “What did I do wrong? You asked for space after Christmas. Hell, before Christmas, if we’re being honest. So, I gave you space. Do you even realize, the entire time we’ve dated, you never came to me? You held back, made me do all the work. Never called me, barely texted. Never stayed the night unless I begged. But, you finally came to me. That night, when you showed up, I’d given up.”
Oh God, please don’t let him cry.
“I was trying to move on, and suddenly, here you were. When I saw you, any doubt I’d ever had about whether or not I loved you evaporated. I thought I’d fucked up by letting that girl... but you were amazing. We had the most incredible sex of my life. You took the ring. I don’t understand. What did I do wrong?”
His injured expression looked so much like my mother’s that I had to fight to breathe. “I was just running from what I felt for Caine. I-I didn’t trust him. Didn’t trust what I felt for him.”
“And now, all of a sudden, you trust him?”
If it’s your baby, it’s my baby. I almost blurted the news I might be pregnant, just to see how fast he’d bail, but bit the inside of my cheek instead. I had complications enough already. “Yes.”
His Adams apple bobbed. He raised his arm to swipe his sleeve across his face. “I’m sorry for what I said about Dale after that dinner with our parents. I hope he recovers.”
“Thank you.” I ducked my head, unwilling to see whatever was in his eyes. With a sob, I hurried toward the bedroom door.
He caught my arm, spinning me. His eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I watched the press conference. How’re hat sales going?”
Trying to speak past my tight throat, I gasped, “No idea.”
He rolled his eyes, but held on to my arm. “I take my car to a mechanic when it messes up. I prefer the convenience of an automatic. I try not to drive more than ten miles over the speed limit, because people die every day in car crashes. In fact, I hate driving, period. I’ll probably be first in line for one of those little cars that drives for you. You’re my adrenaline. The most dangerous thing I ever attempted. If he lets you down, if you ever need me, let me know.”
People die of boredom every day, too. Who do you sue when that happens, if not yourself? If I ever need you, I’m in more trouble than either of us can fix.
“Weren’t you ever tempted to break every speed limit? To find out what living without a safety belt feels like?” I dampened my lips. “To make your own rules?”
“No. That’s just crazy. Nobody makes their own rules.”
“I want crazy.” Confident I’d made the right choice, I headed out the back door.
Chapter Thirty-Five
I wanted nothing more than to curl up in the corner of Francine’s comfortable couch and unburden my soul. The trip from Wofford to her house took only minutes. I cruised past the front of the bungalow and turned onto the side street.
Ernie’s truck wasn’t in its accustomed spot. For one horrible second, I wondered where he might’ve gone. That was the worst part of losing him, those moments when I forgot he’d died and had to wrestle back my grief all over again.
Pulling up behind Francine’s pristine ’69 Mustang convertible, I turned off the truck.
The Tiptons had one thing in common with the Hannahs. While their everyday vehicles lived underneath a carport, I’d never seen the small garage off to the side of the driveway with the doors open until today. She must’ve moved the truck inside.
Exhaustion rode me as I slid from behind the wheel. Francine strode out of the building carrying a cardboard box. “Well, hello. Tough day, dear?”
“The good news is, I didn’t get suspended for nearly slapping a bitch with a cafeteria tray. The bad news is, I think I totally tanked Dr. Winston’s exam. I don’t even know how you teach history. Anything with dates and facts to regurgitate just—well, to be honest, this semester, they were never in my head long enough for me to forget them. I winged it, and that’s never a good thing. If I’m lucky, he’ll give me the pity D.”
“Oh, my.” Pausing beside my open door, Francine’s eyes rounded. I peered into the box, but a manila file folder rested on top, hiding the contents.
“I was hoping we could grab dinner. Souvlaki, maybe? Then, I want a dozen raspberry-filled doughnuts. And milk. I sold all my textbooks, so my treat.”
“Sure. Let me run get my purse. Do you mind closing the garage door?” She shoved the box into my seat.
Grabbing the cord that dangled from the bottom of the metal door, I cast a look around the dim interior. A huge pile of dusty canvas rested near the spot where I stood.
I swallowed hard. She’d sold Ernie’s truck. Looked like she’d sold whatever vehicle had sat here as well.
Vintage enamel advertising signs lined the walls. Tools hung in neat rows above a wooden workbench on the back wall. Boxes labeled ‘Christmas’ lined the low shelf underneath. A case of Quaker State motor oil rested on the ground nearby.
Rafters braced the peaked roof. Quarter panels from race cars—mostly crumpled and scarred with paint from a different vehicle—hung from the cross beams. A colorful poster nailed between two of them enticed me closer.
Faded rainbow colors lurked behind bold, black text. Apparently, Ned Jarrett, Cotton Gowens, and Richard Petty showed up to race at the Spartanburg County Fairgrounds on the 19th of May, 1962.
Cotton Gowens had built the car that Richard and Dale came to buy from Ernie. The Spartanburg racetrack was where Ernie had bought the car. The sudden urge to sit down and howl swept over me. Instead, I gave the push mower a watery smile. Noting the brand, I moved closer to the yellow and green machine.
“Who knew John Deere made push mowers?”
“Another of our rare fights.” I jumped a foot. Francine laughed for the first time in my presence since the night I’d raced to the hospital when she’d called to tell me of Ernie’s heart attack.
“You don’t even want to know what it cost. Ernie despised yard work, but was too tight to hire it done, and honey, I don’t perspire if I can help it. The man wanted a John Deere tractor the size of Kansas. I told him he could have it if he gave up Moon Pies. He came home with that the next day.”
Stories did more than sell cars. They kept the dead alive, too. Laughing through my tears, I followed her out of the garage.
“You don’t want to park the Mustang in here?”
“No, it’s a pain in the ass to lift the door, then get out and close it again.”
I’d get Caine to install an automatic opener, maybe for her birthday in July.
I grasped the cord, appreciating her concerns when it took all my weight to pull the balky door down. “Is there a lock?”
Francine shoved the box onto the front seat of Caine’s truck. “Look in the grass to your left. I haven’t braved that garage in years. Lots of names from my childhood in there. My family had a lot of friends in this town. That’s the only reason Daddy agreed to let me come to school this far from home. Boy, was he ever pissed that I stayed.”
I snagged the old-fashioned padlock and fit the shank through the hasp. Catching me eyeing the box, she gestured. “That stuff’s for you. Or, I hoped you could take it along.” She cast a jaundiced eye at the bed of Caine’s truck, filled with suitcases, boxes, and trash bags of my clothes.
I squeezed the padlock. “What’s in there?”
“Found a stash of Brad Taggert memorabilia. A replica car he signed, photographs, and the rest of that contract in that tacky frame Ernie hung over his desk. You know h
is daughter, right? I thought she might like them. I guess I’ll offer Rick or Dale the Ridenhour stuff, but that’s a project for another day.”
Suppressing a groan, I loped across the tiny side yard and grabbed the box off the front seat. I wanted to give Marley a gift like I wanted another smack on the head. I could raise the console and leave it on the seat, but I pictured the stupid box flying into the floorboard the first time I hit the brakes. Maybe it would fit behind the seat and keep my art portfolio from bending.
“I call dibs on those old photos of Dale and the boys, if you’re clearing out the racing stuff.” A wave of sadness threatened to drag me under. Francine was dismantling her life with Ernie. What would that look like?
Lost in thought, I struggled to fit the box behind the seat. The folder slid off. Papers sailed across the driveway and into the grass.
“Dammit.” I backed up and kicked the damn box into place, then scurried to pick them up. It took a minute to turn all the pages in the same direction. I halted, staring at the sheet in my hand.
I’d filled out a form bearing the same heading to get the adoption process underway. North Carolina Division of Social Services.
Two name leaped out at me. Kolby Aaron Barnes. Kasey Allen Barnes.
And the department—Children’s Services?
I jerked my head up and held out the paper. “What the hell?”
Any trace of mirth evaporated from Francine’s eyes. “Ernie could turn up some strange stuff. He kept small ads in area newspapers, offering to buy anything related to NASCAR drivers. That file should never have gotten into his hands, but people will do stupid things for money, and Ernie’s drive to document all things NASCAR led him to buy whatever came his way. After I went through it today, I thought perhaps you should read it.” She sighed. “After dinner. No sense in spoiling your appetite.”
Lifting the edge of the folder, I laid the page on top and let the heavy Manila cover drop. Already staggering under the weight of secrets, I was in no hurry to read more. I shoved the folder into the box and climbed into the cab.