by Beverly Bird
“I have gobs of money, Liv.”
Her lip curled.
“More than I need.”
She snarled.
“I was thinking I could stay in NASCAR if I own a race team and still be home, at least more often than not. With you.”
She was shaking inside. “I’m not enough.” Then she thought of another protest. “You’re doing it for Vicky.” Why was she arguing with him? Because she had to be sure.
“I’m doing it because the two of you are my finish line. Livie.” He pressed his forehead to hers, as he had on New Year’s Eve. “We’re never going to be normal.”
A laugh choked her throat. “I hear a but in there somewhere.”
“This time you do,” he agreed. He waited a beat. “But…we can give it half a shot.”
She watched him bemusedly. “What do you mean?”
“I should have done this eight years ago.” Then, to her amazement, he went down on one knee. In the middle of the airport. “Livie Slade, will you marry me?”
She sank to her knees with him, her hands diving into his glorious hair, her heart gallivanting. “Here? Now?”
“Do they have preachers at airports?”
Her heart exploded. “I don’t think so. But we might want to find one soon. There’s something I have to tell you.”
Epilogue
November
New York
T he NASCAR awards ceremony had never seen anything quite like Vicky Hawk-Cole. She sailed up to the podium in her red velvet dress and pigtails with red ribbons. Then she took the trophy and did a perfect imitation of her father. She lifted it high and tucked her chin and said, laconically, “Thanks.”
The audience applauded bemusedly and exchanged looks. The emcee lowered the microphone for her a little.
“My dad isn’t here tonight,” she said into it. “That’s because he and my mom are at the hospital having a baby. Like this very minute, I think. So you get me instead.”
There was a startled silence. Then, in the front row, Pritch Spikes threw back his head and laughed.
The man he’d mentored, had brought along from a fishing-boat hand and gave a ride to nine years ago, had been startling people and besting him all season. Hawk had bailed on him early in the season to start a rival NASCAR ownership out of the blue. That team had done better than Pritch’s. But Hunter had also driven for Pritch three times out of loyalty—on long weekends when Vicky had a break from school. He’d won all three of those races.
Now, tonight, he was collecting trophies…by proxy.
“I get to be here tonight to take this award on behalf of my dad because my Aunt Kiki came with me,” Vicky said. “And Bourne, even though he says cities give him hives. But my dad had them once, and I happen to know they go down with aloe, so I think Bourne will be fine.”
Someone in the mystified crowd hooted with laughter.
“My dad says he’s really sorry about not finishing out the season for you as a driver. But, you know, this particular award is for the owner of the very best team. So even though Ricky Rowlands did the actual driving for him this year, my dad says he just keeps on winning because he’s the guts behind the operation.”
In the audience, Rowlands looked a little nonplused.
“Here’s the deal, I think. I thought a lot about this and finally figured it out. My dad only liked to drive fast because nobody cared if he crashed or not. He says he kept looking for something that ended up being behind him the whole time. Now he’s got me and my mom and this new baby so we can’t have him driving into walls, and he says that’s okay with him. But he promises he’ll take the wheel of his own car every once in a while because he doesn’t trust anyone else to win at places like Daytona and Talledega. But in the meantime, he says to tell you that he happened to look over his shoulder and he finally found where he belonged.
“Thank you.” She stepped back from the microphone and curtsied, red velvet, pigtails, and all.
ISBN: 978-1-4592-0103-3
ALL THE WAY
Copyright © 2002 by Beverly Bird
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You were pregnant when you told me to leave!