“My life has changed, but it doesn’t change us. My friends—they said I should break it off—that I couldn’t marry an unbeliever—but they don’t know you. I couldn’t live without you.” She blinked and her dark lashes sparkled with tears. “Harry, say something. Be happy for me...”
Her words buzzed in Harry’s ears. He heard a smack, saw again his parents’ stricken tableau from his youth. Felt his father’s primal rage. No confusion this time, no sympathy. No shame for the crying woman. He was the wounded one here, the one betrayed.
He leaped to his feet, hands clenching and opening as the living room snapped back into focus. I am not my father. He grabbed a vase of red roses and hurled it against the wall.
“Tracey, I can’t—Get out!”
“I don’t understand.” Her face went white.
She looked so hurt, so lost, but he didn’t dare comfort her. The need to strike back burned stronger. “Go. Now!” The words seared his throat.
She stood, crying as if it was her world blown apart. Ha. The pain and fear on her face were nothing to the black hole where his heart used to be.
He grabbed a candy dish from the table. “Now.”
Tracey bolted, snatching her coat and fumbling with the doorknob. After the apartment door slammed behind her, the candy dish thudded to the carpet at his side, chocolates rolling everywhere.
Harry hunched on the couch, staring at nothing, remembering her last glance. He loved her, and he’d broken her heart.
But she’d broken his first with her choice. Jesus or Harry, it couldn’t be both.
Finally he pushed upright, and with arthritic slowness picked up the shards of glass from the vase. He’d bought the roses to welcome Tracey, and now she was gone.
As he tossed the broken flowers and vase fragments into the kitchen garbage, something stung his palm. A single drop of blood welled when he pulled out a sliver of glass.
His chest ached at the thought of life without her. She’d filled his dreams, given him life. If he hadn’t been spooked—okay, terrified—by his sudden, visceral fury, maybe he could have talked her out of it.
A dry sob shook him. He’d never been so angry.
Swearing, he flung himself face down on the couch. If he had hit her, she’d never stay the way his mom had. Tracey was her mother’s daughter, independent and full of fire. He pushed his face into the upholstery and screamed himself hoarse. How could she do this to him?
He’d never told her about his mother’s faith—or the abuse that came with it. He tried not to think about it. Besides, Tracey liked his father. He didn’t want to change that.
They’d talked, dreamed, planned, made out... faith wasn’t a topic that came up. He should have said something in the beginning—should have warned her Christianity wasn’t an option around him. But he hadn’t known he’d react this way. How could he live without her?
A key scraped in the lock. Harry scrambled to a sitting position, scrubbed the damp from his cheeks. How long had he lain here? He should have gone to his room. He wasn’t ready to face his father, or anyone.
The door opened and Matt walked in, whistling. He flicked on the lights, hung his jacket in the closet and tossed his cap onto a peg by the door. His eyes met Harry’s and the whistle died on his lips.
“Why are you sitting here in the dark?” He dropped into the chair beside the couch and studied his grease-stained fingernails. “Tracey get in all right?”
Harry nodded, blinking in the light.
“You two have a fight?”
“Don’t ask.” Harry shuffled his feet against the carpet. The man could go days without saying ten words. Why’d he pick tonight to be chatty? Harry’s pain was too new, his grief too raw to share.
Matt stood. “Give it time, son.”
Harry channel surfed while his father ate supper. Matt brought his coffee into the living room and settled in his chair. Harry tensed, but his father disappeared behind the daily paper.
The telephone rang. Harry didn’t move.
On the third ring Matt grunted, laid down his paper, and moved to answer. “Hello?” He covered the mouthpiece. “It’s Tracey. Says she needs to talk to you.”
“No.”
Matt studied his son for a moment. “She’s a nice girl. The sort that’s worth a second chance.”
“She’s a Christian now.” The words came out low and defeated.
Matt’s eyes locked with his son’s and his face twisted. He hung up the phone, and squeezed Harry’s shoulder before turning away. “It’s better now than later.”
The door shut quietly but firmly behind him as he went out.
Despite his tossing and turning, Harry was asleep long before his father returned. Neither mentioned Tracey in the morning.
For the first time, Harry dreaded climbing into the test car. His eyes felt swollen and scratchy, and a dull pain throbbed at the base of his skull. He’d slept, but his dreams had given him no rest. Tracey had shattered part of his future. Would their break-up cost him this dream too?
He put in a mediocre round of pit drills. The car didn’t feel right, he overshot his stop marks, the brakes were soft. He was the problem. The magic had gone, as if he’d already detached from this love as well.
As he pulled off his helmet and shook his hair free, his thoughts probed the hole in his heart where Tracey had been. At least concentrating on driving had given him a few hours respite from the pain. His steps dragged as he headed for the locker room.
“Yo, Harry.”
The race engineer waved a piece of paper at him. “Been staring at computer readouts too long. I almost forgot. The boss called earlier. He wants to see you before you go.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
So this was how it felt to lose it all. He was empty. Dead inside. Resigning himself to the inevitable, Harry changed into his street clothes and headed for the office.
Aaron Delaney looked up from the racing reviews he was studying. “Ah, Harry. Come in. I wondered if you got my message. Pull up a chair.” His eyes were watchful behind his smile.
Harry’s lungs strained against a sudden, icy band around his chest. He shook his head.
“I’ve been sitting all day.” He stood behind the nearest chair, his hands gripping the smooth wood of its back.
“It looked like you were having a hard time out there this morning. Any improvement yet?”
“No.” His voice creaked. He had to get this over with. “If you want me to leave, sir, I—”
“Harry.”
His gaze faltered under his employer’s appraising stare.
“Everyone has a bad day now and then. I’m not concerned about it. Especially as I suspect it has something to do with what happened between you and my granddaughter.”
Harry stiffened. How much did the old man know?
Delaney got up from his chair and circled the desk. “Your personal life is none of my business. Racing is my business.” He grasped Harry’s shoulder. “You are a professional, and we have an agreement. I’m not prepared to release you from the team over this.”
Harry searched the older man’s eyes. His knees unlocked and he almost collapsed. He swallowed a few times before he could trust his voice. “Thank you, sir.”
If he’d laid a hand on his boss’s granddaughter though... Harry’s stomach dropped. Time to cut his losses. Forget his nebulous hope of making Tracey see it his way. If he snapped... He could live with a broken heart. He couldn’t live without racing.
Delaney’s grip tightened on Harry’s shoulder. “The pain will ease. I’m sorry—for both of you.” He stepped back. “I expect to see a much better performance tomorrow.”
Harry nodded and turned toward the door.
Delaney coughed. “Wayne was in to see me today.”
One of Team Delaney’s stock car drivers. Harry stopped and looked back.
“He hasn’t been on pace since his accident. I was giving him time, but he wants out.” Delaney locked Harry’s gaze. “Get you
r focus back, log as much practice time as you can, and the seat is yours.”
Chapter 25
Karting had thrilled him, testing cars gave him experience with the powerful V-8 engines, but in the middle of the hunt, jostling for position in the season-opening race the next February, Harry transformed. The stock car’s raw power resonated in his core. He embraced it as a rite of passage and knew himself to be a man, virile, stronger than his nineteen years and empty heart.
Within a handful of races he solidified his place on the team and justified his sponsor’s faith in him. Roaring over the tarmac fighting the other cars consumed him. He practically lived at the track between races, pushing his skill to new levels.
The gruelling pace kept his mind off the hollow place Tracey left inside him. Questions threaded through his nights. Had he done the right thing? What if he took her back? But he couldn’t, he’d barely contained his rage long enough to send her away. She’d get over him. Harry would find his own healing in speed.
After two stunning seasons with Team Delaney, he accepted an invitation to move from stock cars to the open-wheeled IndyCar circuit. Aaron Delaney grieved the loss of his star, but agreed it was the best career move and wished him well. Harry knew his former mentor kept an eye on his progress as he rose to fame.
He started as a test driver. When one of the regulars suffered multiple fractures in a pile-up, the season was his to finish. The following year saw a contract to drive each race. His career was in motion, and he never looked back.
Harry’s age, and his sizzling debut with his new team, won him a large following among the younger fans. His manager encouraged him to play to the crowd. He flaunted a ‘drive fast, live fast’ lifestyle. Flashy, albeit lonely. After Tracey, he’d resolved women would be passing flings, nothing more. He couldn’t risk loving again—not when betrayal might follow.
He never answered interviewers’ never-ending questions about past tragedy in his life. The public happily invented deep wounds to fill the gaps, and loved him more for his brave face. His long bangs and haunted looks left his female admirers dreaming of being the one to banish the shadows from his eyes.
Harry was surprised at how much it meant to him when Matt agreed to move to his pit crew as head mechanic. The offer had been a formality—he knew his father was happy at Team Delaney. Harry read the change as an expression of the love Matt was never able to verbalize.
Matt took a fierce pride in the car’s performance, and it transferred to the whole crew. The car was a red and white torch, crafted by the mechanics, passed to Harry to deliver to the checkered flag.
Harry tore in for a pit stop one hot day in Cleveland and was instantly aware of Matt’s absence from his usual position on the pit wall. The helmeted crew slid a new set of tires onto the car, filled the tank, and Harry took off.
He felt a vague sense of unease without his father’s customary double thumbs-up sign to send him out. Matt must be checking the telemetry readout—the car hadn’t been handling well for the last ten laps. Somewhere in the endless stream of electronically-transmitted data would be a clue to the problem.
Wrestling with his vehicle, Harry re-took second place. All other thoughts submerged by the demands of racing. By the second-to-last lap he was in the lead car’s slipstream, alert for the slightest opening. On the next corner the driver in front braked a fraction too late and ran wide.
Harry launched his car into the opening even as the other driver tried to shut him out. Knuckles tight around the steering wheel, foot to the floor, Harry held his position on the racing line. If the two cars tangled, they’d both be out.
His side mirror showed his rival slot in behind, almost close enough to be in his blind spot. One mistake and their positions would swap again.
“Sorry, pal, not today. This one’s mine.” Harry kept the other car behind him through the final corner while executing an almost textbook braking sequence, then squeezed more power from his complaining motor for the run to the finish.
The checkered flags waved Harry home for his first victory with the new team. He’d won for Team Delaney, but triumph never grew stale. Each win consummated his passion for the sport, validated his skill, his inner strength.
He strode to the winner’s circle, waving at the cheering fans, cheeks aching from the width of his grin. Manny Clark, the team owner, escorted him. At the base of the podium, Clark grabbed his arm. “You did great, kid.” He pulled Harry closer. “Keep the interview short.”
Harry nodded and tossed his sweat-drenched hair out of his eyes with a practiced flick of his wrist. “Sure, boss.”
Manny was probably afraid winning would make him shoot off his mouth. Shoulders stiff, Harry mounted the steps with the second and third-place drivers. His rookie season with the team, and he was young compared to the veteran drivers, but he was born to race. There was more to him than the twenty-two-year-old that Clark saw.
He’d finished third a few times already, and taken second once, but there was an extra thrill about mounting the top step of the podium. Harry stood tall, head thrown back and arms raised, absorbing the roar of the crowd.
He’d shown them he had what it took to make it in this league. This was validation, but not victory—he’d tasted that at the checkered flag. Already, his body was starting to relax as the rush of adrenaline ebbed.
Still, he didn’t have to force the smile that split his face as he went through the post-race ceremony and interviews. The fans deserved it, and without them, the sport he loved would die.
A grim-faced Clark intercepted him after the press conference. Harry felt his own jaw tighten. What was the man’s problem? Harry had followed instructions, kept his answers brief.
He held his peace until they were alone. Manny was a decent boss over all, and rumours of friction in the team wouldn’t help anyone.
As soon as the team motor home’s door closed behind them, Harry let loose. “What’s eating you?” His eyes drilled into Clark’s, then faltered at what he read there.
The older man laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “There’s no easy way to say this, son. Your father had a heart attack during the race. He never made it to the hospital.”
Harry reeled away. Punched his fist through the closet wall beside him. He pulled his arm free, dimly aware of the splintered panelling tearing his flesh.
Grief crouched in his mouth, blocking the words his brain couldn’t form. He choked it down and rounded on Clark. “You let me keep going? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You had a chance to win. He said to let you go. Those were his last words, Harry.”
Harry’s knees buckled and he collapsed into the nearest seat, face in his hands.
“The track chaplain says he’ll come if you want him.”
Harry jerked his head up. His face twisted into a snarl. “Keep him away from me.”
The older man stepped back, palms outstretched. “Whatever you want. I just thought—what have you got against him, anyway?”
“It’s not him, it’s who he belongs to.”
Clark shook his head. “I’ll be outside if you need me. Gotta check on the rest of the team. We’re all pretty shaken up.”
He paused in the doorway. “He was a good man, Harry. You meant the world to him.”
Cold black emptiness condensed in Harry’s heart and trickled away, leaving him hollow as blown glass. He was alone.
He stayed in his seat a long while, twisting his fingers into his hair as if the screams from his nerve endings could dull the pain inside.
A few hours later, showered and changed, Harry had as much of a grip on himself as could be expected. He phoned directory assistance for his sister’s number, then resolutely punched it in. Harry knew she wouldn’t come, but he had to give her the news. And to ask.
She must have caught the unshed tears in his voice as he forced the words out, but her voice stayed cool. “I can’t.” She might have been rejecting a telemarketer.
“What’s the problem
this time?” He knew his tone was acid.
She’d never forgiven their father’s abuse, and Matt disowned her when she chose teen pregnancy to force his consent to marry a loser musician five years her senior. Harry had tried to keep in touch, to bridge the rift, but she’d never softened. Nor had Matt.
Still, not even to come for her father’s funeral? “I’ll pay your ticket.” Was he actually begging?
“No, thanks.”
“He was your father, for crying out loud. Sure, he had his faults, but don’t you care at all?” His free hand hurt, and he loosened his fist.
No more punching walls. It was lucky he hit flimsy panelling last time. If he’d connected with something solid... A broken finger he could race with, but not a broken wrist. And he had to race. It was all he had left.
On the other end of the phone, Carol’s sigh was almost a growl. “What do you want me to do? The kids were sick all last week. If I miss any more time from work, I’ll get fired.”
Harry winced at the raw desperation in her voice. “Carol? Are things all right there?”
“They’re as good as they get,” she snapped. “Not everyone’s dreams have a happy ending. Listen, I am sorry about Dad, but I can’t come. What good would it do, anyway? It’s too late to fix things between us.”
Harry hung up, still alone. All he had left was speed, and he vowed to be back in the car the next day for testing, despite Manny Clark’s offer of bereavement leave.
He kept to himself in the weeks that followed. His fans showered him with sympathy every chance they got, and the media wanted a window on his grief. He pulled the shades down firmly over his loss—and his anger.
Matt was gone. It would have been easy to turn to Aaron Delaney as a surrogate father. The older man came to Matt’s funeral. Harry drew on all the strength and comfort his former mentor gave, but only for that day.
He was glad their respective careers were busy enough to keep them apart. Delaney genuinely cared for him, but he couldn’t have many years left. What was the good of caring, when every person Harry cared about was taken from him?
The shadows in his life grew longer, and he ran faster to stay in the sun. He lived to race, and grabbed any pleasure offered along the way. His career was his anchor. He had nothing else he could trust.
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