“Springhill Prison. How may I help you?” rattled off the same Eastern European female voice.
“Yeah, hi, I just called. I’m looking for—”
“Oh, yes, sir, yes, sir.” The voice hitched up to a girlish tone. He heard scuffling. A pause. He shook his head in disbelief.
“Springhill Prison,” came a male voice, somewhat shaky. “How may I help you?”
“Yes, I’m looking for Harry Hawes.”
“I see. And may I take your name please?”
“I’m …” Ronan hesitated. “I’m his son. Ronan Hawes. I believe you’ll need a number for him to call me, so I can give that to you now.” He held up the beermat and squinted at the numbers in the semi-darkness.
“Yes, Mr. Hawes. And can I say it’s an honor and a pleasure to talk to you.”
“Uh, you’re welcome?” Ronan could hear his voice echoing. He was on speakerphone. Jesus, this prison, what was it? A kindergarten? He heard someone saying something like “It is him. It is him!”
“Okay, so, here’s the number then—”
“I watched you on Sunday, Mr. Hawes. So impressive. We’re all fans here at Springhill, you know …” A chorus of mumbles sounded through the line. How many people were listening to this?
“Thanks, thanks very much.” Ronan pressed a hand to his forehead and dragged it down his face. “Could I … just … talk to my father, please?”
“Yes, of course, Ronan … I mean Mr. Hawes.” Another round of smothered chuckles. “Erm, please call out the number there and we’ll call you back in a jiffy, sir.”
Ronan read out the string of digits through gritted teeth.
“Plus thirty three. That’s Italy,” said the prison officer, with some uncertainty.
“Y-e-e-s,” said Ronan, patiently.
“But your next race is Texas.”
“Uh-huh. Correct.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Hawes. You’ll hear presently from your father. Please wait. Please note that the call will be traced—”
“For security and safety reasons. Got it.” No doubt it would be traced for fandom reasons now, too, and played on YouTube for posterity if he wasn’t lucky.
“Goodbye, Mr. Hawes … and good luck in Texas, sir! You show that Texan!”
“Thank you, I certainly intend to.” Ronan all but slammed down the receiver with a heavy clunk and sat watching it. His gaze wandered to the waitress, who was busy outside talking to an old guy. She spun around with the sixth sense of all good waitresses and caught his eye.
“Espresso, signore?”
He shook his head. Another of those and he’d be wired to the big pink moon now ascending over the canal outside. She returned to her conversation on the patio, leaving Ronan alone with his dark memories.
“Come on, old man,” he hissed at the phone. Then it rang.
“Hello?” Ronan said, a lot shakier than he liked.
“Who’s this?” came the waspish voice he immediately recognized. Dad. Ronan stopped himself exclaiming it just in time. A single memory of his father putting his first karting trophy on the mantelpiece came shooting back. “It—it’s me, Ronan. Didn’t they tell you?”
A silence. How long Ronan couldn’t judge.
“Ronan?” The voice was unstable now. “Or just some bastard messing with me? They said it was Italy. My son’s not in Italy.”
“Well, actually, he is. It is me.”
“Prove it.”
“Don’t you recognize my voice?”
A raspy sigh. “It could be you, son, but this kind of thing has happened before.”
It had? Jesus. And had he been fooled? Ronan’s gut tightened.
Specificity was the key, but all he could think of was the general hurt he was experiencing, the shame and the grief he and his mother had suffered because of this man’s criminal legacy. He sighed. “Remember the shelf you built for my second trophy when I was nine, and you busted your index finger with the hammer on the last nail? Because I do.” Harry hadn’t complained either. Had just walked away in agony and covered the pain with big smiles all evening. The memory still brought a warm heavy feeling to Ronan’s chest.
“Son! It is you!” Harry gave an old man’s chuckle followed by a wheeze that Ronan had never heard before. He’d aged in voice anyway. What did he look like now?
“Are they letting you out?”
Harry exhaled loudly into the receiver. “Guess so, son. November. The twenty-fourth to be precise, if I can trust the buggers. You getting ready with the red carpet?” he asked, warily.
“No. I just need to know.” Ronan kept his tone even. “I’m sure you can look after yourself.” As you always do.
“Don’t you worry about your old man, my lad. You’ve got enough to be concentrating on. Good job in Silverstone. I know you always wanted to win there.”
Ronan winced at the truth of this and gritted his teeth tighter, determined not to get sucked in.
“And I know you’re going for champion. I can tell by the way you’re playing the press and giving it your all. You will get it this year; I can feel it. That Maddux guy can shove his energy drink up his arse!”
Ronan laughed, despite himself. And then hated himself for giving Harry this advantage.
“That’s my boy.” Harry sounded quite animated now. “You’ll do it. Do it for all those years you’ve worked up to this moment.”
“Yes. Well. Not quite there yet,” Ronan cut in before Harry could take some of the credit for himself. “I need to keep my head clear, and I need you to stay out of trouble when you get out.” Had he spoken to his father like his before? Probably not. It felt good. “Look, just lay low. After Hockenheim, I don’t care. But before that, stay out of the press. Can you do that?”
“My boy, I’d give anything … anything … my life itself … to see you champion. You know that.”
The blood drained from Ronan’s face. This wasn’t going the way he’d expected. “Fine. Bye then.” He hung up and sank back into an uncomfortable wooden chair nearby. He didn’t notice the matron until she was right up at the table, her huge bosom alarmingly near his face. “No, signora, no more espresso, grazie.”
• • •
The Venice Mestre train station was crowded as usual, but Cass was on time; he didn’t have to wait long in the throng of tourists before her smiling face appeared like an apparition before him on platform five. She sank into his hug, and the tension drained out of his body.
“Nearly didn’t recognize you with the cap and shades,” her muffled voice vibrated against his chest.
“That’s the general idea.” Ronan peered around and saw a clear getaway with no potential F1 fans blocking it. “This way; no time to lose.” She pulled out from his embrace, eyes alight. “Before what?”
“You’ll see.” He smiled and hitched her suitcase over his shoulder. Always a light traveller, Cass. It had been the same for their overnighter in Danesfield House—just one compact suitcase. Vivienne used to mobilize half a store’s worth of Louis Vuitton cases for the shortest of trips, all color-coordinated, though how her skimpy costumes amassed to such a volume he could never figure out.
“Oh, a surprise?” Her tone made it plain she wasn’t a fan of them. Well, she’d like this.
• • •
The water taxi trundled across the Laguna Veneta. She couldn’t take her eyes off the splendor of the scene. He leaned back, inhaling the breeze and enjoying her rapt expression. They could’ve taken the train, but he wanted to experience her first impression of Venice from the water, the proper way.
“Let’s dump the bag later,” he suggested, “And go straight to the surprise.”
Anxiety creased her forehead. “It doesn’t involve flying, does it?”
“Nope, just more water.” The boat came to a standstill, and he led her out. She was wearing boots without much heel. Good. Venice did not treat stilettos kindly.
Cass was staring at the gondolas lined up against the promenade.. “This is exactly h
ow I imagined Venice. Are we actually going to go in one of these?”
“Yes, if I can find Piero,” Ronan said, scanning the row of eager gondoliers. “Ah. There he is—in the pink shirt behind the lamp post.”
“Are you sure it’s okay with the bag?” Cass frowned at the brown bag by his feet on the cobblestones.
He threw an arm over her shoulders. “Would you stop worrying?”
“Sorry.” She grinned and squeezed his hand. “I’ll try. I mean, if I can’t relax here—”
“Buena sera,” intoned a jovial voice. A weather-beaten Italian man slid up to them, shooing away some younger gondola drivers blocking the pier. “Signore Ronan and his lovely lady.” He looked Cass up and down in the appreciative way that only Italians seemed to get away with. Cass snorted into her chiffon scarf. “Prego, come down.” Piero waved them down impatiently.
Ronan stepped down the timeworn granite steps and took her hand to guide her into the gently rocking gondola. The suitcase was deposited on the spare seat. He leaned back on the plush red velvet and pulled her back with him. “Piero, amico mio, let’s drive this baby!”
“Faster than you, signore, in Abu Dhabi.” Piero’s wizened face twisted in hilarity.
“He would remember the close race I lost recently,” Ronan murmured into Cass’s ear. “I’ll ignore him. I suggest you do likewise.” He slid his arm under her jacket, fingering for an opening in her blouse to touch her skin, realizing how hungry he was for her, and almost—almost—wishing he hadn’t prepared a surprise and had just dragged her to the hotel room. With his other hand he pulled the champagne out of the ice bucket. Finding he couldn’t actually open it with one hand, he sighed and pushed it back into the bucket again. His other arm slid under her jacket, too. She yelped and bolted upright. “God, that’s cold!” She slapped him off. “Your hands are like ice!”
Piero laughed and thrust the oar into the water, and they were off, gently rocking. Ronan remembered the previous times he’d been here, same boat, Piero’s regular forward strokes each followed by a compensating backward stroke. They’d become friendly a few years back when Ronan had to endure an advertisement filming, repeating a gondola trip fourteen times until the director was happy. Piero had introduced him to a real Italian café with lovely people afterward, and effectively rescued him from the tiresome film crew.
Ronan’s body pressed against Cass’s as the gondola bobbed along the gray-green water, lights sparkling from streetlamps and windows all reflected hazily in the river. He kicked off his shoes and sighed. “Let the good times roll.” He loved watching the familiar bustle at the banks of the Grand Canal and observing Cass as she saw everything for the first time. She actually “ooh-ed” when they went under their first bridge. He gave her another minute of sightseeing before twisting to her again. “Now, where were we?” She giggled as he slid his hands against her midriff and gently squeezed. Maybe he shouldn’t have bothered with the gondola. He was having trouble keeping his hands off her. He needed to get her back to a room. Now.
She darted a look at Piero, who ignored them and lit up a cigarette. She nudged Ronan’s shin with her foot. “Open this champagne.”
Ronan expertly popped the cork. “What’ll we toast to?” he asked as he clinked his glass against hers. He loved how her face glowed in the dusk, and how gentleness had replaced the brittle anxiety.
“Next race?”
“Us,” he said softly.
“So … where are we going?”
“No clue,” he said. “I just told Piero to keep it tranquil and as far away from other tourists as possible. He’s one of the best, knows the canal system like the back of his hand. So don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried about him, I’m more worried about you. Look, your glass nearly went in.”
“Oops.” He grabbed the champagne flute that he’d perched on the edge of the boat. “Don’t worry, we drivers have lightning sharp reflexes. I’d have caught it before it fell in.”
“Lightning sharp, huh?” she said. “Well what if I were to throw this?” She held up his Italian moccasin shoe.
“Hey.” He sat up. “Watch it, they’re my favorite shoes.”
“But you’d catch it, if I were to say … drop it?” Her hand hovered over the side of the gondola, the shoe dangling from her long finger.
“You do and I’ll—”
“What?” she challenged, “Come and get it, Tiger.”
He stretched across her, deliberately pressing his weight against her, and whipped the shoe from her hand. “I hope you can swim.”
She laughed. “Of course. But you wouldn’t dare.”
Without thinking, he pinned her back with his left arm and slid his right arm up her thigh before she could react. Her A-line skirt made it easy, and her lounging position on the bench even easier, to whip down the soft, slinky material of her underwear. Her knee jerked up violently, just missing his face, but he grabbed it into him and tugged the lacy garment over her shoeless feet. She fought him, laughing, but he sank back, victoriously holding the clutch of teal blue silk in the breeze. It looked familiar. Did she buy them in six packs? A glance at Piero showed he had his back to them, giving them a modicum of privacy.
Cass lunged for the underwear, but Ronan held it closer to his chest. “Mine.”
“Is that so?” She bent down to grab his shoe. He’d left himself open for that bad tactical move. He narrowed his eyes at her. “What do you think you’re doing?” As if in slow motion, he saw her shoulder flexing and the telltale stiffening of her biceps as she prepared to fling the shoe. He bolted forward, catching the shoe just as it left her hand, and experienced a moment of triumph as it left her grip and slid into his. But then something wasn’t right, the center of gravity had somehow shifted and he wasn’t landing in the boat, he was … going over the edge, water coming toward him, deep gray water …
He yelped as he submerged. Memories of childhood swims in the freezing Atlantic whipped back, and then a blank slate of shock. Painfully cold. Shit. How filthy was this water anyway? He resurfaced, gasping and grappling at the slimy wooden side of the gondola. No grips. He backed off to get a better look. Cass and Piero were staring at him, white faced, both comically round-eyed. Then Cass’s hand went to her mouth and she let out a yelp of laughter. Piero joined in, his baritone guffaws cascading as Cass’s receded.
“Bloody hell, help me out here, you bastards!” he called, spitting out a mouthful of briny water. Cass and Piero held out their arms in unison and he grappled for one of each. Then he had a better idea. He let go of Piero’s and tugged Cass’s arm until she, too, went toppling over the edge with an ear-piercing scream.
She scrambled to the surface and shrieked again. “Oh my God, you asshole!” She started a front crawl to the edge of the water to some stone steps. He followed her, admiring her quick thinking and the speed she kept up. He’d never swum with clothes on before. Where was his mobile phone? Wallet? No, they were in his jacket on the boat. Thank God.
She clambered up onto the stone steps in front of him, her wet skirt clearly revealing her lack of anything on underneath. Despite everything else his body was telling him, the sight of her shivering contours in that translucent, wet cotton skirt thickened his blood. He pulled himself out of the water and followed her up the steps, squelching. She sat huddled on a low wall, wringing out a mass of dripping hair. “Oh my God, I can’t believe you did that,” she panted. “You’re just evil.”
“You started it,” he said, heaving. He let out a snicker that turned into helpless laughter. She whipped around and her face crumbled into mirth as well, her white teeth flashing under the streetlights before she bent forward to clutch her stomach. He continued laughing, now more out of surprise and relief at her reaction. She couldn’t seem to stop.
She sat up gasping and looked him up and down.
“What’re you looking at? You’re every bit as wet as I am.”
“I know.” Her smile was incandescent.
&nb
sp; His breath caught in his chest. Her smiles were rare, but when they came, they illuminated her right through to her soul, and he was lost. What had she been like before the accident? He imagined times like this, seeing her helpless with laughter. The camera capturing her exuberance when she told him about putting the ties on the statues were what the old Cass had been like. Before the guilt of the accident overwhelmed her.
“What?” He held out his dripping arms and pulled his hands in again to wipe more gunk off his face.
“Sorry?” she offered, looking far from contrite.
He shook his head. “My fault, I guess.” He glanced around instinctively for a taxi, but of course there were none. No cars at all. Just people, tourists, and cameras flashing. Cameras … flashing. Damn. He turned instinctively toward the river and tugged Cass close. “Don’t turn to them,” he said. “We’ve to go back down.” He led the way back to the water. Bless him, Piero was ready and waiting with the gondola right up against the steps. “Signore, quick.”
Ronan jumped in and turned to catch Cass. They flumped down on the ornate bench again, their collective wetness seeping into the velvet. Piero whipped around and threw them two blankets. “Quick,” he said with a vaguely circular motion of his hands. Ronan draped one around Cass. She was shaking as much as he was, but she smiled up at him sheepishly. “Get us to our hotel as quickly as possible, but if you know a secret way, all the better,” he called to Piero.
“No problem.” Piero was talking into a phone. “My son … he will come now. With motorboat, yes?”
Cass clung to her blanket as they waited for the motorboat to arrive. She’d noticed Ronan checking his watch three times in the past minute, his expression growing somber. Piero had smoked two cigarettes in succession and shot them mixed looks of sympathy and incredulity between drags.
“What’s up?” she asked Ronan finally. “Worried about catching a cold? I actually understand that now—how important it is for a driver to be on peak fitness, especially in the neck region—”
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