The Blue Ribbon Brides Collection

by AlLee, Jennifer L. ; Breidenbach, Angela; Franklin, Darlene

  Chapter 6

  As Robert left the repair tent, he looked around for Jolene. She said she was going to be inside the Caplan house-car, but he expected she never made it past the tent door and had been listening to him and her father the entire time.

  Because it’s what he had done so he could interrupt at the opportune moment.

  Robert slumped into the crutches and rubbed his jaw. He wanted to find Jolene—to kiss her one last time—before going to see his father. Before asking the impossible: if he’d let go of his anger so his only surviving son could marry the daughter of his bitterest enemy.

  Not hard to guess his father’s response.

  The panic that had overtaken him earlier began to creep up his spine. He cut a sweeping glance over his surroundings to tether himself in the here and now instead of the foreign soil of war. Evergreen trees covered the hills like a thick carpet. White clouds floated in a blue sky and occasionally blocked the sun as they traveled east. Birds, not bombs, flew overhead. The dirt beneath his feet was covered with straw, not blood.

  He was as far away from the front lines as a man could get, but his heart still pounded like a misfiring engine.

  A group of men wearing red shirts approached. The Caplan team. Robert beat a hasty retreat—well, hasty for a man on crutches. He headed for the Montgomery camp, reminding himself to breathe.

  His father was standing outside the Montgomery repair tent, a hand shading his eyes. “There you are.”

  “Dad, we need to talk.”

  “Not now. We need to get you ready for the match.”

  Robert shook his head. “I can’t drive.”

  Dad reached inside the tent flap and pulled out a blue shirt. “Like I told you before, you can drive better than—”

  “It’s not that.” Robert stared into his father’s face. Was Mr. Caplan right that sons inevitably turned out like their fathers? If so, the bitter lines around Dad’s mouth would etch into his own face one day. “I have something important to ask you.”

  “You put this on and drive, and I promise the answer will be yes.” Dad held out the shirt.

  Robert’s head spun for a moment, then his heart sank. “You must not know what I want to talk to you about.”

  “Leaving the auto polo circuit? Your mother already told me.”

  “She did?” It wasn’t what he and Ma discussed, but perhaps she was trying to ease her husband into letting go.

  “Now put this on, and let’s get you in that car.” Dad shoved the shirt into Robert’s hand.

  Jolene often said he should choose when to confront an issue rather than attacking it head-on the moment it came up. Perhaps she was right. “Okay, Dad. I’ll drive, but we will have a conversation after the match, and I’ll remind you of your promise. Do we have a deal?”

  “Fine. Fine.” Dad turned and disappeared into the repair tent.

  Trying to change shirts while balancing on one leg and keeping crutches from falling proved too difficult. Robert sat on the steps to the house-car, breathing in the lingering scent of his mother’s bread as he changed into the Montgomery team shirt.

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

  Robert looked up to find Jimmy standing a few feet away. “No choice, buddy.”

  Jimmy’s face hardened. “I’m not your buddy, Robert Montgomery. We weren’t even buddies back when I was the mechanic.” He took a step closer and jabbed a finger under Robert’s nose. “I’m driving now, and if you drive in Frank’s place, you might find that the Caplans aren’t your only enemy out there.”

  Jolene gasped when she saw Robert behind the wheel of one of the Montgomery’s cars. What was he thinking? If he survived the match, she was going to kill him with her bare hands.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Caplan.”

  Heart sinking, Jolene smiled at Mr. Walpole. “Good afternoon, sir. I hope you’re ready for a great match.”

  “I always enjoy a show of skill, whether on the ground or in the air.” Though there were plenty of available seats in the grandstand, Mr. Walpole sat beside her. His tenacity had just crossed into browbeating.

  Jolene needed time and another conversation with Robert before she gave Mr. Walpole her answer. Robert hadn’t talked to her after the conversation with her father, and when she tried to follow up, Dad shooed her away because it was time to get ready for the polo match.

  Did Robert have permission to marry her or not?

  On the heels of that question were twenty more. Listening to Robert stammer over asking if she still cared for him, and then his willingness to speak to her father when, seventeen months ago, he’d been dead set against it … well, clearly he’d changed. So had she. Were they still a good match for each other? Could they go back to how it was before, or was she remembering the past with too fond an eye? Why was he playing in the match? He knew how much she wanted to leave the circuit. He’d been willing to give it up to elope. Had he changed his mind?

  “Is that Robert Montgomery driving?” Mr. Walpole’s question sent Jolene into protective mode. She might abhor the idea, but she’d not let an outsider criticize Robert or either auto polo team.

  Jolene angled her head toward the Montgomery side of the field to pretend she needed to see for herself. “I believe it is.”

  “Well, now. Isn’t that an interesting twist?”

  Jolene stiffened and exerted all her willpower to remain seated. “What a lovely day we’re having.”

  “It is.” Whether Mr. Walpole sensed it was safer to turn the topic of conversation or just enjoyed discussing trivial matters, he kept up a light banter for a few minutes before the roar of engines prevented further discussion.

  Checking the stands, she was grateful to see almost every seat taken.

  Until the match started.

  When the flag dropped, Robert drove straight for the center of the field, but the other Montgomery driver didn’t move. The Caplan drivers headed for the ball, one pulling up in time for the other to take lead and let Pierre swing. Robert’s car arrived at the exact same time, except his mallet man didn’t swing.

  Robert spun his car around and drove at the ball again. When his mallet man still didn’t swing, the crowd hushed. Pierre pounded the ball through the Montgomery goal posts with no opposition from the car still parked there.

  Booing split the air.

  Jolene pressed a hand against her pounding heart. What was going on?

  Two more Caplan goals were scored in an identical manner, and booing drowned out the four unmuffled engines.

  The referee held up his flag while retrieving the ball from behind the Montgomery goal posts for the third time. Before returning to the field of play, he stopped to say a word to Robert’s father. Mr. Montgomery, face deep red, marched to where both team cars waited. Whatever he said worked because, when play resumed, both cars entered the fray—although, to Jolene’s trained eye, the Montgomery mallet men weren’t making much of an effort.

  By the end of the first period, the score was five to zero in the Caplan’s favor and the booing was back.

  Oddly, Robert drove his car almost off the field rather than parking behind the goal post and walking to where the team gathered to discuss second-period strategy.

  “I guess they’re trying to hide the boy’s broken leg.” Mr. Walpole’s observation was as unwelcome as his presence.

  A few minutes later, the car reappeared with a different driver. Robert, crutches in place, walked out far enough to catch Jolene’s eye. He shook his head, his mouth flat and tight.

  Jolene bit down on her bottom lip to stifle a sob. He’d failed. The bitterness between the Montgomery and Caplan families would rob her of her greatest dream. Therefore, she’d settle for a different one.

  “Mr. Walpole, I accept your job offer. Where should I meet you and when?”

  Jolene didn’t stay to watch the rest of the match. Instead, she hurried to the house-car and began packing. Mr. Walpole was meeting her at the main gate in an hour. She couldn
’t afford distractions. At least that was the story she told herself while the truth—that her parents, Robert, and everyone else who’d try to talk her out of leaving were too caught up in the auto polo match to miss her—nibbled the edges of her fraying composure.

  When her small suitcase was stuffed to bursting, she set it aside long enough to pen a note.

  Dearest Mom and Dad,

  I have accepted Mr. Walpole’s offer to become a stunt pilot. My decision has nothing to do with being angry or upset. As you know, Daddy, I was hoping Robert would be granted permission to marry me. I understand why you said no, but my disappointment is acute. I have agreed to work for Dayton-Wright for one year. I hope that when I’m done, the bitterness between you and the Montgomery family will be laid to rest.

  I’ll write again when I’m settled.

  I love you with all my heart,

  Jolene

  A tear fell and smudged her signature, but she didn’t have time to fix it. The match would be over soon, and she’d lose her opportunity to slip away. Besides, she was crying so hard a new note would end up as nothing but ink blobs.

  After a final look around the traveling home she loved and hated in equal parts, Jolene stepped outside and closed the door behind her.

  Robert watched the rest of the match from the sideline. Although he hated to admit his father was right, the level of play had declined significantly in the past year and a half. Many of the fans left after the first break, and several more trickled out until the grandstand was half-empty by the time the Crusaders beat the Marauders ten to four.

  Dad had screamed himself hoarse during the match, so the team meeting afterward was short. Once it was over, the guys disappeared fast. Either they were still mad about Robert driving or they wanted to skedaddle before Dad took them to the woodshed for their first-period stunt.

  Robert and his dad were loading mallets into one of the cars when Mr. Trotter, the head of the Auto Polo Association, marched to their side of the field, his face shiny red and eyes blazing. He was hauling Mr. Caplan along by the elbow and, when he got close enough, grabbed Dad’s arm. “You two, I swear I’m going to have your guts for garters. What were you thinking? I give you one simple instruction—make it a good match—and you turn what was supposed to be the triumphant return of the greatest rivalry on the circuit into a laughingstock. Do you not understand what’s at stake?”

  Silence.

  Robert scooted his crutches back. He didn’t belong here.

  “Stop right there, young man.” Mr. Trotter pointed a finger at Robert’s nose. “Don’t think you’re getting off without your fair share of a lecture. I don’t care if you have two broken legs.” He returned his attention to Dad and Mr. Caplan. “Unless I hear a good reason for what happened out there, I’ll ban both your teams from ever playing auto polo again. I’ll not have the bitterness between you ruining the sport.”

  After a few tense seconds, Dad glanced at Robert. “My boy’s the best driver the circuit’s ever seen, and I challenge anyone to dispute that.” He shot a belligerent glare at Mr. Caplan before returning his attention to Mr. Trotter. “You said make it a good match, so I put my best players on the field.”

  “Three of whom then didn’t play!” Mr. Trotter ripped the brown felt hat from his head. Wisps of white hair stood straight before flopping sideways on his pink scalp. “The entire association is losing momentum. We’re trying to attract people, not scare them away by looking like complete lunkheads. You”—he glared at Robert—“did you know what your teammates were planning?”

  “I knew they weren’t happy, but I had no idea they meant to boycott. I removed myself as soon as”—Robert leveled his gaze on Dad—“I fulfilled my promise.”

  Mr. Trotter’s mouth opened and closed twice. He turned to Mr. Caplan as though suddenly recalling his presence. “And where were you while all this was going on?”

  Mr. Caplan lifted his eyebrows a fraction. “Do you have an issue with how my boys played?”

  “Their conduct on the field was fine, but what about that nonsense under the grandstand this morning?” Mr. Trotter jammed his hat back on. “Did you think I wouldn’t hear about that?”

  Mr. Caplan’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Let’s just call it another—how did you describe the last Caplan-Montgomery match?—unfortunate event.”

  Dad’s breath hissed on the way in. “You, too?”

  “Made me so livid I couldn’t see straight for a full minute.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mr. Trotter’s face echoed Robert’s confusion.

  Mr. Caplan yanked a piece of paper from his hip pocket, unfolded it with jerking impatience, and thrust it at Mr. Trotter. “This.”

  Instead of reading the letter, Mr. Trotter patted his front jacket pockets—first on the right side then the left. Not finding what he was searching for, he started patting his pant pockets.

  “Never mind your glasses”—Dad grabbed the letter—“I’ll tell you what it says. I’ve read it so many times I have the stupid thing memorized.”

  Dear Mr. Oliver Caplan and Mr. Charles Montgomery,

  I am writing to inform you that the Auto Polo Association will no longer adjust the tour schedule with the expressed intention of avoiding a rematch between your teams. We hope you can resume your rivalry without undue antagonism over the unfortunate events of your last meeting. Your first meeting will be September 16, 1918, at the Western Washington Fair in Puyallup, Washington. If you have any questions or concerns, please direct them to me at the above address.

  Sincerely,

  Albert J. Lindsay for William B. Trotter

  Dad finished reading and poked a finger in the middle of the page. “‘Unfortunate events?’” His voice rose. “Is that how you describe what happened when my boy was killed and his maimed?”

  Mr. Caplan gripped Dad’s shoulder. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  Robert squeezed his crutches until his fingers begged for mercy. He didn’t move, hardly even breathed for fear the small gesture of friendship would blow up and obliterate them all.

  Eyes flitting between the two rivals, Mr. Trotter stepped back.

  “I … I got his letter and yours on the same day.” Dad rubbed his jaw. “Afraid it may have colored my reply just a bit.”

  Remembering what Mr. Caplan said was in that reply, Robert held his breath. Was it possible that some of what had been said and done in the past was distorted by the heat of the moment or ravaging grief?

  “I should have stopped Theo.” Mr. Caplan’s words were so soft, Robert wasn’t sure he heard them correctly.

  Dad scratched his earlobe. “Plenty of blame to go around.”

  There it was! Would Dad ever forgive him? Robert tightened every muscle in his face to keep from shouting the question at his fath—

  “I never should have let my boys try a maneuver they hadn’t mastered in practice.”

  Robert lost his balance and nearly fell. “What?”

  Dad turned around. His suntanned skin was tinged with gray. “Robert? What’s wrong?”

  The dirt beneath his feet quaked, but no one else seemed to notice. Robert sucked down air. “What maneuver are you talking about?”

  Cocking his head to the left, Dad narrowed his eyes like he was trying to understand the question. “The one where you and Eddy were to keep even, then he was supposed to do a hard left at the last moment. Between Eddy waiting a hairsbreadth too long and the damage to his tire …”

  Whatever else Dad said got lost. A floating sensation overtook every limb. Robert held on to his crutches like they were the only thing keeping him on solid ground. “So … I didn’t …” Mitch’s death wasn’t his fault? Could it be true?

  Mr. Caplan reached out and touched Dad’s sleeve. “I think your boy blames himself for his brother’s death.”

  Dad’s eyes pinched at the corners. “Is that true, son?”

  Robert nodded, his lips still unable to form words.

  Dad st
umbled back a step and grabbed his suspenders. “Is that why you went tearing off to war without so much as a word to me? Because you thought I blamed you?”

  Robert cast his mind back, forcing himself to relive the terrible grief following Mitch’s death. Whom did he blame? The truth was like a slap across his face. “No, Dad. I blamed me and couldn’t handle the guilt. I decided you couldn’t forgive me because I couldn’t forgive myself.”

  Both Dad and Mr. Caplan stiffened then slowly turned their heads until they were staring each other in the eye.

  “I … do you think—?” Dad tipped his head toward Robert.

  “That your boy is on to something? That we blamed each other out of our guilt?” Mr. Caplan rubbed his bristled cheek. “Maybe.”

  Dad stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  Was that an apology? Robert didn’t want to ask for fear the answer was no.

  Mr. Trotter bobbed his head once. “Well, I’m glad you two are finally over this nonsense.”

  “Nonsense?” Dad and Mr. Caplan spoke in unison and turned to stand, shoulder to shoulder, facing Mr. Trotter.

  Instead of withdrawing, Mr. Trotter grinned. “Nonsense I said, and nonsense I meant. Oh, not the loss of your boys—that’s a tragedy and no mistake—but this rivalry between you when God made you brothers. If I’ve accomplished nothing during my tenure as president of the APA other than get Charles Montgomery and Oliver Caplan to be friends again, I’ll retire happy.”

  The sun reappeared from behind a cloud, as though God echoed the sentiment from His seat in heaven. Robert added his own plea for good measure. Please, God … let this small foundation hold up. Let forgiveness be built on it in the days and months ahead.

  Dad’s shoulders inched down. “Hating you hasn’t done me much good.”

  Mr. Caplan’s shoulders began to shake, and laughter rent the air. “Charlie, has anyone ever told you you’re miserable at kissing and making up?”