She kicked the stand down then cut the engine, already feeling the kinetic energy in the air fuelled by the excitement of the unknown, and perhaps, known. Gazing up into that same lavender-infused morning sky under which she and Fitzwilliam parted, she closed her eyes and took several deep breaths, recalling her husband’s riding acumen, which led to thoughts of his endearing smile, and then his laughter. She thought of the way his jaw flexed whenever he thought out challenges. She imagined his strong arms wrapped around her in a comforting embrace—boy did need that! Goose pimples formed on her arms below the leather jacket she wore. It was as if he was still here with her. This time, she didn’t disregard that little voice way deep down in her when it repeated his words that emotional day at the shack. “Look, babe, you’re a strong rider, so don’t give into the falsehood of fear. In fact, you’re stronger than me in so many ways. Hell, what you’ve come through without even a complaint or a tear proves it.” In the nightmare of that day, she had been strong in the panic room, but she’d survived knowing that Fitzwilliam was safe, having left Pemberley for the District. Indirectly, his spirit had kept her company in her focus for survival.
And now, they’d face this ride together, he her silent navigator and riding companion. Her “mission” would begin the minute rubber met pavement in honor of him, and she desired absolute alone time to dwell in her mind and heart with only Fitzwilliam on her new motorcycle. Her next stop had yet to be determined but she knew for sure that it wouldn’t include Dave Wentworth, having vowed to stay far away from that tempting shiny apple. She’d chucked his phone number into a gas station trash can 40 miles back. She was still married—always would be. There would never be another man to take her husband’s place either in the bed or in her heart, and for her, one only came with the other. Meaningless hook-ups weren’t her thing, and although he’d said it would be platonic, she recognized the look in his eyes—it was the same one Fitzwilliam had on that wild, fateful trip to save her father.
As for future destinations, maybe she’d head south toward Florida and eventually end up in the Keys to celebrate their wedding anniversary. There was no time limit to her wanderlust. With the sketchbook tucked in her saddlebag, she would go with the flow. When she had the guts get a new passport, she would head to Geneva and Panama to investigate the nagging money issue. Right now, it wasn’t going anywhere.
She removed her helmet and sat for a minute listening to the growl in her stomach. When was the last time she’d eaten? Was it that box of chocolate chip cookies she’d inhaled on a pit stop outside of Statesville? Eating would just make her sick with all this nervous energy coursing through her veins.
“Hey, is this your first ride on the Dragon?” some leather-clad, hard-looking guy wearing a skull and crossbones do-rag asked as he walked passed her. He appeared to be about Dixon’s age.
“Is it that obvious?”
He chuckled. “Sure is. You’re lookin’ a little green in the gills.”
“Don’t let my looks fool ya’, old man,” she challenged, feeling churlish.
“Okay, okay, little lady, just you wait and see. That first corner at the .2 marker, Krudd Corner, will send you cryin’ back to your daddy before you even get started.”
“Oh, you think so?”
He stopped and turned to face her, eyeing her up and down and he couldn’t help but to break a smile when she placed her hand on her hip. “You doin’ this alone?”
“I am.”
“You got armor under that gear?”
“Nope.”
“Well, then you got bigger balls then me and I’m a one-percenter.”
“No, that’s not it. I just don’t have anything left to lose. If I eat asphalt, so be it.”
“Keep that attitude and you’ll be just fine, just make sure you hold that wide line on Krudd Corner. It’s a decreasing radius, and when you get to Gravity Cavity at 2.9 that damned right-drop and climb-out sneaks up on ya.”
And with that he left her standing by her bike before she could thank him for the advice. She thought of Fitzwilliam. Life was probably a whole hell of a lot more daring and uncomplicated when he thought he had nothing left. She’d changed everything.
Pulling out the Blackberry phone (which Dixon insisted that she get) from her saddle bag, she looked up “decreasing radius,” refreshing her mind with a tutorial on how to handle such a turn. “At only 30 mph, you can do this, Liz. It’s now or never if you’re gonna stand on your own two feet. No Fitzwilliam, no Dixon, no one from Obsidian, and certainly no one at Longbourn. It’s just you. For the first time in your life, you don’t have a safety net. You have to do this on your own.”
Thirty minutes later, after yet another pee stop, she was back on the bike with the engine rumbling below her. Her helmet was back in place and she was ready to channel her inner Iceman. He was with her—he’d always be with her. Before riding out of the parking lot, she snapped a few pictures and texted them to Jane, just in case she wouldn’t be on her game and if her mind froze to all of Fitzwilliam’s tutoring.
Holy shit, I can’t believe I’m going to do this! In case anything happens—I love you. You’re the best sister in the world and you deserve every happiness in life. Stop selling yourself short on love. Make the commitment you want—live life filled with true, constant love. Don’t run away—run to Charlie; he adores you just as Fitzwilliam adored me. And you are worthy of it!!!!! <3 <3
She gazed at the screensaver photograph on her phone for long seconds: their wedding portrait on the footbridge at Pemberley. He looked so incredible, so happy that day. Her heart filled with emotion as she secured the phone into the cradle on her dash. “We got this,” she said then flipped her visor down before tugging on her riding gloves. Only one piece of music was suited for this ride and it filled her headset: “Scheherazade.” Forty-two minutes of hers and her late-husband’s story in One Thousand and One Nights reminiscent of that incredible night they shared in Marrakesh before he went off to rescue her father.
A tap to the GPS brought up an image of all those hairpin turns she’d have to get through; it triggered a thunderous pounding in her heart up to her ears and the cold prick of sweat on her neck before leaving the parking lot. Both might have deterred her when bikers passed by with roaring rumbles and the smell of gasoline filling the air, but she’d not let them rush her. Again, she heard Fitzwilliam’s voice whispering one of his many SEAL mantras: “Slow is smooth, smooth is fast” and “crawl, walk, run.” Today she finally understood what he had been telling her. Mentally she was ready for this, and she knew she had the controlled skills to do it in her time and her way. Recognizing that here and now, there was no need for speed and that born to be wild didn’t have to mean “born to be carelessly stupid.” She was comforted to know that the Dragon had plenty of paved pull offs on the shoulder to allow for passing. Perhaps death wasn’t such a pleasant destiny after all? Not today; first she needed to finish the ride for Fitzwilliam.
Joining the line of motorcycles and cars riding past the metal dragon statue, she put her metaphoric big girl panties on and slowly turned the corner toward the Tennessee state line and the first turn: Krudd Corner. “I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. It’s time to do this for him and for you, Liz Darcy.”
A biker posse wearing skull and crossbones patches on their leather jackets crossed the yellow line narrowly missing oncoming traffic and she noted her “old man” friend wearing a Kaiser helmet. He gave her a thumbs-up from his position at the back of the posse. While she appreciated the encouragement, crossing the center line was bad etiquette on the Dragon—even she knew that! She reconciled that there would be careless yahoos, so she’d be extra vigilant.
She refocused on the ride, loving the spectacular views that her peripheral vision captured, but was cautious not to sight see. The symphonic music playing in her head and the stirring vibration below her seat melded with twisting road; they were one as the blood rushed in her veins. Sunrise gave way to brilliant rays streaming th
rough the flanking leafy trees along Route 129, and she felt a freshness that had been missing for a month. Why? Because he was with her.
Look where you want to go. Don’t forget to countersteer. Controlling her fear, she checked for any unlikely passing yahoo and glanced over her left shoulder before the turn ahead. She let up on the throttle slightly, preparing herself and the bike. With a firm, relaxed grip and eyes up, she leaned the Harley into the sharp corner turn, putting her chin to the left mirror. The internal lie that the bike would wipe out when she slid her butt a little off the seat, knee out to transfer her center of gravity surfaced, but her determination beat it down. Fear was a deception—a bold-faced liar—just as Fitzwilliam had told her from the very beginning and it was now—in this moment—that she knew he was right. Together with Rimsky-Korsakov and, of course her husband’s coaching she’d slay this Dragon and learn to master fear.
Even at only 30 mph on the straights, she was alive in this shell of a body, the adrenaline flowing after mastering the first, second, and third major switchbacks. Slow and steady was her credo on this ride of a lifetime, belying her belief that packing life in without her husband was the only direction her future would take.
Other riders weren’t so lucky, and she ignored the two wrecks she passed. For her, the miles were flying by with each consecutive curve challenge. Krudd Corner? No Problem. Gravity Cavity? Stressful. Parsons Curve? Difficult. Good Lord, Guardrail Cliff nearly made her toss her cookies, but she was holding her own, her skill and focus carrying her forward with each wicked turn, and she was loving it!
The GPS on her phone indicated that the deadly series of pucker-factor twisties that had taken several lives was imminent and she braced herself, looking ahead at the bend in the road leading to Triple Apex Corner.
The nerves came back when an itchy driver in a sports car behind her appeared in her mirrors, headlights flashing. He was too close, too anxious for speed, and she didn’t have a turn off available to move over so he could pass. Panic rose; her blood rushed to her temple. The voice in her head cautioned her but she ignored it, gassing the bike, creating distance between her and the car.
She leaned into the next downhill turn, a tight corner, but exited fine even if she was shaken. “Just pass me!” she shouted. He was right on her ass, playing with her. With him so close, letting off the throttle could be deadly, but breaking could be deadlier. There was no guardrail on this stretch, just a 200 foot steep drop off into the forest. Swallowing hard, she fought the rising bile of fear.
“Oh shit,” she said aloud, terror gripped her to almost rigid disconnect and she clenched around the handgrips. Up ahead, gravel had kicked up from the side of the road, rocks lay on a section of line right in her pathway toward the corner. Avoiding—at all costs—the brake, she kept her eyes forward and dropped gear, bravely tightening her legs around the gas tank to keep her centered. A labored breath sent her riding straight through the gravel, but the wheel shimmied. She pushed the panic away, just like Fitzwilliam had instructed. Miraculously, a pull-off was up ahead and the bastard passed her when she moved to the right of the road at full speed. The long unoccupied shoulder gave her time to slow.
Hard breathing released the fear as she fought the pull to stop the bike and get off, but ahead, she could see the clearing for the touted overlook at mile marker 8.8.
“You got this, Liz,” she bullied, getting back on the road. Thirty miles per hour tempered her anxiety and she loosened her white-knuckled grip on the handlebar. Seconds later, she slowed into the wide-open vista high above Calderwood Lake, and thanked God for surviving the close call. Her heart still thundered against her chest wall, but she tried to calm by absorbing the magnificent view around her.
On one side of the dangerous Route 129, cars parked, on the other, motorcycles—all needing a break from the concentration and dexterity needed to slay the Dragon. Once she cut the engine and removed the helmet, her hands nervously shook and she opened and closed her fingers, trying to restore circulation to them after clenching the hand grips for so long. Her legs felt wobbly from the intense ride—and almost wipeout—so she just sat there straddling her bike, feet planted on solid ground and taking deep breaths. The 1200 foot elevation, mountainous green vista before her was calming and her eyes drank in the breathtaking vision of the dancing shards of sunlight on the tributary, which led to the dam in the distance.
“How am I doin’, baby? Did I do okay? That was so close; I almost bought it,” she panted under her breath, still a little shook by the Apex but immediately felt embarrassed when another Harley, preceded by its distinct bellowing growl, pulled up in the neighboring space. She continued to gaze out at the dam in the distance and unzipped her leather jacket.
The bike shut down, but her thoughts were drifting … calming as she felt his presence beside her.
“Mr. D’d be proud of how far you’ve come. Near did me in,” the rider said shocking the ever-loving-hell out of her!
“Dixon!”
He laughed and what a welcome laugh. “You didn’t think I’d take your money then run, did ya’?” She couldn’t dare be annoyed that he’d followed her, not after the guilt he suffered through regarding Pemberley.
She got off the bike, careful to hold on, ready for her legs to give out, but he got off his ride, too and was right there for her, holding out his arm.
“You big salty oaf!” she cried, falling into his firm chest for a bear hug. “I’m so glad to see you. I almost wiped out!”
“I saw, and you did real good. Sorry I lied to ya’, Liz, but I made a promise to Mr. D to watch over you, and a Marine keeps his word even after he gets the heave-ho. I’ve been on your tail from the moment you left Washington.”
“I’m sorry, but I had to do this alone.”
“I get that, but it doesn’t mean I like it. If you really insist then I’ll leave you at the end of the ride, but I just had to be sure you finished safely. You understand that, don’t ya’?”
“I do and I appreciate it and, somewhere, so does Fitzwilliam.” Looking down, she recognized the painted grey flames on the gas tank. “This is his bike, Black Ice. So you even stopped up at the farmhouse?”
“Right after you left. Hope you don’t mind. The Reynoldses were real hospitable, well apart from Gus almost blowin’ off my head with that ole Winchester, but Mrs. R. tried to temp me into staying for breakfast, but I had to keep hot on your tail.”
“You gave up Ellen’s blueberry pancakes for me … you’re sweet.”
“It sure was tempting, and I gotta be honest, it’s real good living up here.”
Laughing, she admitted, “I know it is. It’s open to you whenever you want, and of course I don’t mind you riding his bike. In fact, I was going to ship it to you when I got back, a gift from him for all you did for me.”
They walked to the stone overlook and took in the magnificent view.
“How are you feeling?” he asked with a suspicious eye.
“Funny, I feel renewed—awakened from a slumber. I’m sure it’s the adrenaline from biking on the edge. I guess, this is how Fitzwilliam had lived before I came into his life, and my ride is sort of a memorial to him, I guess.” She looked out at the water. “In two days it’ll be the one-month anniversary of his death.”
“Any hardcore rider would appreciate such a fine gesture. So, are you gonna tell me what’s next for you? Where will you go after this?”
“First, I’ll be stopping at that cabin Fitzwilliam took me to before he left. Then …” She shrugged. “Head toward the Florida Keys, I think. I was reading about this bungee jump in South Carolina and a crazy zip line in Georgia.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“I’ll be fine, worry wart. And where will you go next?”
“North to my son up in New Hampshire.”
“You never said you had a child.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t know I had one until about three years ago.”
“The woman who took your dog?�
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“No. Like his dad, he’s joining the Marines, and I’d like to be there before he goes off to boot camp. After that, I’m not sure where the wind will blow me.”
She turned to face him and took his hand in hers. “Like I said, you’re always welcome to live and fire up that forge at the farmhouse. You can finally make those throwing knives you promised me. Hey, now that you have the capital, maybe you can set up a business doing that.”
“I appreciate the offer, and I’ll keep it in mind.” He looked down at her, his gaze holding fast to hers. “Seein’ that we’re at the end of the ride, and parting ways, I’d like to ask you something?”
“Sure.”
He paused, dragging his long fingers over his chin as he considered his words. “Well, here it goes … Mr. D was a SEAL.”
“Yes. From what he told me, a damned good one, too, like they all are I suppose.”
“I never asked you to explain what your friends said in the cabin that day they came, never asked you if it had to do with that Morales fellow who blew up Pemberley. It was none of my business if he was the drug trafficker your friends spoke about, but I figure what Mr. D was doing in Bermuda had something to do with retaliation for Pemberley.”
“It did.”
“So … a damned good Frogman, expertly trained in underwater explosives, got killed in a covert diving accident while setting underwater explosives?”
“Yeah. I love irony, but not that kind.”
“Ironic? I’m not sayin’ this to upset you or drudge up the past but, something came to mind this morning when I stopped at the farmhouse. After we hid you away up there in Black Mountain, leading this Morales to think you died at Pemberley, Mr. D said to me, ‘Dixon, the best defense is masked in the warrior’s death thus concealing the greatest offense against his enemy. But when the phoenix rises from the ashes, he’s the grim reaper.’ I didn’t think much of it at the time because he was about five whiskeys in.”
A chill crept up her neck and she uncomfortably tapped her fingers against her thigh. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but Fitzwilliam was right in his plans. He did beat Diablo at his own game. I’m safe now. He meant that I’m the phoenix that rose from the ashes.”
In Good Conscience Page 23