“You didn’t make Eddie ‘James Hightower Reilly the Fourth’?”
He smiled. “Three was enough. I felt he should find his own identity, though in every other way he’s a carbon copy of us—a bank and finance man already. When he was five, he announced he’d run the family business, and he’s never wavered.”
Half-siblings. Family with generations of heritage and stories. Foreign concepts. Better to change the subject. “Tell me about the banking business.”
As the waiter cleared empty plates and topped off our coffee, my father explained how his ancestor three or four “greats” back founded a bank in Massachusetts, which survived market ups and downs, expanded nationally, and prospered. It was no longer privately owned, but my father still sat on the board and held an executive role. It was a fluke that another board member, entranced by the number of “eyeballs on racing,” proposed corporate sponsorship of automobile racing eight years prior—leading to my father’s path crossing mine.
My father was paying the check, at his insistence, when he dropped a bomb that had “family” written all over it. “The bank will be hosting an invitation-only party the night before Petit Le Mans, and I hope you’ll attend. All of the owners and corporate representatives will be there, as well as Series staff, many drivers, VIPs.”
I made a non-committal noise as he lit the fuse. “As well as my wife and children. Plus other family members who work for the bank, uncles and cousins and such.”
Jitters hit my stomach. “Do they even know about me?”
“They know about you. Amelia and the kids are eager to meet you.”
My heart pounded. This is ridiculous. I don’t need this extra stress in my life.
He looked hesitant. “I need to make you aware of something beforehand. It’s not entirely relevant, but I don’t want you to misunderstand or be caught unaware.”
I stiffened, sure I didn’t want to hear what he had to say.
“Even if it pushes you away again.” He sighed. “My father put you in the family trust, which no one knew until his death early last year. There is some…consternation in other branches of the family about you—do you have a legitimate claim, who are you, and so on.” For a moment he looked angry. “They’re blowing hot air. Legally, it was my father’s choice, and they can’t change the trust. None of us can. I hope the family will have more class than to engage you directly about it, but I felt you should know.”
“I’m in the will? I have an inheritance?” When he nodded, I continued. “I don’t want it, so take me out. Problem solved.”
He rubbed his chin and waved away the waiter offering more coffee. “That’s not how it works. You can keep the money or give it away, but you can’t remove yourself from the trust.”
“Then tell whoever’s cranky about it I don’t want it. I’ll give it back.”
“Kate, I hope someday you might feel part of the family. That you might…” He paused and watched me.
I focused on refolding my napkin and aligning my coffee cup and water glass on the table, trying to mask my panic.
He wasn’t fooled. “Never mind. The question will only come up after I’m gone—which will be many years, God willing. If anyone mentions it, you can explain your stance. But know I only have hopes of you, not expectations. Please.”
I gave him a grudging nod, annoyed with myself for acting like a surly child, but uncomfortable with what he offered. My head tells me to push him away. But my gut feels a connection. I’m fighting my upbringing. Fighting my grandparents.
He put away the reading glasses he’d used for the bill. “I’d appreciate it if you’d attend the party. I know it might be stressful, but a brief social situation could be an easier environment for a first meeting. Please consider it?”
I nodded again. As we left the restaurant, I tried to explain. “I know I must seem ungrateful, but I’m used to my life. This is a big change. I don’t know if I can give you what you want from me, and I won’t insult you by pretending to feel something I don’t.”
I didn’t add I wanted to run screaming from the thought of his established, extended family, because he wouldn’t understand why. I wasn’t sure I understood, myself.
Chapter Eight
I walked back to my room at Siebkens with one more weighty matter on my mind. When I checked in with the police, I discovered they wanted to talk to me at the station that afternoon, which meant Holly and I weren’t leaving Wisconsin that day. After making arrangements with the Inn to keep my room, I called Holly to apologize.
“They’ve got a spa at the Osthoff, don’t they?” A rhetorical question. “I’ll be fine,” she’d continued. “I’m worried about you and Stuart.”
“Stuart?” I hadn’t spoken with him yet.
“I talked to him earlier. He’s been at the police station since ten this morning.”
I looked at my watch. Noon. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”
She sighed down the phone line. “Sugar, you’ve got some bad juju.”
Didn’t I know it.
We agreed to meet for dinner, and she told me to bring Stuart if I could “spring him from the pokey.” I tried to find that funny.
I never saw him in the four hours I spent at the police station answering questions on two specific topics: what I knew about Ellie, which was precious little and a decade old, and what and who I’d seen in the Tavern. I’d given the same information to Officer Michaels the night before, but this time I talked to a Sheboygan County Sherriff from the Criminal Investigations division. I had to ask Lieutenant Rich Young point-blank about Ellie’s death before he admitted they weren’t sure it was natural.
“That’s…disappointing,” I sighed.
If he’d had antennae, they’d have quivered. “Only ‘disappointing?’”
“Look, when you wanted me to talk to you again, I expected this. And given my life has run to chaos in the last twenty-four hours, I’m numb to shocks.”
The sheriff reminded me of my father, short for a man, dark haired, slight build, and peering at written material through reading glasses. “Yes, you were in an accident in the race yesterday?”
“Then I made an ass of myself on national television. Then I reconnected with two good friends from my youth and found one of them dead an hour later. By this morning, most of the NASCAR community has e-mailed me to say they hate me. I’ve got long-lost family trying to claim me—never mind, that’s not relevant. Suffice to say, unless you plan to arrest me or Stuart Telarday, I’m shocked-out.”
“Hmm.”
“You don’t, do you?”
“Not quite yet, but we appreciate your continued cooperation.”
My insides churned. I’d have preferred a definite “no.”
As the detective wrapped up, he confirmed what Tom told me. The police questioned everyone in the Tavern before allowing them to leave the night before—though it wasn’t clear if anything there was related to Ellie’s death. They’d also be contacting anyone they knew of who’d been in the Tavern earlier in the evening.
Back at my hotel room shortly before five, I arranged dinner via text message with Stuart, who’d left the police station only minutes before me. Then I sat on the side of my bed and stared at my phone. I’d made my apologies to the LinkTime Corvette team in person after the race, but I owed Miles Hanson a call—driver to driver, no teams, media, or assistants in the way. I admitted to myself that I dreaded reaching out because I didn’t know how he’d respond.
I cracked the knuckles on my free hand while I rang the number I’d gotten from his team. My heart was in my throat, which annoyed me. He’s simply another driver, and the accident was his fault, too. I slumped in relief when voicemail picked up.
“Hi, Miles, it’s Kate Reilly. I, uh, wanted to call and see how you were doing, and apologize for my part in this. Seemed to me like a racing incident—like
we both should have known better in the rain, right? Anyway, I hope you’re healing well, and I’m really sorry to hear you’re going to be out of your Cup car for a couple weeks. Take care.”
That duty done, a little more weight dropped off my shoulders.
Zeke Andrews, my long-time friend, surrogate big-brother, and racing mentor, was the next person I dialed. He’d messaged me earlier in the day wondering if I was free for lunch and saying he’d seen me the night before at Siebkens talking to the police. I reached him waiting for a plane at the Milwaukee airport and explained the situation.
“At least I’m not a murder suspect this time around,” I assured him. I hoped.
“I should hope not. I’m sorry we couldn’t grab lunch, since Rosalie’s with me.”
“I can’t believe I missed her.” I hadn’t seen Zeke’s wife in three years.
“She was only around last night, but you can see her at Petit.”
I was surprised. I’d never seen Rosalie at the races. “I thought she hated crowds.”
“So did I.” He didn’t elaborate because he was called to board. We agreed to talk later in the week.
While I was in an explaining mood, I called my grandparents. They’d caught the news item about a death in Elkhart Lake after the race, but they hadn’t realized “Helen Prescott” was the Ellie Grayson we’d all known.
“That poor girl,” Gramps muttered. “Vivien, you remember little Ellie?”
I heard Grandmother saying indistinguishable words in the background.
“I know she was an adult by then, but they were all little to us. Besides, she was the sunniest little thing.”
“Gramps.” I reclaimed his attention. “She was taller than you.”
“You know what I mean, Katie. How are you taking her loss? I don’t remember you seeing her recently. Did you keep in touch?”
“I hadn’t seen her since we all went different directions. I was the only one who kept racing. I’m sad we won’t have a chance to be friends again. Sorry for what could have been.”
“Well, now, that’s life you’re talking about. You keep your head up, Katie. Don’t let those turkeys get you down.” Gramps’ parting shot made me smile.
I had enough time to shower before meeting Holly and Stuart at the Siebkens restaurant on the other side of the green from the Tavern. The place was deserted with all the racegoers gone home, and we sat in their screened-porch room with a bottle of wine. Stuart and I held hands under the table, while Holly pretended not to notice.
After twenty minutes of comparing notes on the questions Stuart and I were asked by the sheriff and local police, we agreed we had no idea what happened and put the topic away for the rest of the meal. The next most interesting subject, at least to Holly, was my wreck. I hadn’t seen the news since I discovered the avalanche of e-mails. According to her, I’d missed a number of developments.
“Tell me.” I drained the wine in my glass and filled up again.
“Racing news sites had articles this morning,” she said. “Race reports, covering the wreck, Miles’ injuries, and your rant at that stupid fan.”
“That’s not so bad.” Stuart squeezed my hand.
I watched Holly’s face. “There’s more.”
Her red, corkscrew curls bounced as she nodded. “The racing sites did a follow-up interview with Nash Rawlings, adding the information they’d gotten from Miles’ camp that he’ll be out of his car for four to six NASCAR Cup races.”
I covered my eyes.
“That means no championship this year, which everyone, especially Rawlings, blames you for.” She tapped a fingernail on her wine glass. “The racing sites are full of Miles’ lost championship hopes, and the major networks are picking up the fan story now.”
“What do you mean, the fan story?” I glanced at Stuart, who shrugged.
“From the non-racing media’s perspective,” Holly explained, “the story is an individual who’s so fanatical about his hero he’d get in your face, crying and ranting. Your story is the focal point for illustrating how far fans will go, along with coverage of the growing NASCAR fan community, hero worship, and so forth.”
I blinked. “I’ll go down in history as the instrument of destruction. Like Sterling Marlin tipping Dale Earnhardt into his fatal slide and pitchers giving up home runs to lose the World Series.” I sighed. “Stuart, how much does the Series hate me?”
“No one hates you. Officially, the Series is disappointed in how Miles’ participation in the race turned out. Personally, anyone who understands racing—who isn’t blindly, emotionally attached to him—understands that this was a racing incident.” He paused, softening his voice. “This will pass, Kate.”
“There’s another thing.” Holly chewed on her lower lip. “Have you heard about Racing’s Ringer?”
“Heard the name.”
“I forgot, you’re the queen of social media avoidance. Stuart, you know it?”
He nodded as a waiter arrived with our food. I wound pasta around my fork as Holly explained.
“It’s a blog, started this past summer, with a fast-growing audience. An insider’s perspective on racing. Anonymous. Loaded with gossip, innuendo, and rumor—and usually dead-on correct. Whoever’s writing it is well-connected and can clearly get people to spill secrets for publication.”
“But he’s no bastion of journalistic objectivity,” Stuart put in.
Holly nodded. “He’s opinionated, even passionate about his likes and dislikes. Vicious sometimes, when he takes someone to task for poor behavior—which he likes to do. He’s funny, unless you’re in his crosshairs.”
I looked at Holly. “The punchline?”
“He’s going to town with the story of the wreck, the fan, and your ‘redneck’ comment.” She grimaced. “He’s being pretty nasty.”
“How nasty is nasty?”
“He’s calling you a no-talent, whiney crybaby and suggesting people who agree with him write letters to Jack telling him to fire you.” She looked at Stuart quickly before delivering the final blow. “I’d say ‘who cares?’ except I checked with Jack, and he’s already gotten three hundred and seventy-eight e-mails.”
Chapter Nine
I’d lied to Lieutenant Young when I told him I couldn’t be shocked again that day. Holly assured me Jack laughed the whole thing off, declaring he had zero intention of firing me. But the story shook me.
Stuart raised a glass. “Here’s to a better week ahead.”
“To Petit,” said Holly.
I touched my glass to theirs. “To fewer people hating me tomorrow than today and yesterday.”
We finished the meal talking about plans for the next week and a half—life would roll on, as much as I wanted to run away from it for a few days. Afterward, Holly and Stuart walked me back to my room, Holly loitering down the hall while Stuart kissed me goodnight. They headed back to their rooms at the Osthoff, and I went inside and sat down on the bed. I’d held bewilderment and distress at bay throughout dinner, but now I felt adrift, unfocused. Disheartened.
I was mystified at how my life—personal and professional—had gone from business-as-usual to a minefield in the space of two days. I might despise myself for the weakness, but I was emotionally overwhelmed. I caught myself repeatedly trying to crack the knuckles on both hands and sat on my fingers to keep them still.
On the positive side, I knew I wanted to be racing and I was good at it. As far as I knew, I still had a job and sponsors—including the new contract I’d inked.
But every other area of my life was out of control. I didn’t know what to do with my father and his family or how to reconcile that relationship with my grandparents’ feelings. I didn’t know how I felt about Stuart. Didn’t know how to deal with public doubts about my racing ability and widespread questions about my character. I was angry at myself for not handling crazy-
fan Nash Rawlings well.
I ignored the voice in my head telling me to toughen up, because I needed to be honest with myself. I was also devastated that legions of racing fans hated me—hundreds of them feeling so strongly they’d send an e-mail saying I should be fired. I wanted to pretend I didn’t care what anyone else thought—hell, I wanted to not care. Aside from my personal reaction to being hated, being likable and salable were important components of a driver’s skillset. I feared for my career.
Gramps usually kept me from drowning in self-doubt, and I heard him in my head, “Remember what is important to you, Kate, and pursue that with every bit of your energy, because we never know how much time we have.” My mother hadn’t known. Neither had Ellie Prescott.
That was the problem. My emotional upheaval had its roots in grief about Ellie. I got up to open the casement window for the night breeze. Then take control. Don’t sit here feeling helpless. Make a decision, just one.
Fine. I’d think about Stuart.
He’d become important to me. But I held back, only responding to his invitations, not taking initiative. I didn’t ask myself what I wanted or how I felt about him. Through the window I saw his hotel rising above the trees.
I knew the reason for my detachment. I didn’t trust him or myself. I’d had two serious relationships, and both had ended when the man wanted me to change my life and goals to suit his. The first was my high school sweetheart, who supported my racing until he understood I planned to make a career of it—wherever in the world that took me—instead of settling down in Albuquerque with him. He never understood how hard I was willing to work to achieve my dreams and the miles I would travel to fulfill them.
The other was Sam Remington, a former open-wheel driver currently having a breakthrough year in NASCAR’s Cup series. He took me under his wing at an on-track test day, and we spent every spare minute together for the next six months, falling in love. Then he got the call to move to NASCAR full time, and he asked me to go with him. Not as a driver, with my own career and identity. As his fiancée.
Braking Points Page 5