The Secret One

by Cardello, Ruth

  Plus sex without commitment wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. Not that I would ever dare say that to my mother. Especially not if we were in her kitchen and she had a wooden spoon within reach. “I know and I’m fine. Really, it’s good for me to see this side of the business as well.” Just then I noticed steam escaping the hood of my car. Shit. “Mom, I have to go.”

  “Something wrong?”

  “Mack’s engine is overheating. Nothing big. I’ll pull over and give her a rest.”

  “There is always an issue with that car. It’s time to get something new, especially now that you’re on the road more.”

  It was another conversation we’d had before and would likely have again. My 1970 BMW Baur Cabriolet wasn’t to everyone’s taste, but it had been love at first sight. I’d seen an ad for her online, and despite the poor condition she was in, I knew she’d be mine.

  My experience with cars before her had been entirely superficial and my knowledge of what happened beneath the hood of one minimal. That didn’t stop me from buying her and having her towed to my parents’ driveway and then to my own place when I moved out. Working on her still brought me comfort in a way I found difficult to articulate.

  I’d painstakingly refurbished her, bumper to bumper, and enjoyed every moment of it. Sure, a new car would be more reliable, but Mack was special. I was meant to drive her.

  Just as she was meant to sometimes challenge me. Looked like she was overheating again. Last time it had been because of her thermostat. This time, I had no idea. Life with Mack was always an adventure. “I’m pulling over. I’ll text you later when I’m home.”

  “Yes, please. Your father wants to know if you need him to drive up to get you.”

  “Tell him thank you but I’m good. I’m sure there’s a garage in town. If this isn’t an easy fix, I’ll have her towed home and grab a rental or call for a car.”

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Love you, Mom. Bye.”

  I turned Mack off, got out, slid off my suit jacket, and tossed it on the passenger seat before closing the door and rolling my sleeves up. More than one woman I’d dated had asked if I cared about my car more than I did about them. I’d always laughed the question off without answering.

  Those same women also accused me of being too close to my family. They didn’t have to say much more than that for me to know we weren’t destined to last.

  Mack calmed me, filled me with a sense of hope. I had the feeling that if I kept driving her, one day something wonderful would happen. It wasn’t something I could explain, so I didn’t bother to try.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MCKENNA

  “Still no date for the CamTech event tonight? Not judging, just asking.”

  “Still perfectly fine attending on my own.” I closed the door of the 1971 Mercury Montego I’d just driven onto a four-column lift and groaned. It was impossible to be irritated with Ty’s interest in my love life or lack thereof. He could be a little overprotective, but I didn’t consider that a bad thing.

  He, Cal, and Wayne were my family by choice rather than blood, and I was damn grateful to have them back in my life. Losing my father had sent me into a tailspin, and I’d pulled back from even them. Thank God I’d come to my senses.

  My life wasn’t normal. Was there such a thing for the daughter of a NASCAR driver? Mom had been Dad’s first and biggest fan, then his baby’s mama. They’d never married, but we’d all lived together in a huge house my father had bought at the height of his career. Not rich but comfortable. Early childhood was arguably the most normal part of my life.

  I was ten when my mother had announced she was leaving and that I’d have to choose between the two of them because she refused to do the every-other-weekend thing. She never wanted to see my father again, even if that meant not seeing me.

  I was furious with her. It took over a decade and more than one visit with a therapist to be able to articulate that. Asking me to choose between two people I loved had felt like I’d been given the option of jumping from a plane without a parachute or staying aboard and crashing into a mountain.

  I’d chosen my father because—well, mostly because she’d broken his heart too. He’d been faithful, hardworking, loving . . . just not rich enough. People brought up my mother’s name now and then. She was on her third . . . possibly fourth husband and had had enough work done that she looked much younger than she was. She’d never had another child. I’d once asked my father if that was proof that I was a mistake. He’d said miracles like me were unexpected but never mistakes.

  I was sure that wasn’t how my mother saw me, but I embraced my father’s view. I was his little shadow, his treasured miracle. In my adolescence I saw a lot of shit I probably shouldn’t have because my father took me everywhere with him, but I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

  His love for me made everything else okay.

  It gave me strength every birthday I didn’t hear from my mother, every milestone she failed to reach out to me. She might not have seen my value, but I didn’t require her validation. I was a miracle. I could survive without her, and one day I’d show the world the reason I was meant to be.

  My conviction that my life was part of a greater plan was shaken by my father’s heart attack when I was eighteen. He was there in the morning and then gone by the time I returned from school. No warning. No final words. I found him on the floor of his garage.

  Part of me died along with him that day.

  Dad’s pit crew—Ty, Cal, and Wayne—helped me sort through the mess that followed. They tried to get me to enroll in college so I truly could be the successful, independent woman my father had always bragged I would be, but I fought them at first. Eventually, I did enroll, only because I didn’t know what else to do. Nothing made me happy. Life didn’t make sense. I hated that beneath my tough talk, I felt scared, lonely, and in need of a good cry most of the time. I started avoiding people I’d known my whole life because I didn’t like who I was becoming and I didn’t want them to see me the way I was. Worse, I clung to people who didn’t care about me because I hated being alone.

  Then, one night in Providence, I had a conversation with a complete stranger, and it woke me up. He’d been a random meeting and was initially unwelcome. My father used to say many life-changing events were. Like with a tire blowing out or a sudden opening between cars on the track, a person had to be ready to make split-second decisions. In the heat of a race there wasn’t time to strategize. A racer acted, adapted, didn’t look back.

  It was nuts to think Decker Park was a reality only because some drunk guy had echoed my father’s advice and believed in me. I’d never shared that story. That lost, uncertain girl who had needed reassurance was a distant memory.

  Soon after that talk in the bar, I’d taken my inheritance and purchased land in Massachusetts. That one step forward had made everything else possible. It had allowed me to ask Ty, Cal, and Wayne to open a garage with me, one that focused on refurbishing stock cars. With our combined knowledge of the industry, we flipped cars others overlooked and invested the money into the business. Partnering with a college student had been a risk for all three of them, like so many decisions in the racing industry, but it had paid off for all of us.

  Seven years later we were living a dream beyond even what I had imagined back then. Tucked away on eighty acres, Decker Park boasted a 3.4-mile circuit with nineteen turns. We had enough blind corners and altitude changes to challenge reigning NASCAR racers as well as an oval .526-mile banked track where a novice driver could, for a generous price, experience the thrill of any of the retired stock cars in my garage.

  We didn’t host races, but everyone who was anyone in the international racing world eventually test-drove something on our tracks. Some came for the privacy we could ensure, others for the novelty of the experience. Regardless of what had brought them in the first time, almost all of them returned year after year. I didn’t advertise our programs or the cars we offered for sal
e simply because I didn’t have to.

  It still gave me goose bumps each time I sat back and thought about how many other directions my life could have gone in. I’d been ready to give up. Everyone had expected me to. The racing world was rife with crash-and-burn stories, as many off the track as on.

  But I hadn’t given up.

  More than once over the years I’d wondered whatever had happened to the man I’d met that night. Had his brother gotten past his grief? Was his family still as close as he’d described? Who had he become?

  I could have gone back to the bar to look for him, but I hadn’t. Once I’d chosen my course forward, felt the rush of adrenaline that had come with the confidence that I just might be able to do it, there had been no room for distraction.

  Sorry, Drunk Chris. That doesn’t mean I don’t owe you a huge thank-you if we ever do meet again.

  “There’ll be photographers,” Ty reminded me gently, pulling me back to the present. “And a lot of hand shaking.”

  He didn’t have to tell me what my sponsors expected from me at events. I’d gone to them even as a child, although back then I’d been trotted in, shown off, and whisked away to bed. Back then my father had been the show.

  So much of what my father had let me see as a child was an asset to me now. My instincts about cars and drivers alike were often correct. Show me a driver who thought about nothing but racing all week, hit the gym to keep his body alert and healthy, and left the party early to get his eight hours of sleep, and I’d bet my savings on him taking the next race—nine times out of ten I was right.

  Drunk? Lazy? Sloppy? If they ever won, it was by pure luck.

  Focus was everything.

  Determination.

  Grit—that was what it took to succeed in any business.

  Sponsor money overflowed to Decker Park because our facility was cutting edge. I was a valuable guest because I didn’t attend many functions. People loved exclusive. CamTech was a computer company that had no ties to racing, but they loved being linked to anything fast or difficult to attain. I represented both.

  No one ever said I couldn’t smell like my garage while being courted by drivers who wanted an invitation to Decker Park. I liked to think it added a humorous layer of authenticity. Sure, my nails are perfectly manicured, but breathe me in, fellas, and you’ll get where my priorities lie.

  I checked the zipper on the front of my coveralls and made a show of slipping gloves over my hands. “Don’t worry, I’ve got that covered.”

  With a smile and a shake of his head, Ty said, “I’d go with you, but I have a date tonight.”

  “Do you know this one’s name?”

  “Samantha. Or Sara. It starts with an S.”

  I laughed. “Somewhere between how you date and how I don’t, there is a healthy place neither of us will probably ever know.” It had been years since I’d even been on a date.

  He chuckled. “Ain’t that the truth. Speaking of healthy, Cal called earlier. He and Wayne found a man in Key West who says he wants to sell an old Plymouth Superbird. It’s been sitting in a garage. No idea if it runs. They’re going to take a look at it, then spend a few days in the sun before heading home.”

  “Sounds good. They deserve a vacation. Plus a Superbird would be a nice addition, since it was banned and there aren’t many out there.” I turned my attention back to the car on the lift. It was a possible consignment sale, another lucrative service we provided. We only sold the best, though. The jury was still out on whether this one met our standards. “Do you have time to see how honest this seller was with his description? Original paint. No cosmetic modifications. I’m eager to see how much they resisted changing under the body.” Tossing a smile at Ty, I added, “You know you’re curious as well.”

  He reached for a pair of coveralls. “Fifteen minutes, that’s all I’m giving this. Serenade is cooking me dinner at her place, and unlike you, I care how I smell.”

  “If I were you, I’d be more concerned with getting her name right,” I teased.

  “You know they’re all honey to me,” he joked right back.

  Sadly, it was the truth. I tossed a flashlight to him. “You’re so bad.”

  “Or so good I’m worth forgiving.”

  It was my turn to shake my head. In my book there was no such thing. I returned my attention to what mattered. So far the car looked like it had mainly original parts. “You know you’re the reason I don’t believe anything any man says.”

  Ty moved around to the other side of the car to inspect it as well. “Nah, you just haven’t met the right one yet. When you do, I’ll be the last thing on your mind.”

  “I sure hope so,” I said, even though I struggled to imagine myself with anyone long term. Some people couldn’t be alone. I was the opposite.

  Fifteen minutes came and went, then an hour. It was worth it, though. The car was in better condition than I would have guessed, and I was ready to list it for the seller.

  Ty left swearing after checking his watch and realizing how late he was. I had a feeling Sara or whatever her name happened to be would keep his dinner warm for him. Women let Ty get away with far too much bad behavior. Not that it ever led to anything serious. My father, on the other hand, had been a one-woman man, until my mother had ditched him. It was enough to make a person wonder if love existed outside of romance novels.

  I’d grown up in a male-dominated industry and had chosen to remain in it because it was what I knew. No, men weren’t a great mystery to me, especially not those with money. Most were players, willing to say or do whatever was necessary to get a woman into their bed until another woman caught their interest.

  Some were looking for something more serious, but they’d proved to be just as disappointing. Even if they claimed to admire me, after a few dates they’d begin to drop hints about ways I could change or, worse, how they could save me.

  Independent did not equal lonely.

  Time spent rebuilding an engine wasn’t a waste of my talent. I didn’t yearn for the day I could afford to have someone else do it. I already could.

  This is my happily ever after.

  I made quick work of changing into a little black dress, touched up my makeup, and brushed through my hair before slipping into my Belvedere. It was one of the few material things my father had left me, and driving it made me feel like he was with me.

  As I drove, I spoke to him in my head.

  Wish you could have seen the mint condition of the Ford today. Looked like they barely drove the car after it was retired. What a waste.

  He didn’t answer me. He never had, but I needed to believe he could hear me. No matter how much time passed, there was still an ache.

  I slowed when I noticed a car pulled over to the side of the road—overheated engine from the looks of it. My heart beat a little faster as I took in the make and model. A blue 1970 Baur Cabriolet. One of a little over sixteen hundred ever made, and most were still over in Europe. M10 engine, if it had its original. All-independent suspension and front disc brakes. Squared rear lights, a poor aftermarket choice of an upgrade, but not something that couldn’t be undone.

  I parked behind the car without thinking it through. Regardless of the driver, this little car was worth rescuing.

  A man in gray trousers and a starched white shirt held a white rag and looked about to open the hood of the car. His hair was trimmed in a conservative, modern style, and my guess was that we were close in age.

  Nice ass. Flat stomach. Broad shoulders. I bet he fends off the women in his office even though he’s already taken. He looks comfortably polished. Men like that are always married.

  As I approached the car, I called out, “Careful. You need to wait for the engine to cool before lifting the hood.”

  He paused and turned, a slow smile spreading across his face as he looked me over. My body surprised me by warming beneath his gaze. Those eyes—they felt familiar. The pleasure in them faded, and he frowned. “You shouldn’t stop for people y
ou don’t know. It’s not safe—”

  “For a woman?” I finished for him, feigning irritation. I didn’t like how my body was beginning to hum with anticipation. He was a complete stranger, and I was beyond meaningless hookups.

  “For anyone,” he countered with a serious expression. “It’s a crazy world.”

  “It certainly is.” When it came to people, my instincts were usually spot on, but I couldn’t read this guy. On one hand he seemed harmless, but why was my heart racing? What was I missing? “Would it help if I said I’m a black belt in karate and know at least a hundred ways to end your ability to have children?”

  “Ouch, and not if I was a lunatic with a gun.” He smiled and looked me over again. I expected a compliment or a come-on, but instead he said, “You’re not a black belt.”

  I wasn’t, but I didn’t like that he didn’t think I could be. “Want to test that theory?” I bit out. I could kick ass if I had to.

  His smile was nearly impossible to resist. “I’ll be a gentleman and say no.”

  A gentleman? Who described themselves that way anymore? “I could take a look under the hood.”

  “No need.” The laughter in his gaze made him too damn likable. A flirt, but not the way I was used to. I could tell he thought I was attractive, but I didn’t get the feeling he was about to pounce or say something offensive. He glanced at the hood of the car, which was no longer steaming, then back at me. In a more serious tone he said, “It’s probably something simple. Besides, you don’t want to get your hands dirty.”

  I could have told him I not only owned Decker Park but also worked on every car that came through our shop. My expertise was kind of a big deal in the car industry, but I held back. When dealing with the unknown, it was always best to retain the upper hand. “1970 Baur Cabriolet. It’s probably a faulty thermostat.”

  “Switched it out last year.” He searched my face. “You know about cars.”

  “A little.” I waited for the patronizing tone men often used when speaking to a woman about something they thought men could do better.