Promises to Keep
Auteur·e
Shirley Hailstock
Lectures
17,5K
Chapitres
15
Chapter One
WHAT SHE WAS about to do was strictly forbidden. McKenna Wellington knew it, but she was going to do it anyway.
She glanced at the aged and torn rule sign hanging on the wall. Turning it over, she reached for the master switch and forced it up. The lights over the track flared on. In a flash, midnight became high noon.
Looking up, she squinted at the brightness. The buzz of the halogen lamps coming to life sounded like a cavalcade of bees. The bleachers showed bright red seats, and the infield was ripe with Kentucky bluegrass. No cars graced the field—except hers. The fully restored red-and-white 1959 Corvette sat alone, a silent sentinel waiting for its driver in the surreal light.
Nothing was scheduled for testing. There were no spectators, no officials with stop watches or pit crews.
She was alone.
McKenna, the lights, the car and the night.
The wind was strong, plastering her flight suit to her body, but it wasn’t rugged enough to affect her test. Snapping her helmet over her shoulder-length brunette mane, she slid behind the wheel. She took a moment to admire the car, running her hand over the leather upholstery, caressing the steering wheel, taking in that new car smell and admiring the gleaming chrome hood ornament. It had taken her a year to restore the car and tonight was its first and only test run.
With her hands on the steering wheel, Marshall came unbidden to mind. This car, this drive, was her idea, but he’d supported it. They were going to do it together. But now that was not to be, would never be. Mist rose to her eyes. She blinked it away.
Marshall had been gone three years. She missed him, but she’d learned to fill the hours of her days until she no longer felt she would fall into melancholy and sudden bouts of tears. Guilt had racked her when she no longer thought of him first thing in the morning or last thing at night, when his features began to fade and she had to concentrate to bring them into focus.
McKenna shook herself, raising her chin and pushing the past behind her. She turned the key. The engine purred with only the slightest pressure from her foot. Her heart beat faster. Sweat coated her brow in anticipation of future speeds. Adrenaline pumped through her system. The car was her baby and she was taking it for a ride.
Pressing her foot down several times, she let gasoline pour through the intake valves. The dual exhausts kicked white smoke into the cool air. The sound was exhilarating. Anticipation, like a drug, flowed through her.
“Come on, baby,” she said aloud. “It’s show time.”
McKenna threw the car into first gear and pressed the accelerator. The Corvette took off as if it had a tail wind, digging its tires into the track, spitting up dirt and debris. The car punched forward along the artificially lighted track and headed down the straightaway. She didn’t feel so much as a shadow of a shimmy from the backfield. Pride swelled inside her. She couldn’t remember ever feeling this way before.
She’d done it. She’d rebuilt a car and she was driving it. But not just any car. This was Marshall’s car. A 1959 Corvette Stingray. No one had helped her. No one was there to lower the engine in place, slip a seat down on its frame, install a radio, put on a tire or polish the chrome grill. The car was hers, totally. She knew every nut and bolt in it, every quart of oil, washer fluid, belt, muffler and filter. Each one had her personal handprint on it. This was her first step toward an adventure and no one was going to keep her from doing it.
She pushed the car forward a toe at a time, shifting the gears with the precision of a choreographed dance. They smoothly slipped from one to the next. There was no grind, no crunch, just the polished perfection of timing and engineering. The car took its head and McKenna let it have it. The speedometer inched up until it reached Mach 1. RPMs soared. Tires spun, keeping traction with the pavement. The night wind ripped over the windshield, whistling in the lamplight like a knife cutting a path through which she flew. And flight wasn’t out of the question.
At the first curve, she banked high, easing into the turn but maintaining speed. She could kill herself if the slightest move wasn’t exact. The Corvette performed to her touch, slinging her around the turn and sending her straight down the fairway. McKenna took a moment to smile before bringing her concentration back to her driving. She went on, executing test after test, seeing what the car could do and making sure it would perform as expected should a situation arise when she needed speed, maneuverability or just plain getaway power.
Satisfied, she headed back toward the track entrance. She entered slowly, cooling the car down as if it were a thoroughbred. Turning off the engine, she got out and closed the door, admiring the beauty of the vehicle as if it were a Greek god.
The lamp lights still buzzed above her. McKenna walked around the Corvette, she couldn’t quit staring at it. She stopped and a smile spread across her face. Suddenly she jumped up in the air, doing the splits as if she were a cheerleader. Her voice hollered to the empty bleachers.
And that’s when the lights went out.
* * *
SUDDEN CHANGES DISORIENT most people. McKenna was still in the air when daylight was switched back into darkness. Her eyes didn’t have time to adjust to the change. Unsure of where the ground was or how high in the air she had jumped, she came down hard. Her hands reached for the car to break her fall, but it was too far away. Her feet hit the ground, her knees bent, and her butt made contact with the unforgiving track. Pain rocketed through her from her knees to her eyelashes.
Just as quickly as they had gone out, the halogen lamps burst on again. The instant change blinded McKenna. She heard footsteps crunch on the track. Fear surged within her. Thoughts of getting to the car raced in her mind and despite the pain, she was on her feet, moving forward when she heard her name.
Pivoting toward the direction of the sound, she waited to see who was there.
“What are you doing here?” Sam Sherrod strode forward followed by Parker Fordum. Sam was the test track manager. He didn’t live far from the place and looked at it as his personal property. Sam was in his late fifties and had been with the company McKenna owned since before she took total control when her husband, Marshall, passed.
Seeing Parker had McKenna gritting her teeth. What was he doing with Sam? Parker was an economics professor and had once been friends with Marshall. McKenna never took to him. While Sam knew cars inside and out, Parker recognized it only as a means of necessity to get from Point A to Point B.
“Are you all right?” Parker asked.
The question must have awakened McKenna’s nerves, because suddenly every pain receptor in her body sprang to life reminding her of her fall.
“I’m fine,” she said.
“What are you doing here?” Sam asked again. “I saw the lights and thought someone had broken in. The kids do that sometimes, but they never turn on the lights.”
“Sorry, Sam. I wanted to ride around the track for a while.”
Sam looked at the Corvette and then stared as if he’d been struck dumb. “Where did you get this?” His voice was breathless as he walked slowly, his steps matching the cadence of his words. He fully circled the car, peering at it as if he’d found the Holy Grail. “You’re not planning to bring this model back, are you?” His tone was negative, but McKenna knew he wanted a positive reply.
“Sam, we make parts, not full cars,” McKenna told him.
“I know,” he said. “A car is only a...”
“Few parts,” she finished for him. Sam always said that. He had it printed on a banner and attached to the bumper of his personal car.
“Where did you get this one?” Parker spoke, also staring at the car.
“I restored it,” McKenna said proudly.
“It’s a beauty.” His eyes seemed fixed on the car. McKenna knew he hadn’t heard her actual words. He thought she meant she’d had it restored. So far no one really knew that she had done it herself and she wasn’t about to go into explanations at this hour.
“My father had one of these,” Sam said. “He loved that car almost as much as he loved my mother.”
“I know just how he felt,” McKenna said. “Marshall had a replica of this on his desk at home. He told me once that he wished he could drive it like the wind.”
“Was that what you were doing tonight?” Parker glanced over at the track.
“Something like that,” she said, dryly.
“You can, of course,” Sam told her. “But I’d feel a lot better if you did it in the daylight. I don’t want to have to scrape you off one of these walls.”
“It was something I had to do, Sam. And I needed to do it alone.”
“I understand,” Sam replied. McKenna knew he did. She could hear it in his voice.
“You’ve got it out of your system now, so we won’t expect a repeat performance,” Parker stated. McKenna could hear his censure loud and clear.
“No. No repeat performance,” she said, keeping her tone as level as possible.
The next time she drove the car it wouldn’t be on a track, but a road.
The Mother Road.
* * *
ONE OF THE hardest lessons McKenna Wellington ever learned was to win the battle for friendship. Lydia, Sara and Adrienne were as close to her as sisters. She’d known Lydia and Adrienne since they’d all played in the same sandbox. Sara she’d met in college, but she fit into the group as if she’d always been a part of it. They had been there for each other during most of the joys and hardships of their lives, but they were also the worst critics to her creativity that anyone could choose. And though she loved them, she would not allow them to run her life.
For most of her thirty years McKenna Wellington had fallen in step with others. Whenever she tried to assert herself, there was always a reason for her to forsake her plans and comply with someone else’s.
Well, she was done with life by committee. Life was too short for her to put off doing things until it was palatable to the group. Marshall’s death had brought that realization home.
She’d allowed her friends to talk her out of moving to Alaska after college and to ditch her plan to make a fortune and then return to the mainland. When she wanted to invest money in an upstart computer software company, they’d convinced her she’d lose her bra. That company was now a worldwide multibillion dollar enterprise. Before she married, she wanted to buy a house. They’d been there to explain all the maintenance nightmares that could happen and how she was unprepared to cope with them. So she’d remained in her apartment. Only after marriage had she and Marsh bought a small three bedroom bungalow. Then, when the business exploded, a larger home in the Chicago suburbs where she resided now.
Well, not anymore.
If she kept that up, she’d die never having lived her own life. Now she was planning to go to California—her way.
“I never heard anything so silly,” Sara stated, pushing her shoulders back and rising up to her full height of five feet, five inches. Placing a hand over her mouth, Sara began to laugh as if McKenna’s announcement was a joke. “McKenna Wellington, have you finally lost your mind?” Lydia and Adrienne snickered.
McKenna closed her eyes and took a long breath, pulling her anger under control. She knew this would be her friends’ reaction. They had long since given up on their dreams. So had McKenna until three years ago when the man she’d married and expected to spend her life with had suddenly died of a heart attack, leaving her behind. Marshall was only twenty-eight. He would never be twenty-nine.
It had taken a while for her to stabilize the business, deal with the grief and assure the employees that their jobs were secure. But she was stronger for it now. And her dreams had returned. Dreams she’d put on hold so long ago she was surprised the door locking them still had a key. Marshall’s death opened that door. McKenna was going to act on her own dreams and no one, not even her friends—her best friends—were going to talk her out of them.
“My mind is completely intact, Sara. And I don’t think this is funny.” She stared across the car in her garage at her three friends. “I’m doing something I’ve always wanted to do. I’m telling you because you’re my friends, but I am not asking for your consent or approval.”
The group looked a little stunned. It was natural that they should. McKenna had never spoken this way before. But she wanted them to know up front that she was not accepting any criticism or attempts to dissuade her from her plan.
“McKenna, you can’t be serious,” Adrienne jumped in. “First you invite us to dinner. A wonderful dinner, I might add. You outdid yourself with the Lobster Newburg. It was superb.” Lydia made a French gesture of kissing her fingers and saying ooh-la-la. “Then you bring us out here to the garage and show us this...this car.” She pointed a finger at the Corvette as if it would bite her. “A car you say you built.”
“This is not a secret,” McKenna said. “You’ve all known for a year that I was building this car.”
Sara’s face screwed into a frown. She looked at Lydia Osbourne for help. “We didn’t actually believe you when you said that,” Lydia told her. “Selling auto parts doesn’t qualify you to build an entire vehicle. Where would you learn how? We just thought it was your way of saying good-night or that you didn’t want to do something we did.”
McKenna scowled at her.
“You know,” Lydia tried to cover. “Like when Margaret Mitchell told her friends she was going home to work on her novel.”
“Well, it was true when Margaret said it and it’s true for me.” She turned toward the red and white 1959 Corvette and spread her arms with pride. “As you can see.”
“McKenna, be reasonable,” Sara stated. She always began her arguments with be reasonable. “You can’t turn over the management of Marsh’s company to that idiot George Hightower and run off on this harebrained scheme.” Sara was the only person who dared to call Marshall Wellington “Marsh” to his face. Sara was Marshall’s sister. It was through her that McKenna had met him. And, like family, she protected her brother’s interests even after he was no longer alive to do it for himself. McKenna was also protecting Marshall’s interest. She would never do anything to intentionally hurt the company. It was her livelihood, too.
“It wasn’t just Marshall’s company. My sweat, tears and several years of my life are embedded in the walls of that business.”
McKenna and Marshall decided on the idea at the same time. Both loved cars and both had contacts in the automobile industry. It was McKenna who first broached the subject of starting a business to service vehicles, but Marshall jumped right in as if they were both of the same mind-set.
Marshall knew the economy affected car sales, but people were willing to buy more efficient cars in a bad economy. Those that didn’t, took better care of the car they already owned. Their business, of a full line of automotive products sold to both retail outlets and the automotive industry, had taken off.
The business didn’t just sustain them, it turned them into millionaires. But when Marshall got into the high-end, custom-made conversions, the carriage trade lined up and the business’s annual income became serious money.
“I didn’t mean to imply that Marsh did it all himself,” Sara was saying when McKenna’s attention came back to her. McKenna gestured for her sister-in-law to stop talking.
“George Hightower is not an idiot. He’s a capable manager and Marshall trusted him implicitly. So do I. George will keep things moving if he has to go out on the floor and run the machines himself.” She paused, waiting for Sara to refute her statement. Sara looked as if she disagreed, but she remained quiet.
“Good. Then there’s nothing to keep me from pursuing my dream. Marshall is gone and I’m free and single. I’m alone here and I want to do this before I die.”
“You’re not dying...” Sara said but then questioned, her expression changing to concern.
“We’re all dying, Sara!” McKenna shouted. Fighting to quickly compose herself, she continued, her voice at its normal volume. “When Marshall died, I wanted to die, too. My life had been so much his life. Without him I didn’t know what to do, but after I was running the company alone for a while, I felt the old me emerging.”
McKenna looked at her friends, studying their faces. “You remember the old me, don’t you? I used to be brave, yearning for new experiences. I loved Marshall, but he held me back.”
“Held you back. How?” Sara challenged.
“He didn’t mean to, Sara. And I let it happen.” She said the words gently. “I was happy to run the house, take a backseat to his decisions. I was happy to do what he wanted. We planned to have children, but our efforts were focused on the factory. We started the business and settled in. It took all our time and energy. But he’s gone now and I don’t want to die thinking I shoulda, woulda, coulda followed my heart and I didn’t. If I fail, at least I’ll know I gave it a chance. Can’t you understand that?”
For a moment it was quiet in the garage. Silently she pleaded for their understanding. Lydia, Sara and Adrienne all had different expressions. McKenna didn’t know if they were reviewing the younger versions of themselves, the people they used to be when their dreams were fresh and new and the thought of not accomplishing them wasn’t an option, or if they were judging her.
“You haven’t said anything, Lydia,” Sara prompted. “What do you think of McKenna’s plan?”
Lydia Osbourne was McKenna’s oldest friend. “I don’t think you can make a trip like this alone,” she said.
“There,” Sara seized the comment as consent that Lydia was in her corner. “Lydia’s right. What woman do you know who wants to drive from here to Los Angeles alone?”
“And on roads that are cracked, overgrown with weeds or so badly in need of repair they’re essentially nonexistent,” Adrienne said.
“You’re not going to talk me out of this,” McKenna said. “I’ve planned it for a year and I’m leaving in ten days.”
“Ten days,” Adrienne said. “This car may not make it from here to California. That’s got to be...”
“2,400 miles along Route 66,” McKenna finished for her. “And I know every single part of this automobile. I have personally installed every part, every piece. I know what its purpose is and what it needs to keep it working properly. This car is better equipped for a road trip than anything any of you drive.” Her comment was a challenge and she didn’t care how they took it.
There were drawbacks, but McKenna didn’t know what they were yet. She chalked that up to being part of the adventure.
“At least take someone with you,” Lydia said.
“The car’s only got two seats and no trunk to speak of,” Sara observed. “Where are you going to stay and how can you even put one suitcase in this thing, let alone one for another person?”
“Only you would call a fully restored ’59 Corvette a thing, Sara. I’m not planning on taking much. I want to travel the land the way the two guys on Route 66 did it.”
“I thought Route 66 was a road?” Lydia asked.
“A defunct road,” Adrienne added.
“It’s an old television series, with two guys traveling the roads, finding work where they could, and having a wonderful time,” McKenna explained.
“I never heard of such a thing,” Sara said.
“It was before our time, but I watched the reruns on Nick at Nite,” McKenna said. She’d watched them while Marshall was ill. It played in the hospital and she felt as if those two guys had kept her sane during an insane time.
“Isn’t that a children’s television station?” Adrienne asked.
“During the day, but at night they play vintage programs. The guys were Buz and Tod and they were the hottest thing going during the late ’60s. They traveled that road working and meeting people along the way.”
“How would you know? You weren’t even born then.”
McKenna was tired of explaining herself. She was going and that should be that. “The internet,” she finally said, unwilling to go into how much she had read on the subject, the books, songs, associations she’d joined, not to mention the two Disney movies surrounding that road that came out only a few years ago.
“All of this is because of some fifty-year-old television program? I cannot believe you,” Sara said.
McKenna clenched her jaws. At this moment she could strangle Sara. She wanted her friends to approve of her trip, not plant doom in her head.
“Sara, the show was only part of the inspiration for the trip, but it’s something I want to do. I’d forgotten about it until I started watching those reruns.”
“Sara has a good point, McKenna,” Lydia said. “Have you given this enough thought? There are hundreds of things that can go wrong on the road. And trying to work your way to LA. How long do you think this is going to take? And what about emergencies?”
“I’ll deal with them. If I can build a car, I can certainly drive it.”
Lydia looked the car over with the eye of a teenage greaser. “It’s very low to the ground. Those roads haven’t been maintained in years, if ever. You’re likely to have trouble with the muffler and oil.”
“I can handle it.”
“If you get someone to go with you, I’d feel better.”
“How about you going with me?” she asked Lydia.
“What?” Lydia said. “I can’t—”
“Why not?” McKenna interrupted. “What are you doing for the next few months?”
“I have a job.”
Lydia was a dressmaker by profession. She had a shop attached to her house and Sara worked there, too. They mainly did wedding gowns and big-ticket dresses for wealthy clients.
“Sara can run it while you’re gone. You have a staff of people who make and alter the dresses. You’ve been doing management and client relations for years. And you haven’t had a vacation since I can remember.”
“Wait a minute,” Sara said. “You’re not considering this?” she asked Lydia.
“Of course not. I can’t just up and leave.”
“Lydia, it’ll be fun,” McKenna said. “The two of us, the wind in our hair, a car that any man over thirty would drool over. Just think about it. The open road. No cares. No deadlines. No one screaming for your attention.”
Lydia considered it for a moment. She walked around the car, checking inside at the upholstery and smallness of the interior.
“Fine,” she said. “We’ll be like Thelma and Louise.”
“No, we won’t,” McKenna exclaimed, her eyebrows raised in protest. “The Grand Canyon is several hundred miles north of any part of Route 66.”
“I was kidding,” Lydia said.
McKenna’s shoulders dropped. “Lydia, I’ve been thinking about this ever since Marshall died.” She faced Sara and addressed her. “It’s something I want to do. I have to do it. Don’t burst my bubble now.”
“I know you’re slightly off your rocker,” Lydia spoke up. “But it’s good to give life a jolt once in a while, instead of waiting for it to do it to you.”
“Now she’s got it, too,” Sara said. “You’re both crazy.”
“The car’s only got two seats,” McKenna pointed out, ignoring Sara. “We’ll be traveling light and that means no men.”
“But Tod and Buz had women. Why can’t we have men? Thelma and Louise had men, too, only they killed them,” Lydia said.
“I draw the line at murder, but pretty much everything else is fine with me.” McKenna smiled.
Lydia and McKenna grinned at each other. And then they grinned at Sara and Adrienne. After a moment, they all burst into laughter.
