“It used to be cool to be my little sister. Now I think she wants to be known as Emily Ward, a person in her own right.”
When they got to the airfield, he pulled up next to the guys taking admission fees in exchange for wristbands. “She’s part of Team McCool,” he said and got waved through. Inside the chain-link fence cars, trailers, and trucks were lined up in a staging area on one side of the runway. Big banks of lights illuminated the runway now serving as the drag strip. Tents covered the tire warm-up spot, while a couple of cars that just finished their run drove back along the other taxi strip. The big doors to the ancient corrugated metal hangar were open, and a steady stream of people made their way inside to get food and drinks or to warm up a little.
He parked the Audi in the grass, then got out to assess the temperature. Upper forties, he guessed, a little colder than his dad’s best run. He wouldn’t get weather like that again this year. The colder the air temperature, the better and faster the engines ran. He didn’t want to beat his dad’s time in more optimal conditions, but that wouldn’t stop him from racing anyway.
She came around the Audi’s trunk and met him in the weed-strewn gravel. “You going to be warm enough?”
“I’m wearing long underwear, and a down coat. I do live here,” she said.
The fake fur around her hood wasn’t moving. No breeze, which was a blessing and a rarity at this time of the year. Cold air could howl out of Canada at any time. He reached out and pulled her scarf up to cover her mouth and nose. “Got your Cady juice?”
She held up the thermos. “I made a fresh batch.”
“Let’s go.”
She kept up with his stride as they crossed the tarmac, headed for a trailer parked in a prime spot close to the hanger. Shane was there, only his legs visible as he worked under Conn’s car. “How’s it going?”
“Fine. Just … fucking … fine,” Shane said, between grunts as he tightened down the bolt on the fuel pump. He wormed his way out from under the car and took Conn’s hand to get to his feet, then did a hilarious double take when he saw Cady. “Oh. Hello. Sorry about the language.”
“Shane McCool, this is Cady Ward. Cady, meet Shane.”
“Welcome to pit row,” Shane said, doing an admirable job of putting the cool in McCool. “I’d shake your hand but mine’s covered in grease.”
Cady gave him a friendly little wave. “You’re a friend of Conn’s?”
“Since third grade. He wanted to race cars and I wanted to fix them.”
“Sounds like a match made in heaven,” Cady said.
“Shane’s a pretty good driver,” Conn said.
Shane jerked his thumb at Conn. “And he knows his way around an engine. But I’d rather fix them than drive them.”
“I don’t have time to do the repair work.”
“She’s a high-maintenance girl,” Shane said, patting the roof of the car. “Good thing I’m patient.”
“Good thing one of us is,” Conn said.
Shane snorted. “You’re more patient than I am. I would have given up on this a long time ago.”
Conn shot Shane a look. He wasn’t ready to tell Cady about his quest to beat his dad’s time. Shane knew about it, had known almost as long as he’d known Conn. But he balked when it came to telling a stranger, an outsider, someone who might not understand.
But Cady was just smiling, looking around, then focusing on Shane. “McCool from McCool’s Garage?”
“That’s us.”
“My mom takes her car there. She says she’s found the real unicorn, an honest mechanic. She was married to a lawyer, so she knows unicorns when she meets them.”
“Your mom’s Patty Ward? She brings in cookies and cider every year at Christmas.”
“That’s my mom. “
Shane laughed. “You’re basically family, then.” He turned to Conn. “You driving, since you’re here?”
His first priority was to Cady. “Finn can make a couple of runs,” he said, nodding at Shane’s nephew rummaging in the tool chest.
“It’s all right if you want to,” Cady said. “No one knows I’m here, and I’m all masked up like a bank robber. I’ll sit on the bleachers and watch.”
“You sure?” Conn asked.
“I’m sure,” she said. Hazel eyes twinkling, she pulled her scarf up over her nose and mouth.
He got a folding chair from the trailer and set it up by the trailer’s bumper, where he could easily see her. How could she go unrecognized? She was beautiful, vibrant, famous, and apparently, perfectly happy to sit on a sagging lawn chair in a drag race pit and watch him tinker with a forty-year-old muscle car.
“We’re getting good times,” Shane said. “The weather’s damn near perfect.”