Promises To Keep. Shirley Hailstock

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ