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Chapter Thirty-eight

The next morning, as I drove through the pre-dawn streets from Beverly Hills to Universal City, I gave Holly a minute-by-minute account of my evening.

She “hmmmed” for a long time. “Interesting that he let you take charge, literally take the wheel, and didn't have to prove his masculinity. Didn't have to play Mr. Macho.”

“More than that, it obviously turned him on.”

“Not many women could turn down a romp with Lucas Tolani, big, sexy heartthrob.”

I shifted in my seat. “Maybe that's why I said no.”

“It takes a rare man to convince you to break one of your personal commandments.”

“Do I have them?”

“A couple. ‘Thou shalt not drive recklessly on city streets' is a big one for you, though I've never known if you don't want to endanger other people or get a ticket.”

“Both.” If anything, my regrets about racing down Mulholland had grown. There could have been too many awful outcomes, including scaring other drivers into accidents. Including a ticket and a hefty fine. Including the press knowing I was behind the wheel. I didn't want to add the possibility of injury to me or Lucas to the list—I knew my own skill—but I hadn't known the road, and anything could have happened. “Dammit, I hate peer pressure.”

“Is that why you did it?”

“Partly. Mostly.” I tried to dredge thoughts out of my groggy brain. “I was caught up in the moment, the excitement, Lucas' urgency and concern, the thrill of the car.”

“The thrill of the chase.”

I sighed. “When I'm in a racecar, I'm prepared to make good, snap decisions. In the rest of my life, maybe not so much.”

“Like a ballerina who's graceful on stage, but a klutz walking down the street?”

“You have the weirdest analogies. Yes, like that. I hate that I put us and maybe others in danger. For no good reason.”

“You're disappointed in yourself.” Holly's voice conveyed support, no judgment.

I didn't like what that behavior said about me. It made me feel irresponsible. Stupid. Even childish, like my behavior with my father. “I'll learn from it.”

Half an hour later, I cupped a mug of coffee in my hands while a makeup artist added powder to my face. Holly leaned against the counter next to me, scrolling through her phone in one hand, and downing caffeine with the other.

“Oh, boy.” She straightened.

My stomach fell. “I
really
hate it when you do that. Can it wait until after the interviews?” The brief video chat with the network morning show back in New York was first, then a live sit-down with the local anchors.

As I got out of the chair and we walked to the green room, Holly spoke quietly in my ear. “It's about Mulholland last night. They don't have your name, but one of the tabloids speculated. You need an answer prepared if anyone asks you about it this morning.”

Thinking hard, I refilled my coffee cup. I'd only gotten four hours of restless, remorseful sleep, and I needed my brain working at full power. Deflection would be the name of the game, though I hoped the topic wouldn't come up.

Of course it did. First thing.

After introducing me as a female driver gaining a toehold in the national consciousness, the requisite perky female anchor asked if I'd heard about Lucas leading the press on a reckless chase through the Hollywood Hills the night before.

“I've seen reports.”

“Do you know anything about that, Kate?”

I chuckled. “My guess is Lucas got some tips from Maddie Theabo, who I've been coaching before her run in the Celebrity Race at next weekend's Grand Prix of Long Beach. Maddie's getting quite good, and I know she's talking about racing with everyone.”

The male anchor leaned in. “That wasn't you in the car with Lucas? Behind the wheel?”

I tried to look surprised. “A car like the Porsche Spyder? Would you let anyone else drive it? I sure wouldn't!”

To my great relief, they moved on. To something worse…though it started out more sympathetic.

The woman took over the questioning. “We wanted to talk with you about being a woman in racing. You've been in the news this week, with colleagues questioning your talent and dedication. Calling you high-maintenance. Do you have any comment on that, to start with?”

“I've worked hard for the opportunities I've had with teams and sponsors. Nothing's been given to me. I've had to earn every single advancement.” I was tense, but I managed what I hoped was an engaging grin. “I know I have an ego about my driving—I'm pretty sure it's a job requirement. But I've always worked hard to leave that ego in the car, to not take it into the team shop or the pits or the rest of the world. My priority, after on-track performance, is being a member of the team. I may be the only one behind the wheel, but the team got me there.” I paused. “People will think what they think. I can't do much to change it.”

The news anchors were both nodding, and the man spoke this time. “Well said. What I wanted to ask you, Kate, is how you deal with being feminine in racing? We've seen other women in motorsports do provocative shoots for men's magazines or pose nude for fitness magazines. In contrast, you've maybe deemphasized your femininity. Do you feel you have to set it aside to race? To succeed?”

I've taken an unfeminine route?
“For me, and certainly for most of the other women I know in racing—drivers, engineers, or whatever—being feminine in racing isn't any different than being feminine in line at the supermarket. We're simply ourselves.” I smiled to take the sting out of what I was going to say next. “And frankly, I'd like to take issue with the idea that ‘feminine' only means naked or sexy.”

The man scrambled to apologize or backtrack, but I interrupted. “I'm not pointing at you. It's a common perception that if we're not sexual, we're not essentially female.” I shrugged. “Today, being female or feminine or girly comes down to whatever a female wants to be. Whoever she is. For me, that's wearing makeup and heels sometimes, it's wearing shapeless sweats sometimes, and it's being strong and determined behind the wheel on the racetrack whenever I can. To answer your question, I don't really think about my gender when it comes to racing. Except when I'm looking for the bathroom.”

Both anchors laughed, and the woman, who'd frowned at the man as he'd asked the questions, thanked me for my words. Then it was mercifully over…until twenty minutes later, when I joined the local crew on their set.

They were interested in talking about the coming weekend's race activities, especially since their sports reporter was one of my passengers in the pace car during Media Day. When we returned from a commercial break, the female co-anchor looked at me apologetically.

“Kate, we want to touch on an issue you discussed with our national program this morning. If we can play that clip?” She looked to the producer, and we were all quiet as my response about femininity played in the studio. It took every bit of willpower I had not to cringe.

When the crew indicated we were back live on-air, the woman turned to me again. “I applaud your response, and so do many of our viewers on social media. But some of them have a different perspective I wanted to ask you about.”

I nodded, wary. “All right.”

“No ambush intended,” she assured me. “But something I think is interesting for a woman who's a role model. Some of our viewers have commented they think you're not enough of a feminist. That you're not speaking up enough about inequities in the treatment of men and women. You're not doing enough as a role model for young girls. Would you like to comment on those opinions?”

“Who decides what's enough?” I shook my head. “I make a case for women every day I'm behind the wheel or otherwise representing racing. Why is it okay to claim I'm both not feminine enough and not feminist enough? I can't win.” I gathered my thoughts. “I'm female, feminine, and a feminist. All I can do is what's right for me.”

She smiled. “It's a tough situation, being something of a female pioneer in a man's industry. I think you're doing well, and I'll be rooting for you this coming weekend.” She detailed for the television audience the weekend schedule of events and encouraged everyone to attend the race.

The broadcast switched to a different part of the studio, and as I slipped off stage, the female co-anchor leaned over and squeezed my hand. “Great responses, Kate. Don't let the haters get to you. Thanks for being with us.”

I thanked her for the support and got the hell out of the building. It wasn't even eight o'clock in the morning, and I felt like I'd done a three-hour stint in the Corvette.

As Holly and I rode the elevator down to the parking garage, I reviewed the headlines from my escapades the night before. “Star's Reckless Nighttime Race” and “Heartthrob's New Role: Dangerous Driver” were the most succinct. There was no end to the superlatives about the danger we'd been in. I felt every word like a pinprick, but I was determined to face public reaction, even if it wasn't reaction to me. I was reading the Ringer's take—he assumed I was the driver, though he had no proof—when I saw a text from Lucas.

Holly saw my reaction. “You just delivered a perfect performance to the media…what could possibly be wrong?”

“Lucas texted me, ‘Great job last night. Reporters don't have a clue! Thanks for an amazing and wonderful evening. Do it again soon?'” I stuck the phone in my handbag, tired of it. “I can't believe he's unaffected by what happened.”

“From his perspective, nothing happened except getting away from the paparazzi.”

“It wasn't only him. The press didn't care what laws they broke. Is that what happens around celebrities? Normal rules don't apply?”

“Hard to tell what's the person and what's the situation.” The elevator doors opened, and Holly hurried me to our car. “But I can tell you one thing, sugar, you need to find us a diner for a big, greasy breakfast, so
this
person is happier about
our
situation.”

“Good plan.”

Chapter Thirty-nine

Holly and I spent most of the rest of Tuesday quietly back at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Holly decided she had to lounge by the pool in her big, floppy hat and oversized sunglasses long enough for someone to either ask for her autograph or tell her she ought to be in pictures. It only took half an hour.

I spent two hours watching raw footage from Nikki's reality show cameras, mostly on fast-forward. I didn't see anything I thought was relevant to Billy's death. Assuming I knew what I was looking for.

Billy was there, of course, as were Don Kessberg, Elizabeth Rogers, Erica Aarons, and a host of others. The most interesting moments were the tense exchanges between Nikki and Billy—validating her frustration with him—and the hard looks Don gave Billy behind Nikki's back. I did glean one useful item from the video. By slowing down occasionally and checking the timestamps, I could be certain Nikki couldn't have killed Billy. I'd never seriously suspected her, but her camera crew's filmed evidence definitely ruled her out.

After hard work eliminating the most unlikely of suspects, I gave up sleuthing for the day and opted for a swim and a nap. By four that afternoon, Holly and I were on the road again, moving slowly through the city streets, back to the Frame Savings headquarters.

I was nervous. We were meeting with Beauté and Frame Savings executives, and it was crucial I find a compromise between them to fund my career. They started with different goals: Frame wanted me in the Indy 500, and Beauté wanted me in NASCAR. As we all talked about how and why, how much and how many marketing “eyeballs,” we gradually reached tentative agreement, with both sides giving a little and Frame coming to see the value of NASCAR, with its touted seventy-five million fans, as the ultimate goal.

At the end, we had a plan sketched out, subject to fine-tuning and official board approvals. I would run three preparation races on ovals in the lower-level Indy Lights car this year, as well as a road course IndyCar race. Next year I'd do a partial season of IndyCar, including the Indy 500, and test the waters of stock car racing in a feeder series to NASCAR. The following two years, I'd continue to run the 500, while I moved into NASCAR's Xfinity Series, the second tier below NASCAR's Cup cars. If all went well, I'd move to the Cup cars by the fifth year out, subject to reevaluation and contract renewal along the way.

I'd talked extensively to the people around the table about realistic expectations of performance, emphasizing the dramatically different nature of the cars and series, the importance of a good team and equipment, and the idea of a learning curve. They made the right noises and only condensed my proposed timeline a little bit. As everyone left the room, I slipped back into my seat and worked on calming my nerves.

Holly sat down next to me. “How does it feel to get everything you want, sugar?”

I held my hands out in front of me, parallel to the table, and watched them shake. “It's Christmas, my birthday, and my biggest win all rolled up into one moment. Unbelievable.” I turned to look at her. “Is it okay I'm also terrified? Bone-deep, to-my-toes petrified?”

“You're a normal human being, of course you're scared.” She hugged me, hard.

“What if…”

“Don't start. Those never end.” She sat back.

“There's only one.” I paused, held my breath. “What if I can't do it?”

Holly smiled at me in a way that would have been pitying and condescending from anyone else. But I knew she understood. Even though I'd spent the last two hours saying “I can do whatever you want me to” over and over, even though I'd talked two corporations out of millions of dollars of future spending on my racing dreams, sometimes I wasn't convinced.

She tilted her head to the side. “This agreement isn't a contract to perform. They know you probably won't win, and they don't care. They want publicity, and you can sure as hell give them that, even if you're running in last place. This agreement today, Kate? This gives you the support to
try
. That's all you've got to do. Try.”

I closed my eyes, feeling the truth of her words.

“And hell, if you can't cut it? We'll talk them into something else.”

With a laugh, I popped my eyes open. “Thanks, I think.”

“Kate?” My father entered the room. “You're going to join us for a drink out here, aren't you? Before we head to dinner?” A subset of the executives from Beauté and Frame Savings was adjourning to a local restaurant to celebrate the deal.

I nodded. “We're finished.”

He frowned. “I should let you know my brother will also be at dinner. I believe Holden and his girlfriend, as well.”

I braced myself for the familiar tension that always accompanied those kinds of statements. But I found only echoes of past anger and a feeling of relief. I owed my father some explanations, but this wasn't the right time.

Instead, I held my tongue as our party of ten made our way to a nearby steakhouse. I ended up at one end of the long table, with Edward and Holden at the other. I took the seating as a sign I'd be able to keep the bank as a sponsor, but not have to deal with the people I didn't care for. Except Coleman. At least he didn't seem to hate me the way Edward did.

I shoved those thoughts away and concentrated on my delicious food and on the conversation near me between my father and some of the Beauté team. I had the opportunity that evening to get to know the Beauté executives better, and I liked what I learned. My general discomfort with makeup aside, I knew I'd be happy working with the company for years to come. If they'd continue to have me.

The Beauté team members were still in high spirits as they left, declining the after-dinner coffee that most of the Frame Savings team ordered. We exchanged hugs all around, and my father and I walked them out to the valet parking area. We turned to reenter the restaurant, and I remembered who remained inside.

I stopped my father with a hand on his arm and gestured to the currently empty smoking area on the other side of the restaurant's large entry patio. It wasn't a great time or place for the conversation, but I wanted it done. I hoped Holly would forgive me leaving her at the table with the rest of the sharks.

“What's going on?”

I faced him. “I made another decision recently.” I paused. “It's been quite a couple days for life changes.”

“Now you have me worried.” He clasped his hands in front of him.

“I made a decision, and I owe you an apology.” He tried to protest, but I wouldn't let him speak. I took a deep breath. “I've been acting childish, like a bratty kid. Lashing out at you because of how other people treated me. Lashing out because of the past, even when you've apologized and done what you can to make things better for me. I'm sorry.”

“Kate, it's all right.”

“About the past.” I had to stop and take a deep breath. “I don't know what happened. I may never know. Maybe don't want to. But I'm sure whatever you did or didn't do then, you never intended to hurt me. I believe that, and I forgive you. Between us, it's over.”

He didn't speak, but stepped forward and enfolded me in his arms. It felt good.

He stepped to the side, keeping an arm around my shoulder and starting to walk me back into the restaurant. I resisted.

“I'm not done.”

“I see.” He dropped his arm and faced me again.

“I want to be part of your family, but only yours. That's you, your wife, and your kids. Not the others with their unreasonable attitudes or anger. Their resentment. I don't like them, and I don't like how I react to them. Who I become around them. I won't do it.”

He looked from the restaurant back to me, obviously confused.

“I'll interact on a business level,” I explained. “I'll be professional. But I won't see them on a personal level. I won't open myself up to them. I hope you can live with that.”

He sighed. “I wish I could change the situation, but I understand. And I'll support you. I'm simply grateful you'll be part of our family. I know Amelia and the kids will be, too.”

Whatever nice thing I might have said about looking forward to getting to know them was wiped out of my head by the loathing on Edward's face as he exited the restaurant, Coleman, Holden, and Elizabeth on his heels.

“Finished your money grubbing for the night, dear niece?”

“Edward,” my father warned. Even Coleman put a restraining hand on Edward's arm.

But Edward shook Coleman off. “James, you can't claim this meal wasn't about funneling money to our sweet Kate. Though, honestly, it was all I could do to swallow my food the way everyone fawns over her.”

Coleman put his hand on Edward's shoulder this time, saying with a laugh, “You had no trouble swallowing those five whiskey sours. Let this go.”

Red faced, Edward turned and shoved Coleman back a few inches. “I'll never let this go. Not while my son's dead and this worthless excuse for a human being stands in front of me.”

Holden looked shell-shocked, as did Elizabeth, who slipped back into the restaurant, hopefully to get Holly. Or the management. Coleman frowned, straightened his tie, and stepped forward again, but didn't touch Edward this time.

My father was as still as stone, except for the clenching and unclenching of his fists. “Edward. You need to leave now. Right. Now.”

But Edward curled over onto himself, one hand rubbing his eyes. He sobbed once. “I'll never let it go. My wonderful son is gone, and she's not. There's no justice.”

I watched the angry, grieving, and hateful man in front of me, and I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. No compassion, guilt, or obligation. Only the tiniest taste of freedom. I knew what came next.

I looked from Edward to Coleman. I was calm. “I'm done. Do you hear me? I will be an outstanding representative of your corporate brand, anytime and anywhere you need me. But,” I glanced over my shoulder to make sure my father understood this was for him also, “I won't do this with you. I won't talk about my relationship to you. As far as I'm concerned, James is the only one I'm related to. Between us, it's only business.” I looked to Coleman. “That includes looking into Billy's murder. I'm out. No more. Done.”

Edward straightened up with a look so vile on his face, I was sure he would vomit next to us on the patio. But no, it was aimed at me. “No one wants you looking into anything! Stay away from my boy, you bitch! NO ONE WANTS YOU!”

Though he roared the last, I didn't flinch. Didn't react. I looked at my father, who was stunned into immobility, then Coleman, even Holden, who hadn't yet contributed anything. I settled back on Coleman. “Consider this my report. Please tell the board of directors I've done what I could, but it's over.”

I stepped around Edward and walked back inside the restaurant.