Twice in a Lifetime (10 page)

Clara fought back tears.

Drake stopped walking. He turned to look at her, his gaze steady yet sad. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” she managed before walking on, knowing that if she didn’t, she would break down; she didn’t want him to see her cry.

In the years since the war had ended, Clara had met other veterans: soldiers, sailors, and pilots, men who had once been Joe’s age, men like Drake who’d fought for their nation and for freedom. When they’d earned their victory, bleeding and dying on foreign soil, they had returned to their former lives, to children, to wives, to their homes and businesses, putting all they’d seen behind them. Most were restrained when they spoke about it, choosing their words carefully, just as Drake had done. They were heroes, yet humble.

The two of them walked beneath the moon as it slowly traced its arc across the sky, surrounded by an endless number of twinkling stars. It didn’t take long for Clara to be put at ease, relaxed in Drake’s company. He told her about where he had grown up, about how different the flat farmland of Iowa was from Sunset. They shared jokes, tried to remember the lyrics to a song that had been popular when they were younger, and wondered whether it was birds or bats they saw swooping between the trees. It was so easy for her to be with him, watching how he smiled beneath the streetlights, hearing the joy in his voice; Clara found herself smiling and laughing right along with him, captivated by the stranger who had unexpectedly entered her life. But that was the thing; it didn’t
feel
like Drake was a stranger. Being with him, listening to him talk, sharing his company, was comfortable, as easy as if she had known him for years. At the same time, it was exhilarating, exciting, something different from the everyday doldrums her widowed life had become. She was having such a good time that she was surprised when Drake stopped back in front of her house.

“Here we are,” he said.

Gently, he reached out and took her hand in his own; it was the first time he’d touched her all night. Clara allowed it, his skin warm against hers, welcoming. She looked up into his eyes.

“I had a nice time tonight,” he said.

“Me, too.”

Drake smiled a bit sheepishly. “I suppose this is as good of a time as any to admit that I wasn’t completely truthful earlier.”

“About what?” Clara asked.

“I didn’t really stop by to check on your truck.” He paused, his eyes roaming across her face. “I came by because I couldn’t bear the thought of never seeing you again.”

Clara’s pulse quickened.

“All afternoon, I couldn’t get you out of my head,” he continued, inching closer, his free hand reaching out to remove a few strands of hair from her face, his thumb sliding softly across her cheekbone. “I kept thinking about where you were, what you were doing. So I decided to come looking for you, to see you again. I thought about all the things we might say. The laughs we might share. By the time I knocked on your door, I had it all played out in my mind.”

“Was it what you thought it would be?” Clara asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

Drake shook his head. “It was better.”

Slowly, he leaned toward her. Clara knew what was about to happen; though decades had passed since her first kiss, she could remember how she had felt, her heart pounding as butterflies fluttered in her stomach. She felt the same way now. Instinctively, she closed her eyes and waited for his lips to find hers.

But then, before they could touch, she stepped away. In that split second, something inside Clara changed.

I can’t do this. I just can’t…

Surprisingly, before Clara could begin to apologize, Drake did. “I’m sorry,” he said as he allowed her hand to slip from his. “That was too forward of me.”

“It’s not you…” she insisted. “It’s…it’s just…”

But words failed her. How could she begin to explain herself? It wasn’t because of Tommy. It wasn’t because her mother might have been watching or because she’d only just met Drake. It wasn’t even because of Joe, or their marriage vows, or that only a couple of days before, she’d put flowers on his grave, mourning all she had lost. It was
each of these things
and more, a flash flood of emotions. It made no difference that she was attracted to Drake, that he was charming and funny, or that he was clearly interested in her.

She couldn’t kiss him. She wouldn’t.

Not here. Not now.

Not ever.

“I’m…I’m so sorry,” Clara managed as tears filled her eyes. Sadness and ache rose inside her like a wave. In moments, she would be overwhelmed, racked by sobs; worst of all, she’d look as foolish as she felt.

So instead, she ran.

It was a blur; toward the house, stumbling up the stairs, and reaching for the door, all while Drake called her name.

Unlike that afternoon, when she couldn’t take her eyes from the mirror, watching him, this time Clara didn’t dare look back.

T
HIS IS GONNA BE
one hell of a good day…

Amos Barstow pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket, tapped one out, lit it, and took a deep drag, holding the smoke in his lungs until it burned before blowing it out. Early-morning sunlight streamed through a tangle of trees, dappling the ground and warming his skin. Most mornings, he imagined that he would have heard plenty of sounds: leaves rustling in the soft breeze; squirrels chittering as they dug up the nuts they’d buried last fall; water gurgling in a nearby stream.

But today he couldn’t hear a thing over the loud, growling roar of a pair of car engines just itching to be let loose.

Drake sat behind the wheel of the Plymouth, his face impassive, his eyes fixed on the long stretch of dirt road in front of him. They were a couple of miles from town; to get there, they had gone past weathered barns, many with neglected fields and cars rusting away at the ends of long drives, before entering into thick woods. Ahead of the Plymouth, the road ran for a couple of miles before narrowing into a covered bridge that spanned a small creek.

“Your driver ready?”

Amos turned to see a man approaching; he looked as worn as a gnarled log, his age hard to determine, though it was unquestionably old, with wrinkled, unfashionable clothes and a cane that helped with a limp. Earlier that morning, in Sunset’s only diner, they had struck up a conversation over scrambled eggs, one that had soon turned into a wager: first one across the bridge wins fifty dollars cash.

“As rain,” Amos answered, nodding at Drake. “Yours?”

“My boy’s itchin’ to go,” the man replied confidently, as if he already knew the outcome, almost as if he felt guilty about it.

If there’s gonna be anyone cryin’ when this is over, it sure as shit ain’t gonna be me…

A brand-new Chrysler New Yorker hardtop idled beside the Plymouth. Though he tried not to show it, Amos was impressed. It was gray-blue in color, with sleek curves, shiny chrome, a one-piece curved windshield, and whitewall tires. As good as the car looked on the outside, he was all too aware of what was under the hood; its Hemi V8 engine had the highest horsepower output of any model around. Still, Amos wasn’t the slightest bit worried. Even if someone had a fast car, they still needed a driver capable of making it go. When he peered into the Chrysler, Amos had to stifle a laugh; behind the wheel sat a boy the spitting image of his father, only younger and dirtier, a country bumpkin who, even if he was the best around these parts, was just the sort of punk Drake ran rings around. While Amos’s driver might try to make it look competitive, a trait the mechanic hated, there was no way he would lose. It was easy money.

“Lotsa luck to ya, fella,” the other man said before heading over for a few last words with his son.

Only one of us is gonna need it.

In his head, Amos was already counting his winnings. Within the hour, with another wad of cash split between them, he and Drake would finally drive out of this godforsaken town. Looking at the map that morning, Amos had already settled on Arrow Landing as their next destination, another backwater, forgettable place. No matter what it took, he needed to stay one step ahead of Sweet Woods; the alternative was too gruesome to consider. With a bit of luck, Amos would manage to keep himself and Drake safe; if he used his head, the drug-dealing thug would never get within fifty miles of them. If they could run long and far enough, somehow, someday, he would come up with a solution. So far, they’d been lucky.

Unfortunately, another problem loomed on the horizon.

Amos was almost out of morphine. The night before, he had been glad Drake wanted to go for a walk. No sooner had he stuck his head out the window to watch his friend saunter off down the sidewalk than he was digging in his coat pocket for his drugs. Seconds later, when the needle slid effortlessly into his vein, he was on his way to paradise; in fact, he’d barely had enough time to put away his paraphernalia before the morphine’s haze descended. When next he woke up, Drake had come back and the sky outside the windows was pitch black.

Although Sweet was undoubtedly still out there, Amos remained one step ahead. Soon, he’d be on the road with money in his pocket and enough morphine to last a couple of days longer. The sun shone brighter by the minute. Amos smiled.

This is going to be one hell of a good day…

This is one of the worst days of my life…

Drake sat behind the wheel of the Plymouth, but his mind was far away. Absently, he pumped the car’s accelerator, the engine rumbling beneath him, while his hands strangled the steering wheel. He hadn’t even glanced over at the other car when it pulled up beside him; its driver kept echoing him, his own engine growling like a caged animal desperate to escape. But even though Drake knew he should be concentrating on the race, visualizing the road that stretched out in front of him, he couldn’t.

All he could think about was Clara.

Once he’d finally made it back to the hotel, Drake had lain awake for hours, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, consumed by what had happened. Over and over, he had sifted through their time together as if it was a haystack and he was in search of a needle. But no matter how hard he looked, beginning with knocking on her door and ending with his clumsy attempt to kiss her, after considering everything that he might’ve done differently, he hadn’t found any answers.

“How you feelin’, champ?”

Drake jumped; he’d been so busy thinking about Clara that he hadn’t heard Amos approach. The mechanic leaned against the Plymouth, one elbow sticking through the open window, smiling like a cat about to pounce on a canary.

“Good…I’m good…” Drake answered distractedly.

“That’s what I wanna hear,” Amos said enthusiastically. “One thing, though,” he continued. “This road ain’t the straight shot they want us to think it is. Up ahead, ’bout three-quarters of the way to the bridge, it curves a bit to the right. As I’m sure you noticed, they put you on the left.”

Drake nodded, hearing little, his head still a mess.

Amos kept talking. “They think they got an advantage, so we’re gonna let ’em go on believin’ that. All you gotta do is make sure you’re in the lead when the road slants. By then, that kid will be so far behind you that it won’t matter one red cent which side you started on.” Nodding at the other driver, he added, “Just look at that cocky son of a bitch.”

The kid was young, probably half Drake’s age. Acne marred the corner of his mouth. His hair was greased back in a style he’d probably copied out of a magazine or the movies. While Drake watched, his opponent glanced his way, nodded, and then gave a smile without an ounce of respect in it. Amos was right; the kid
was
cocky. Still, Drake didn’t hold that against him. Years ago, back when he had started racing, he’d probably looked the same, in over his head but too stupid and stubborn to know better. The realization embarrassed him slightly.

“Dumb rube,” Amos spat, shaking his head.

As if in answer, the other driver revved his engine.

“Don’t pay him no mind,” the mechanic continued. “He ain’t worth the gas they filled that fancy car a his with. That jackass’ll be chokin’ on your dust ’fore he gets into third gear.

“But I want you to remember somethin’,” Amos added, his tone changing, becoming more serious. “I don’t want none a that garbage you pulled last time. You don’t gotta make it look good. You whoop that boy, we get our money, chuckle while that country bumpkin wonders what the hell happened, then we leave this town.”

Drake nodded absently.

That morning, after breakfast, Amos had laid out his plan. Once they won the race, they would head down the road.

And Drake would never see Clara Sinclair again…

Everything had been going so well, better than he could have hoped. Their conversation. Her laughter. The final moment of anticipation, sure that he was about to kiss her. But then, somehow, it had fallen apart. Now, the final image he would have of Clara was of her running from him, shutting him out. Once he left Sunset, Drake knew he would long wonder if had he done something different, gone after her, maybe they would have—

“You listenin’ to me, Drake?”

He shook his head. “Yeah…yeah, I heard you,” he managed.

“All right, then,” Amos said, giving his driver a slap on the arm. “Next time you see me, I’ll be countin’ our money. This race is gonna be easier than takin’ candy from a sleepin’ baby!”

Unfortunately, Drake wasn’t quite so sure…

Once both cars were at the starting line, the man with whom Amos had made the bet walked out twenty paces in front of them holding a striped handkerchief. He looked at each driver, waiting until he received an acknowledgment they were ready; Drake raised two fingers from the steering wheel. Both engines rumbled beneath their hoods. Finally, the man raised his makeshift flag high above his head, then plunged it toward the ground as fast as he could. The race had begun.

Drake pressed down on the accelerator and felt the Plymouth leap forward, but he was shocked to see that the other car had gotten off the line first; clearly, the Chrysler had plenty of horsepower. In a matter of seconds, both automobiles had rocketed past the older man, his handkerchief once again flying while he energetically whooped and hollered, cheering on his son, as they sped down the road. Behind them, the starting line had already disappeared in a thick, billowing cloud of dust.

It’s going to take more than a fast start to beat
me…

Calmly, Drake increased the Plymouth’s speed. He had done it thousands of times before, one hand gripping the steering wheel tightly while the other rested on the stick, waiting for the precise instant when the engine roared, straining for more, before effortlessly shifting into a higher gear.

But today, something was wrong.

Drake tried to shift the car from second to third, but his usually steady hand faltered and the gears ground together; he had to force it where he wanted it to go. It hadn’t taken long, a couple of seconds, but his opponent took advantage, increasing his lead to half a car length.

The road was rock and hard dirt, a track Drake usually favored. Fortunately, it’d been some time since it had rained, so there were no puddles to watch for or mud to deal with. Still, now that he was behind, he felt as if the trees had inched closer, their trunks whipping past just outside his window.

Drake cursed himself. This was all because he’d been distracted, thinking about Clara. In racing, even the smallest of errors could be the best driver’s undoing. He tried to concentrate, to get back what he had lost, but even as he did so, the Chrysler widened its lead.

“Come on, damn it!” Drake shouted, urging himself on.

Suddenly, up ahead, he saw the curve in the road that Amos had warned him about, although it looked different than the mechanic had explained; it slid so dramatically to the right that, as Drake hurtled toward it on the left, he worried he would have to brake to keep from smashing headlong into the trees. Worse, he hadn’t heeded Amos’s advice; instead of being comfortably out in front, he was behind. Consequently, as he entered the curve, he took his foot off the gas and grabbed the wheel with both hands. The tires protested loudly while the trees whipped closely by, but somehow he managed to stay on the road. Once it straightened, he stomped back down on the accelerator; unfortunately, the kid had taken advantage of his better positioning, as well as Drake’s caution, and had furthered his lead.

Drake bore down on the other car. So far, the other driver hadn’t managed to get a full car length ahead; if he had, he could have drifted back and forth in front of the Plymouth, making it almost impossible for Drake to gain ground. Still, Drake had no margin of error; if he made one more mistake, the race would be over.

And so, slowly but steadily, Drake inched closer. Glancing up, he saw the other driver’s reflection in the Chrysler’s side mirror; the kid’s skin was slicked with sweat, as if holding such a slim lead was making him nervous. With every passing second, Drake cut the distance between them.

As long as I don’t run out of road, I’m going to catch him…

But unfortunately, that was exactly what was happening.

Up ahead, Drake saw the bridge. It was just as Amos had described it; narrow, with room for only one car to go through at a time. To win, Drake had to cross first. If there was ever a time for him to make his move, this was it.

But the Chrysler’s driver knew it, too. Gunning the car’s powerful engine, the kid held his lead; the closest Drake managed to get was to draw his front wheels even with his opponent’s side door. But Drake understood that the other driver wasn’t going to back down; he would force them both to crash if it meant fending off his challenger. To avoid an accident, one of them had to give way.

“Aww, hell,” Drake growled.

Jamming down on the brakes, he sent the Plymouth skidding sideways. Holding tight to the wheel, he let the car turn, eventually bringing it to a shuddering halt a hundred feet short of the bridge. Helplessly he watched the other car barrel across, the punk kid honking the Chrysler’s horn in triumph.

Drake had lost.

“What in the hell happened?”

Drake drove them back toward town. Amos hadn’t said a word since Drake had returned to the starting line, though even a blind man would’ve noticed how angry the mechanic was. The Chrysler’s driver and his father had celebrated loudly as they counted their winnings; to Drake, it felt like having salt rubbed in an open wound.

“I got beat,” Drake answered, hardly believing it himself.

“Don’t give me that bullshit!” Amos barked. “That kid weren’t nothin’ and you know it! Didn’t I tell you how the road curved, that he was on the inside, and that you needed to get out in front if you were gonna beat him ’cross that bridge? Was I talkin’ to myself?”

Amos pounded his fist angrily against the Plymouth’s dashboard, and then he cursed because it hurt more than he’d expected.