“Yeah,” said Matthew. “That’s how come they let me come on this tour.” As they walked he told her about his father wrecking the truck, and how he ended up a ward of New Hampshire, and about getting taken to the doctor a couple of weeks ago when he kept saying he was tired all the time.
Justine frowned. “I can imagine the kind of medical care orphans get,” she said. “Have you been to a specialist?”
Matthew scuffed a pebble on the track with his shoe. “I don’t think so. Maybe when I get back.”
“Well, what kind of treatment-oh, never mind. I’ll see if your reverend friend knows any details. Listen, the next gift shop we hit, you just pick out anything you want and come find me. My treat. But make sure you get sunglasses, too, you hear?”
Matthew nodded. “Will they still have Dale Earnhardt stuff at Daytona?”
Justine smiled. “Honey, when you’re as old as I am, they’ll still have Earnhardt stuff at Daytona.”
The group had assembled now to the left of the North Grandstand, where a tunnel led into the track area at turn 4. Solemnly, Matthew placed the number 3 heart next to the passageway and stepped back.
Cayle twisted her hands and looked uncomfortable. She motioned for Harley and whispered, “I don’t know what to say. See, my car broke down outside Mooresville six months ago, and Dale came along and fixed it for me.”
Harley was silent for a moment, while he digested this. He knew there’d be nuts on this tour; he just hadn’t pegged the little blonde to be one of them. He whispered back, “Well, it was nice of Dale to fix your car for you. It sounds like something he’d do. Just don’t tell DEI about it. They’ll send you a bill for road service.”
She was on her own. Justine motioned for her to go first, and after another pause to collect her thoughts, Cayle said, “Hello, sir. I have to say I wasn’t a big fan of yours when you were alive. I was always a sucker for the cute ones. Rusty. Ricky. But seeing how many people were devastated when you died has really touched me. And of course, I want to thank you for what you did for me. A lot of people love you. I just hope you know that. And if there’s some reason that I was the one to see you, I wish you’d let me know what it was. Well-bye.”
Several of the listeners exchanged puzzled looks, but Cayle stepped back without any indication that she would enlighten them.
Justine had been standing very still beside the wreath, her eyes closed and her hands clasped in front of her. When Cayle finished speaking, she knelt down and spoke directly to the wreath, as if it were a celestial speaker system.
“Hey, Dale!” she said. “I don’t know if I can explain this so it’ll make sense, but I’m going to try. People I’ve known have died. My grandmother. A girl in sixth grade. People in car wrecks, and girlfriends from breast cancer. And I was always very sorry when they passed away. I felt bad for their families, and I was sad that they missed out on more of life, and sometimes I regretted something I’d said or done or not done, or I’d wish I could see them again. So I thought I knew about how it feels when somebody dies. But, Dale, when you died, it didn’t feel like that a bit.
“It’s not like that sweet sorrow you feel when an acquaintance passes on. It felt-well, this sounds stupid, but it felt just the way it did when my house in Myers Park got robbed. Like a fist in my chest. They stole my grandmother’s Gorham Buttercup silver tea set, and I knew I’d never get it back, and I was so angry I couldn’t see straight. I thought my throat would close up when I tried to talk into the phone to report it.
“And that’s just what it felt like when you died. Like somebody had taken something that belonged to
Chapter XV
Harley Claymore looked at his watch. Eight forty-five. So far, so good, in terms of the timing for the tour. Harley had been worried about the distances and times allotted between destinations. He knew that Bailey Travel had never done this itinerary before and, as a novice in the guiding business, he had no faith in his own ability to keep them on schedule. But by some miracle-he winced at the word, thinking who Justine would thank-they had managed to make all the stops in a reasonable approximation of the appointed times.
Ratty’s take-no-prisoners driving style and his knowledge of the back roads had enabled them to complete the trip from Rockingham to Concord in less than two hours. (He said that he had once been the governor’s chauffeur.) Another hour had gone to getting them settled in the hotel within sight of Interstate 85, and just across from a megaoutlet mall called Concord Mills. This was the heart of racing country. Most of the teams had their headquarters within a few miles of here, and although Harley was stranded without a car, he thought there was an outside chance that a couple of phone calls might bring forth someone to talk business with. Besides the two race venues, this was the place to use his connections, if he still had any. For that reason, Harley had hoped to skip the communal dinner by directing the passengers to the many restaurants within walking distance of their lodgings. But Cayle and Justine, locals who knew the mall by heart, had insisted that they make a pilgrimage to the mall itself to see the life-size bronze statue of the Intimidator in his racing gear which stood on a pedestal near the walkway in silent benediction. The patron saint of local commerce and interstate tourism, Harley figured. He had nearly worn out his smile posing for half an hour with various combinations of the Number Three Pilgrims against the backdrop of that solemn statue.
Harley had skipped dinner, but he let it be known that there was a place nearby that served mixed drinks. If anybody wanted to meet up with him there, he planned to show up around nine, he told them. Then he’d gone to his hotel room with a fist full of tattered business cards and numbers scribbled on beer mats, and started making phone calls.
“Hello, who is this? Justin? No kidding! How ya doin’? You sound a lot like your dad. I haven’t seen you since before your feet could touch the accelerator. Hey, this is Harley.
That conversation multiplied by ten constituted his evening’s worth of free time, an exercise in frustration and futility. He should have tried to set up some meetings before the tour started. Twenty-twenty hindsight, as usual.
Finally, at quarter to nine, he gave up and headed out to the bar where about half the party had taken over a large table in the corner. The Powells weren’t there, which didn’t surprise him. Neither Sarah Nash, nor Terence, nor Ray Reeve were there, but Jesse Franklin was, and the newlyweds had come up for air. The Charlotte Three were in full force, and Bill Knight was present, though Matthew was not. He wondered what Ratty Laine did with his evenings.
“Where’s the rookie?” Harley asked Bill Knight.
“Matthew? He said he was tired, so I told him he could stay in the room. Sarah Nash is looking in on him to make sure he’s all right.”
They had all finished dinner, except Shane, who was still toying with a basket of onion rings.
Jesse Franklin took a sip of his drink and made a face. “This iced tea is sweet,” he said. “I’m sure I ordered unsweetened.”
