After the service, we went to a luncheon sponsored by Emily’s church. I felt a little more comfortable, but still tried to keep to myself, taking Oliver and changing his diaper or feeding him, when needed. Mack was even more stressed than I was. Everyone assumed they had been together, as in a couple, before she passed. He never really disputed it, and I guess I understand why. I mean, who wants to hear the deceased had a few random hookups with her baby daddy and never told him about the child they created.
Oh, and another thing. The test results confirmed Mack as the dad, so he is officially Oliver’s sole parent.
There was no will for Renee. I imagine not many twenty-six-year-olds have them, so when it came down to it, Emily decided to sell everything she could and leave the money to Oliver. There won’t be much, but there is a little something left for him.
I also know Mack met with the funeral director before the service and paid the entire bill. Emily had arranged a payment plan to pay for the expenses, but Mack, being the true good-hearted man he is, couldn’t bear to see Emily pay for it. She has her own struggles with medical bills, and the last thing she needs to worry about is paying for her daughter’s memorial costs.
Before we left Fresno, Mack and Emily also made arrangements regarding Oliver. She’s the only grandparent the baby will have, and the last thing Mack wanted was to cut Emily from his life. She cried, of course, and thanked him for thinking of her. They vowed to get together for a visit during Mack’s next weekend break from racing.
All in all, it had been a good trip, and now, we’re preparing for another.
Race weekend.
It’s a beautiful sunny Friday afternoon as we head to the airport. The teams left yesterday morning to make the thirty-plus hour drive to Ohio. Mack and the other team driver usually fly out with Colton, using his private jet. Mack had a meeting with his team owner earlier in the week and told him about his concerns traveling with such a young baby. Colton invited Oliver and me to fly with them to any of the races, as his own family often goes on trips with him.
“I’ve been thinking,” Mack says, as he steers his truck toward the airport.
“About?” I ask through my yawn. It was another early morning for Mr. Oliver today, and I’m starting to feel it now.
“About the races that are closer. I think I want to lease a motorhome,” he says, as he turns into the lot for private flights. “There’s a handful, including one coming up in Portland and another in Long Beach. This way, we have our own place to stay with Oliver without having to go back to the hotel all the time.”
I feel a deep sadness sweep in, mostly because I’ve already checked the schedule. The Long Beach race is right after I’ve completed my six-week stay in California and will be home in Brenton. Someone else, another woman most likely, will be with them by that point, and that thought causes striking grief.
“You okay?” he asks, pulling into a parking spot.
“Yeah, fine,” I quickly reassure, pasting on a too-bright grin. He doesn’t seem to really buy it, but doesn’t call me out on my lie, either. “It would probably be a good investment,” I add, redirecting the conversation back on point.
“I think so too. I thought about asking the front office for a few suggestions for local companies. After Mid-Ohio is Portland, so I’d really like to have it by end of next week.” He turns off his truck and turns in the driver’s seat to face me. “Maybe we can check them out when we get back?”
“Sounds good,” I tell him, earning a smile in response. We just sit there for several seconds, gazing at each other. It feels comfortable, intimate even, but too soon the spell is broken.
“Well, we better get this truck unloaded and on board the plane. I bet Colton changes his mind about letting me bring Ollie along once he sees all the baby crap,” Mack says, as he slips out of his truck and heads to the back seat to unload. When he does, he misses my smile at the nickname he used when referring to his son. Ollie. I like it.
I hop out, ready to retrieve my own luggage, but find Mack already pulling it all out of the bed of the truck. Instead, I make myself useful and release the car seat holding a sleeping Oliver. “Let’s head over to the tarmac. I’ll come back for the rest of this stuff,” Mack says, walking toward the private jet with two bags in tow.
“Let me help you, sir,” the man beside the plane says.
Mack passes off the first two bags and says, “I have more. I’ll be back.”
“I’ll come with you, sir.”
Mack turns to me and points to the stairs. “Go ahead and take Oliver inside. I’ll be back as soon as we get loaded up.” And then he’s gone, leaving me standing beside a jet owned by one of IndyCar’s most famous race car drivers. Good times.
I glance up at the open door, wondering if I should just waltz in like I own the joint or wait until Mack gets back. I’m on the struggle bus right now with just walking aboard, but I’m not sure standing out here in the sun is the best bet for Oliver either.
“Are you joining us on this flight or just hanging back?”
I startle at the unfamiliar voice and whip around as quickly as I can, considering I’m holding a baby carrier. Standing right in front of me is the owner of the deep timbred voice. Colton Donavan.
He smiles. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” When
