One Track Mind by Bethany Campbell Page A

it’s time for me to start behaving.”
    She looked at him warily, as if unsure whether to believe him. But he’d told her the truth. His mother, Brenda, had told him so many times that he was going to Hell if he didn’t change his ways, he’d gotten the bird tattoos as a private sardonic joke to remind him when he should start repenting. He thought it was funny at the time. Lori didn’t seem to think so.
    “Oh” was all she said.
    But then raindrops began to fall around them, making a plopping sound on the concrete, jarring the grass blades.
    “Don’t let your book get wet,” he cautioned her. “Thanks again. I’ve got to get back to work.”
    “You can’t work if it rains,” she protested, but she hugged the book to her protectively.
    “Sure I can. In this business, what’s a little more mud?”
    “But—”
    “I mean it,” he said. “I’ve done it before. I’ll quit if it gets too bad.”
    The rain began to fall more steadily.
    “Go on,” he said. “Go on inside. I’ll be fine.”
    “You’re sure?” she asked with concern.
    “I’m sure. You’ve taken care of me. Now take care of yourself.”
    She nodded. “’Bye,” she said softly. “See you around.”
    “Yeah,” he said, drinking her in. “See you around.”
    She turned, snatched up her flip-flops and ran toward the back door. He went into the shed into find stakes and twine.
    When he came out, she was standing there, a little umbrella over her head. It had dogs and cats on it. She held a bright yellow plastic poncho out to him. It had a faded Halesboro Speedway logo on the front.
    “Here,” she said, thrusting it at him. “Take this. I don’t want all that antiseptic washing off or those bandages coming loose.”
    “No,” he protested. “I’ve got to work with those roses. It’ll get torn.”
    “It’s already torn. I was going to throw it out. I’ve got a new one. Take it. I mean it. Take it. Put it on.”
    He shook his head. “You are the bossiest little thing…”
    “Yes, I am,” she told him. “Please. Just put it on. You can throw it away when you get home.”
    “Thanks,” he said, taking it from her.
    “Put it on,” she said.
    He did.
    “You’re welcome,” she told him, looking suddenly shy. Then she turned and fled back to the house.
    He worked for forty minutes in the rain. He wore the poncho home. But he didn’t throw it away.
    He didn’t believe he’d ever throw it away. He intended to keep it until the seagulls on his chest were ready to crash into each other. For as long as his heart kept beating.
     

    “N OW ,” C LYDE WAS SAYING as they walked the track, “Back when we had NASCAR races, drivers complained this was a one-groove track. Hard to drive on, hard to pass, especially on Turn Four.”
    Kane studied it and nodded. “Transition to the front straightaway’s too abrupt.”
    “Yup,” agreed Clyde, “So Andy Simmons tried to patch it. Added about five feet of pavement at the bottom of the exit of the turn. Drivers said they couldn’t tell a bit a difference.”
    “It’s not the kind of problem you solve with a patch,” Kane said. He could visualize a solution, but it would cost and cost big.
    Clyde looked at him with narrowed eyes, but was too polite to ask any leading questions. He just nodded at the track and said, “She’s a challenge, all right. ’Course, with faith, all things are possible.”
    Kane gave a small, bitter smile. “In this town, it always seemed it was money that made all things possible.”
    Clyde crossed his arms. “There’s a limit to what money can buy. Come on. I’ll walk you around the track, then show you pit road.”
    Kane fell in step beside him, but often he took his eyes from the aging asphalt to steal a glance up at the empty stands. There was seating for 60,000 spectators. He gazed up at the VIP suites and wondered if there’d been any use for them lately.
    That long ago summer when he’d been seventeen, he’d volunteered to help Clyde