Erica felt Adam sit beside her on the bed.
He said gently, “We’ll do whatever you want—go back to Detroit right now, or stay tonight and leave tomorrow morning.”
In the end they decided to stay, and had dinner quietly in the suite. Soon after, Erica went to bed and dropped into exhausted sleep.
Next morning, Sunday, Adam assured Erica they could still leave at once if she preferred it. But she had shaken her head, and told him no. An early northward journey would mean having to pack hurriedly, and would entail an effort which seemed pointless since there was nothing to be gained by rushing to Detroit.
Pierre’s funeral, so the Anniston Star reported, would be on Wednesday in Dearborn. His remains were to be flown to Detroit today.
Soon after her early morning decision, Erica told Adam, “You go to the 500. You want to, don’t you? I can stay here.”
“If we don’t leave, I’d like to see the race,” he admitted. “Will you be all right alone?”
She told him that she would, and was grateful for the absence of questioning by Adam, both yesterday and today. Obviously he sensed that the experience of watching someone whom she knew die a violent death had been traumatic and, if he was wondering about any extra implications of her grief, he had the wisdom not to voice his thoughts.
But when the time came for Adam to leave for the Speedway, Erica decided she did not want to be alone, and would go with him after all.
They went by car, which took a good deal longer than the helicopter trip the previous day and allowed something of the insulation which had helped her through yesterday to creep over Erica. In any case, she was glad to be out of doors. The weather was glorious, as it had been the entire weekend, the Alabama countryside as lovely as any she had seen.
In the company’s private box at the Speedway everything seemed back to normal, as compared with yesterday afternoon, with cheerful talk centering on the fact that two strong favorites in today’s Talladega 500 would be driving cars of the company’s make. Erica had met one of the drivers briefly; his name was Wayne Onpatti.
If either Onpatti or the other favored driver, Buddy Undler, won today, it would eclipse yesterday’s defeat since the Talladega 500 was the longer and more important race.
Most major races were on Sunday, and manufacturers of cars, tires, and other equipment acknowledged the dictum: Win on Sunday, sell on Monday.
The company box was just as full as yesterday, with Hub Hewitson again in the front row and clearly in good spirits. Kathryn Hewitson, Erica saw, sat alone near the rear, still working on her needlepoint and seldom looking up. Erica settled into a corner of the third row, hoping that despite the crowd she could be, to a degree, alone.
Adam stayed in his seat beside Erica, except for a short period when he left the box to talk outside with Smokey Stephensen.
The auto dealer had motioned with his head to Adam just before starting time, while the race preliminaries were in progress. The two of them left the company box by the rear exit, Smokey preceding, then stood outside in the bright, warm sunshine. Though the track was out of sight, they could hear the roar of engines as the pace car and fifty competing cars began to move.
Adam remembered it was on his first visit to Smokey’s dealership, near the beginning of the year, that he had met Pierre Flodenhale, then working as a part-time car salesman. He said, “I’m sorry about Pierre.”
Smokey rubbed a hand across his beard in the gesture Adam had grown used to. “Kid was like a son to me, some ways. You tell yourself it can always happen, it’s part of the game; I knew it in my time, so did he. When it comes, though, don’t make it no easier to bear.” Smokey blinked, and Adam was aware of a side to the auto dealer’s nature, seldom revealed.
As if to offset it, Smokey said roughly, “That was yesterday. This is today. What I want to know is—you talked to Teresa yet?”
“No, I haven’t.” Adam had been aware that the month’s grace he had given Smokey before his sister disposed of her interest in Stephensen Motors would be over soon. But Adam had not acted to inform Teresa. Now he said, “I’m not sure I intend to—advise my sister to sell out, I mean.”
Smokey Stephensen’s eyes searched Adam’s face. They were shrewd eyes, and there was little that the dealer missed, as Adam knew. The shrewdness was a reason why Adam had re-examined his convictions about Stephensen Motors over the past two weeks. Many reforms were coming in the auto dealership system, most of them overdue. But Adam believed Smokey would survive such changes because survival was as natural to him as being in his skin. That being so, in terms of an investment, Teresa and her children might find it hard to do better.
“I guess this is a time for the soft sell,” Smokey said. “So I won’t push; I’ll just wait, and hope. One thing I know, though. If you change your mind from what you figured to begin with, it’ll be for Teresa and not as any favor to me.”
Adam smiled. “You’re right about that.”
Smokey nodded. “Is your wife all right?”
“I think so,” Adam said.
They could hear the tempo of the race increasing, and went back into the company box.
Auto races, like wines, have vintage years. For the Talladega 500 this proved to be the best year ever—a fast and thrilling contest from its swift-paced outset to a spectacular down to-the-wire-finish. Through a total of 188 laps—a fraction over 500 miles—the lead switched many times. Wayne Onpatti and Buddy Undler, the favorites of Adam’s company, stayed near the front, but were challenged strongly by a half dozen others, among them the previous day’s victor, Cutthroat, who was out ahead for a large part of the race. The sizzling pace took its toll of a dozen cars, which quit through mechanical failure, and several others were wrecked, though no major pileup occurred as on the previous day, nor was any driver injured. Yellow caution flags and slowdowns were at a minimum; most of the race was full-out, under green.
Near the end, Cutthroat and Wayne Onpatti vied for the lead, with Onpatti slightly ahead, though moans resounded through the company box when Onpatti swung into the pits, stopping for a late tire change, which cost him half a lap and put Cutthroat solidly out front.
But the tire change proved wise and gave Onpatti what he needed—an extra bite on turns, so that by the backstretch of the final lap he had caught up with Cutthroat, and the two were side by side. Even thundering down the homestretch together with the finish line in sight, the result was still in doubt. Then, foot by foot, Onpatti eased past Cutthroat, finishing a half car length ahead—the victor.
During the final laps, most people in the company box had been on their feet, cheering hysterically for Wayne Onpatti, while Hub Hewitson and others jumped up and down like children, in unrestrained excitement.
When the result was known, for a second there was silence, then pandemonium broke.
Cheers, even louder than before, mingled with victorious shouts and laughter. Beaming executives and guests pummeled one another on backs and shoulders; hands were clasped and wrung; in the aisle, between benches, two staid vice-presidents danced a jig. “Our car won! We won!” echoed around the private box, with other cries. Someone chanted the inevitable, “Win on Sunday, sell on Monday.” With still more shouts and laughter the chant was taken up. Instead of diminishing, the volume grew.
Erica surveyed it all, at first in detachment, then in disbelief. She could understand the pleasure of a share in winning; despite her own aloofness earlier, in the tense, final moments of the race she had felt involved, had craned forward with the rest to watch the photo finish. But this … this crazed abandonment of every other thought … was something else.
She thought of yesterday: its grief and awful cost; the body of Pierre, at this moment en route for burial. And now, so soon, the quick dismissal … “Win on Sunday; sell on Monday.”
Coldly, clearly, and distinctly, Erica said, “That’s all you care about!”
The hush was not immediate. But her voice carried over other voices close at h
and, so that some paused, and in the partial silence Erica spoke clearly again. “I said, That’s all you care about!’”
Now, everyone had heard. Inside the box, the noise and other voices stilled. Across the sudden silence someone asked, “What’s wrong with that?”
Erica had not expected this. She had spoken suddenly, from impulse, not wanting to be a focus of attention, and now that it was done, her instinct was to back away, to save Adam more embarrassment, and leave. Then anger surged. Anger at Detroit, its ways—so many of them mirrored in this box; what they had done to Adam and herself. She would not let the system shape her to a mold: a complaisant company wife.
Someone had asked: “What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s wrong,” Erica said, “because you don’t live—we don’t live—for anything but cars and sales and winning. And if not all the time, then most of it. You forget other things. Such as, yesterday a man died here. Someone we knew. You’re so full of winning: ‘Win on Sunday!’… He was Saturday … You’ve forgotten him already …” Her voice tailed off.
She was conscious of Adam regarding her. To Erica’s surprise, the expression on his face was not critical. His mouth was even crinkled at the corners.
Adam, from the beginning, caught every word. Now, as if his hearing were heightened, he was aware of external sounds: the race running down, tail end cars completing final laps, fresh cheers for the new champion, Onpatti, heading for the pits and Victory Lane. Adam was conscious, too, that Hub Hewitson was frowning; others were embarrassed, not knowing where to look.
Adam supposed he ought to care. He thought objectively: Whatever truth there was in what Erica had said, he doubted if she had picked the best time to say it, and Hub Hewitson’s displeasure was not to be taken lightly. But he had discovered moments earlier: He didn’t give a damn! To hell with them all! He only knew he loved Erica more dearly than at any time since he had known her.
“Adam,” a vice-president said, not unkindly, “you’d better get your wife out of here.”
Adam nodded. He supposed for Erica’s sake—to spare her more-he should.
“Why should he?”
Heads turned—to the rear of the company box, from where the interruption came. Kathryn Hewitson, still holding her needlepoint, had moved into the center aisle and stood facing them all, tight-lipped. She repeated, “Why should he? Because Erica said what I wanted to say, but lacked the moral courage? Because she put into words what every woman here was thinking until the youngest of us all spoke up?” She surveyed the silent faces before her. You men!”
Suddenly Erica was aware of other women looking her way, neither embarrassed nor hostile, but—now the barrier was lifted—with eyes which registered approval.
Kathryn Hewitson said firmly, “Hubbard!”
Within the company Hub Hewitson was treated, and at times behaved, like a crown prince. But where his wife was concerned he was a husband—no more, no less—who, at certain moments, knew his obligations and his cues. Nodding, no longer frowning, he stepped to Erica and took both her hands. He said, in a voice which carried through the box, “My dear, sometimes in haste, excitement, or for other reasons we forget some simple things which are important. When we do, we need a person of conviction to remind us of our error. Thank you for being here and doing that.”
Then suddenly, all tension gone, they were pouring from the box into the sunshine.
Someone said, “Hey, let’s go over, shake hands with Onpatti.”
Adam and Erica walked away arm in arm, knowing something important had happened to them both. Later, they might talk about it. For the moment there was no need for talk; their closeness was all that mattered.
“Mr. and Mrs. Trenton! Wait, please!”
A company public relations man, out of breath from running, caught them at a ramp to the Speedway parking lot. He announced, between puffs, “We just called the helicopter in. It’ll be landing on the track. Mr. Hewitson would like you both to use it for the first trip. If you give me your keys, I’ll take care of the car.”
On their way to the track, with his breath more normal, the p.r. man said, “There’s something else. There are two company planes at Talladega Airport.”
“I know,” Adam said. “We’re going back to Detroit on one.”
“Yes, but Mr. Hewitson has the jet, though he won’t be using it until tonight. What he wondered is if you would like to have it first. He suggests you fly to Nassau, which he knows is Mrs. Trenton’s home, then spend a couple of days there. The plane could go down and back, and still pick up Mr. Hewitson tonight. We’d send it to Nassau again, for you, on Wednesday.”
“It’s a great idea,” Adam said. “Unfortunately I’ve a whole string of appointments in Detroit, starting early tomorrow.”
“Mr. Hewitson told me you’d probably say that. His message was: For once, forget the company and put your wife first.”
Erica was glowing. Adam laughed. One thing could be said for the executive vice-president: When he did something, he did it handsomely.
Adam said, “Please tell him we accept with thanks and pleasure.”
What Adam did not say was that he intended to be sure, on Wednesday, he and Erica were in Detroit in time for Pierre’s funeral.
They were in the Bahamas, and had swum from Emerald Beach, near Nassau, before the sun went down.
On the patio of their hotel, at sunset, Adam and Erica lingered over drinks. The night was warm, with a soft breeze riffling palm fronds. Few other people were in sight since the mainstream of winter visitors would not arrive here for another month or more.
During her second drink, Erica took an extra breath and said, “There’s something I should tell you.”
“If it’s about Pierre,” Adam answered gently, “I think I already know.”
He told her: Someone had mailed him, anonymously in an unmarked envelope, a clipping from the Detroit News—the item which caused Erica concern. Adam added, “Don’t ask me why people do those things. I guess some just do.”
“But you didn’t say anything.” Erica remembered—she had been convinced that if he found out, he would.
“We seemed to have enough problems, without adding to them.”
“It was all over,” she said. “Before Pierre died.” Erica recalled, with a stab of conscience, the salesman, Ollie. That was something she would never tell Adam. She hoped, one day, she could forget that episode herself.
From across the table dividing them, Adam said, “Whether it was over or not, I’d still want you back.”
She looked at him, emotion brimming. “You’re a beautiful man. Maybe I haven’t been appreciating you as much as I should.”
He said, “I guess that goes for both of us.”
Later, they made love, to find the old magic had returned.
It was Adam, drowsily, who spoke their epilogue: “We came close to losing each other, and our way. Let’s never take that chance again.”
While Adam slept, Erica lay awake beside him, hearing night sounds through windows opened to the sea. Later still, she too fell asleep; but at daybreak they awoke together and made love again.
29
In early September the Orion made its debut before the press, company dealers, and the public.
The national press preview was in Chicago—a lavish, liquor-laced freeload which, it was rumored, would be the last of its kind. The reason behind the rumor: Auto firms were belatedly recognizing that most newsmen wrote the same kind of honest copy whether fed champagne and beluga caviar, or beer and hamburgers. So why bother with big expense?
Nothing in the near future, however, was likely to change the nature of a dealer preview which, for the Orion, was in New Orleans and lasted six days.
It was a spectacular, show biz extravaganza to which seven thousand company dealers, car salesmen, their wives and mistresses were invited, arriving in waves of chartered aircraft, including several Boeing 747s.
All major hotels in the Crescent City wer
e taken over. So was the Rivergate Auditorium—for a nightly musical extravaganza which, as one bemused spectator put it, “could have run on Broadway for a year.” A stupendous climax to the show was the descent, amid a shimmering Milky Way and to music from a hundred violins, of a huge shining star which, as it touched center stage, dissolved to an Orion—the signal for a wild ovation.
Other fun, games, and feasting continued through each day, and at nights, fireworks over the harbor, with a magnificent set piece spelling ORION, closed the scene.
Adam and Erica Trenton attended, as did Brett DeLosanto; and Barbara Zaleski flew in to join Brett briefly.
During one of the two nights Barbara was in New Orleans, the four of them had dinner together at Brennan’s in the French Quarter. Adam, who had known Matt Zaleski slightly, asked Barbara how her father was.
“He’s able to breathe on his own now, and he can move his left arm a little,” she answered. “Apart from that, he’s totally paralyzed.”
Adam and Erica murmured sympathy.
Barbara left unexpressed her daily prayer that her father would die soon, releasing him from the burden and agony she sensed each time she looked into his eyes. But she knew that he might not. She was aware, too, that the elder Joseph Kennedy, one of history’s more famous victims of a stroke, had lived for eight years after being totally disabled.
Meanwhile, Barbara told the Trentons, she was making plans to move her father home to the Royal Oak house with full-time nursing care. Then, for a while, she and Brett would divide their time between Royal Oak and Brett’s Country Club Manor apartment.