Rebecca Winters - Home To Copper Mountain

Mr. Karey looked at John. “Our lips are sealed. Before we move the car out of the showroom to get it ready for you, could I take a couple of pictures of you standing by it?”

He had been through this experience hundreds of times before, why not once more? No one owned him yet. He was still a free property.

“Sure.”

Until his father’s severe depression had caused him to retire early from Formula One racing, his motorcycle had accompanied him on the racing circuit and had been the only transportation he’d needed.

Before returning to his family home in Copper Mountain, Colorado, to help his grieving father run the family ski business, he’d given his bike to the college-age son of his crew chief, Wally Sykes. Rick saw no reason for keeping it when he knew he could rely on the company Blazer or his deceased mother’s car to get around.

But in a shocking turn of events, he’d arrived home to discover his father had overcome his grief enough to be married again. Furthermore, he was selling the ski shop and the Blazer, and was moving to Texas.

Believing his mom’s Nissan would still be available to him while he decided whether to try to get a new sponsor and return to the racing circuit, Rick underwent a second shock.

His older brother, Nate, a former F-16 fighter pilot who’d resigned his commission to fly home and help their father, too, suddenly decided to get married and become a flight instructor for the air force academy.

Nate, Laurel and the baby from her first marriage were now living in the Hawkins family home while they waited to move into their new house in Colorado Springs. Since they needed two cars, it was decided Laurel would keep the Nissan.

Everyone had somewhere to go, someone to be with. Except Rick, who felt totally displaced.

Since Nate’s wedding, Rick had been staying in Denver with Laurel’s sister, Julie, and her husband, Brent, just trying to hold on. But he couldn’t impose on the Marsdens any longer. It was time to go.

The question was, after Arizona, where?

He felt like a man without a country, a man who belonged nowhere. It was a lonely experience, foreign in ways he couldn’t describe. The nights were the worst, when he had no choice but to lie in a cold sweat and tough it out until morning.

“Okay,” the manager said. “Now let’s get a couple of pictures of you sitting in the car. I think we’ll leave the door open for the full effect.”

Rick obliged. Once he slid behind the wheel, he could smell the new tan leather upholstery. Nice.

By now every salesman, lot attendant, receptionist, cashier, mechanic and client in the building had materialized. There was quite a crowd assembled. Mr. Karey wasn’t the only one taking pictures.

Rick ended up signing autographs on brochure after brochure while dozens of questions were fired at him by those who followed the sport.

“Mr. Hawkins is here to buy a car,” the manager spoke above the questions. “He was kind enough to let us take pictures and sign autographs. Let’s not stampede him.”

Rick appreciated the man’s intervention before questions were posed that he couldn’t answer. It was better not to say anything that could be misquoted to the press.

A racing contract with everything he’d asked for and more had been drawn up by the attorneys of Trans T & T Communications. The megacorporation for whom Brent worked had shown a flattering eagerness to sponsor Rick.

Mayada, the Japanese manufacturer that designed the Formula One cars Rick had been driving for eight years, had also drafted a new contract. Both were in the hands of Neal Hasford, Rick’s attorney in Arizona, awaiting his signature.

According to Neal the terms of the contracts looked good, but Rick had yet to put his name on the dotted line.

He shook everyone’s hand, then turned to Mr. Karey. “I have to leave, but I’ll be back within a half hour to sign the papers.”

“Fine. We’ll have everything ready for you.”

After leaving the dealership, Rick headed for Aurora, a suburb of Denver where the Marsdens lived. His suitcases were already packed and waiting in the trunk of Julie’s car. All he had to do was honk and she’d come out of the house to run him back for his new BMW. Then he’d be off.

“It’s a good thing Brent isn’t here to see this!” she exclaimed as they drove into the parking lot of the service department thirty minutes later. The gleaming black car stood waiting. “We’re trying to save up for our dream home.”

Rick turned to the lovely raven-haired mother-to-be. She was kind and generous to a fault, just like his new sister-in-law, Laurel. “In the end it’s just a vehicle for transportation. What you and Brent have together can’t be bought. You’re the lucky ones.” She’d never know how lucky.

He jumped out of the car and she moved to take her place behind the wheel. He tapped on the window so she’d lower it.

“Tell Mike and Joey, the next time I come to Denver I’ll take them out to Pike’s Peak Raceway to watch the junior stock-car races. My friend Chip Warner, a former racer who works out there, will show them around.”

Her eyes filmed over. “You’d better keep your promise. We all wish you wouldn’t leave. Phone often, please. Brent’s really going to miss you.”

“I’m going to miss all of you, too.” More than you can imagine.

If it was this difficult to say goodbye to her, he didn’t dare put himself through the gut-wrenching experience of paying his brother one final visit in Colorado Springs on his way to Texas.

He kissed her cheek. “Give me a moment to get my bags out.”

Julie nodded.

After he’d put them on the ground and closed the trunk, he walked back to her. “Take care of yourself.”

“I will. I guess I don’t have to tell you. If we find out we’re having a boy, it’s unanimous—his name’s going to be Rick.”

She shouldn’t have told him that. “I’d be flattered and honored.”

With a wave of her hand, she took off. Her glistening blue eyes were the last thing he saw before Mr. Dunn approached. “If you want to step inside the building, someone will put your bags in the trunk.”

“Thanks.”

Rick followed him into another office where Mr. Karey was waiting. Once he’d written out a check and put his signature on everything, Rick glanced at the younger man standing by. “You’re a good salesman, John.”

His smile was sheepish. “I’m afraid I didn’t do a thing to sell this car, Mr. Hawkins.”

“That’s what I mean. You left me alone to make up my own mind. That’s the best kind of salesman.”

Both men looked pleased. It was the manager who said, “Well, you’re the dream customer.” He handed him the keys and the leather kit containing all the papers and instructions. “Dare we make the pitch you’ll never want to drive anything else again?”

“Dare away.” He flashed them a smile. “I’m sure you’re right.”

They shook hands again and walked out to the car with him. The driver’s door had been opened in invitation.

A flick of the ignition and the engine purred to life. He adjusted the seat and the mirrors. They’d filled the tank. All systems were go.

“We’ll look forward to seeing you when you come in for your first scheduled oil change.”

When that time came, Rick had no idea where he’d be, but they didn’t need to know that. “Thanks for the excellent service. I’ve appreciated it. So long.”

He drove out to the street and joined the stream of traffic. The car could travel from zero to sixty in four point eight seconds. He’d test it out as soon as he reached the freeway.

Later, when he came to those long, lonely stretches of road devoid of traffic, he’d find how well she traveled at a hundred and ten miles an hour.