Biting her lip, Elizabeth debated the merits of pushing open the door a little wider and just walking in. She didn't want to intrude but at the same time, Lucky had to stop keeping all of it inside. It wasn't good for him, no matter how many protests he made to the contrary. As far as she knew, he had only opened up to Robin, and that was just barely. Even when Cruz had delivered the news about Tony's retirement, Lucky had barely reacted. It was as if he was giving up hope that Cameron was ever coming home. And seeing him sitting in Cameron's room, staring blankly out the window, it almost felt as if he was sitting there mourning Cameron's permanent absence.
Risking it, she stepped lightly into the room. "Someone's busted." She tried to keep her voice light, but she had a feeling he could see right through it.
Lucky jumped, her voice startling him, even though she had barely spoke above a whisper. He had been lost in his thoughts, remembering the times he had caught Cameron watching cartoons way past his bedtime, the giggling conversations he would overhear Cameron having with whatever stuffed animal was his favorite at the time. "I was just thinking."
"I figured that much." Elizabeth moved further into the room, sitting down next to him on the bed. Sighing as she looked around the room, she reached over and grabbed Lucky's hand with her own. "Talk to me."
"I'm okay." He protested weakly.
"No you're not. If I thought I could actually convince you, I'd drag you down to see Robin's shrink, but I have a feeling you'd talk to her just about as much as you're talking to everyone else." Elizabeth ran her hand through his hair softly. "Baby you aren't okay."
"Talking isn't going to solve anything. It's not going to bring Cameron back home." He pulled away and walked towards the window. Leaning his forehead against the glass, he willed away the tears that were threatening the corners of his eyes.
"No but you'll be much less likely to explode when we go into the courtroom on Monday." Elizabeth pointed out gently.
Monday. Doomsday. Finally the judge had set a start date and Diane Miller had run out of ways of stalling it. On Monday the judge was going to start hearing all the ways he had screwed up, how he had damaged Cameron from living a normal life and how the Grimes were far superior to him in every single way. "I think I'll still want to rip Tony Grimes limb from limb."
"You aren't alone in that, but you might be able to refrain from it in front of witnesses."
He chuckled, but Elizabeth could tell there was no humor behind it. Moving to stand behind him, she wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his back. "It's going to go our way. He's going to come home."
"I want to believe that, but I have to realistic now. Tony's retired. He can be there for Cameron full time."
"He only retired for the trial. Dara's going to argue that and anyone who looked at the timing of it would see the exact same thing. Cameron will be in kindergarten next year, at the same school as his cousins. Right now I'm on maternity leave. I'm home. It's a ploy no more no less."
"If it was only that. You know Tony is going to bring up the papers."
"You haven't appeared in the gossip columns on a regular basis since that reporter found out about me. Even before that you were giving up the playboy bit. And no one even knew Cameron existed before that snoopy witch snuck into the baby shower. There was no way you could have predicted that at all."
"Even with all that, it could all backfire. I don't like thinking about it, but I have to. The wrong judge and he's not coming home."
"Then we keep fighting until we get the right judge. Cameron is coming home, where he belongs. With us."
*****
"Look! Look! Pretzels! Can we get one? Please Grandpa Robert? Please?" Morgan looked up at his grandfather with wide, begging eyes and a purposeful expression.
"You're hungry? We just had breakfast." Robert pointed out.
"But that was forever ago!" Morgan whined. "And I'm just a little boy. You don't want me to shrivel up to nothing, do you? I could get sick if I don't have enough food and water. Oooh slushies! Please Grandpa? Please?"
"I knew slipping you those M&Ms during dinner last night was a bad idea." Robert sighed, knowing he would never be able to turn his grandson down. If Robin had been here, he bet she could have been firm but she was resting back at the apartment, her feet growing to the size of melons she swore. They looked normal to him, but there were far safer things to embark upon than arguing with his pregnant daughter, like a secret operation or taking Morgan to Disneyland.
"Mickey Mouse ears! Grandpa, we have to get those." Morgan twirled around, his eyes taking in everything he saw.
"Why do you want these?" Robert picked them up suspiciously.
"You can't go to Disney Land without picking up Mickey ears." Morgan reasoned.
"These are a little big for you, aren't they?" He turned over the headband and ran his fingers over the material.
"They aren't for me; they're for you!" Morgan giggled.
"For me? Son, I've been to the far reaches of the earth; I've chased the worst kind of men out of hiding and turned them over to the Government; and you want me to wear a pair of mouse ears?"
"Please? Please! Come on!" Morgan prodded jumping up and down.
"I don't know—" Robert was about to put them back when the vendor of the particular shop reached out and grabbed his hand, her long purple fingernails lightly grazing his skin.
"I think they'd make you look quite dashing." She told him, pushing her short, black hair behind her ear in a practiced motion. She was at least twenty years younger than he was, he noticed.
"You have to say that." Robert couldn't help but grin.
"She likes it, I like it. Let's just get it." Morgan demanded, looking from one adult to the other.
"My wife would never let me live it down." Robert countered.
"She might like seeing this other side of you." The woman released his hand and touched his shoulder.
"You really think so?" Morgan shook his head at his grandpa's obliviousness.
"I do. Tell you what: buy those and I'll throw in an extra pair for your son."
"My son? You're good. This is my grandson, Morgan." Robert corrected her.
"I never would have guessed. What do you say? Would you like one, Morgan?" She asked, crouching down beside him.
"Only if we can get one for Robin too."
"Done."
"You still want that pretzel?" Robert wanted to know.
"I'd rather have candy. Can I have some candy?" Morgan pointed to a giant Snickers bar.
"Why not?"
They paid for their purchases and left the store. "Are you having fun?" Robert could barely see Morgan past the candy bar.
"Yeah! Wanna go on Splash Mountain?" Morgan said.
"What's that?"
"Just a water ride."
*****
The first Sunday had been rough, the second about the same, but now, as he was only a day away from the third, Patrick realized that even though he missed Robin and Morgan he could enjoy being on his own. He had spent the last few days catching up on sleep he was sure to miss once his son came into the world, had relied on only himself when it came time to prepare a meal, visited with Lucky and Elizabeth's twins once a week, and today he was going to watch the Sprint Cup Series.
Robin may not have shared his love of a good old fashioned car race, but that was just one of those things she would have to come around to in her own time, like snoring or sharing a bathroom. They had survived those changes and come out relatively unscathed. He had missed just about every race this year, but managed to keep informed by going on-line. It was crazy to think at one time he had been behind the wheel of one of those cars, a dream he had given up when his mother was taken from him.
He supposed melancholy was to be expected what with all of the changes his life had taken on and adjusted to. As he sat here with just the television for company, he couldn't help but play the "what if?" game. What if his mother hadn't died? Or what if, after she had, he hadn't given up racing? Where would he be now? Would he have a mantle full of trophies and an ever-growing bank account? Which wife would he be on now? The questions didn't mean he regretted all that had come from the decision he had made long ago. He knew how lucky he was. That didn't mean he had to accept life for what it was. It wasn't in his nature to accept anything.
Would Robin be opposed to him teaching their son to race? Or what if Morgan showed an interest? Was he supposed to act like it was a bad thing just because it involved risk? He couldn't think of a single enjoyable thing that didn't involve at least a little risk. It would be a bonding thing, just as it had been for him and his father. Of course the outcome would be different. He wouldn't push his children into things they didn't want and he would support them in their endeavors.
They hadn't discussed the kind of dreams they had for the boys. He didn't even know if she wanted to get married and, if she did, was it about the baby? Was it about security? Did she still love him the way she used to? Snap out of it, he told himself. She would come home and they would talk about all of this. If he wasn't such a pansy he could call her and force her to talk to him now. He would be intruding. He knew it was a cop-out, but it was the reason he continued to fall back on.
The orange Home Depot caught his attention as his favorite driver lost control of his car. Tony Stewart pulled it to the left, and then the right, managed to dodge the other drivers only to get trapped in a spin. The other drivers zipped past him, the ones at the back watching him only for the purpose of not getting smashed. The car righted itself and he hurried to catch up with them, losing his place in the front where he had left Dale Earnhart Jr. and Jeff Gordon. It took another two laps for him to catch up and successfully nudge Kyle Bush out of his spot. Patrick was smiling when he answered the persistent phone. "Patrick Drake." He announced to the caller, taking a long pull of his beer before returning it to the coaster.
"Patrick Drake. It's been a long time." A man chuckled over the line.
"I'm sorry, who's this?" Patrick's attention was glued to the television. Three cars had taken one of the turns too fast and bounced off the wall like Ping-Pong balls.
"I should be hurt that you don't remember me, but when did you ever remember anything that didn't have breasts?" The man asked rhetorically. "It's Doug Bellamy." The same Doug Bellamy who had met with his parents to discuss Patrick's future as a NASCAR driver? The same Doug Bellamy that told Patrick he would always regret leaving the track and shouldn't let a little grief ruin his chances?
"Doug?" Patrick sat up a little straighter. "What are you doing calling me? How did you even get the number?"
"Which question would you like me to answer first Pattycake?" Doug teased with a cough.
"You don't sound so good Dougie." Patrick taunted the aging crew chief.
"I could say it's a cold, but the truth is, I'm one old son of a bitch. How have you been kid?"
"Really good." Patrick replied honestly.
"I wish I could say the same." Doug grumbled morosely.
"What seems to be the problem? I've been following your driver, Greg Friedman. He's going to Daytona last I heard."
"That was the plan, but now all that's been put on hold." Doug explained.
"Put on hold? What are you talking about?"
"Friedman hasn't actually qualified for Daytona."
"But I thought—"
"The kid likes to shoot off his mouth. He stirs up the press, but it's all bullshit. Anyway, now he's gone and gotten himself hurt the little bastard." Doug clarified with another heaving sigh.
"What does any of this have to do with me?" Patrick couldn't help but wonder.
"I need a replacement driver—"
"No way." Patrick shook his head even though the balding crew chief couldn't see him. "I haven't raced in years."
"You got back into it in college." When Patrick didn't answer right away, Doug continued, "You competed in some low-level races so that you could stay off radar. Too bad for you kid."
"That was still almost four years ago." Patrick reminded him.
"Patrick, you have the kind of potential every crew chief in NASCAR hopes to find. I knew from the first time I saw you in a car that you were something. And if it had been a phase or something one of your parents pushed you in, how do you explain your return four years later?" Doug challenged stubbornly.
"Why me?" Patrick inquired suspiciously.
"Why not you? You too busy to qualify for the damn Daytona?"
"But how—they won't know it's me." Patrick answered his own question. "NASCAR won't appreciate the switch this late in the game—"
"As long as they get paid, they don't care who's actually driving. I think, at this point, anyone in that car besides Greg would be a blessing. We could just fudge some of the details."
"I don't like it, Doug." Patrick admitted.
"It's not like it's illegal. We inform everyone who you are and—"
"That you can't do. If I were to even consider something like this, I don't want one of my family members finding out that way."
"So tell them."
"Trust me. It's better if they don't know."
"So you're considering it?"
"I haven't qualified for anything." Patrick noted.
"Would you let me worry about that? Come on Patrick. I know you want to be back on the track. Dreams don't just go away overnight. Take a chance for the first time in your life. There is no losing end. You get behind the wheel and do your best. I'll be right there if you need me."
"I don't want my name mentioned." Patrick said at last.
"Okay Fitzgerald. It won't be. Meet me at that silly little family diner of yours in an hour." Doug chortled, hanging up.
Previews:
It was the middle of the night, a time when most women would be steering clear of dark alleys. Not her. She wasn't afraid of the shadows anymore. They couldn't hurt her any worse than she was hurting herself.