Free At Every Turn by Anne Mateer

stopping within a hairsbreadth of his left shoulder.
    I knew he felt me there. A minute passed. Then two. Finally he tossed a wrench to the ground. “He’s entering the car at the Chicago Speedway next weekend.”
    For a moment, I couldn’t move. Father’s racing car. Competing. Then a squeal—my squeal—pealed through the garage. I flung my arms around Webster’s neck. “We’re finally going to race it!”
    He pulled as taut as a clothesline, but he didn’t move away. And neither did I. I savored the earthy smell of his neck, felt the warmth of his body next to mine. I eased back just enough to see into his face, to glimpse a look of tender wonder before he covered it over again. Or had I misread it?
    One tentative hand reached up, cupped my waist. Then he pushed my body away from his. The fire of his touch seared to my very core. I fought to pull air into my lungs, to force myself to let go of him rather than cling more tightly.
    With great effort, my arms returned to my sides. His did the same. I prayed the dim light of the garage hid the heat that was crawling up my neck, over my face, all the way to the top of my head. I’d thrown myself into his embrace. What had I been thinking?
    I shook my head to clear away the confusion. Clasping my hands in front of me, I concentrated on Webster’s shoes. The race at the speedway. That needed to be the focus of this conversation.
    A deep breath, then I lifted my gaze to his face. He seemed to be laughing at me now, but I refused to acknowledge his mocking. Not when it appeared to be at my expense. “So, who’s driving our car in the race?”
    He shrugged, turned away. “Your father has someone lined up.”
    Jealousy flashed through me as quick and hot as lightning. To think of someone else behind the wheel of this car rendered her unfaithful somehow, though I knew that to be unreasonable. But if I couldn’t drive, I at least had to be there to watch her moment of glory. In Chicago.
    “Anyway”—Webster pulled the rag from his back pocket and wiped it across his forehead—“I wasn’t supposed to mention it. And I have to get her ready.” He clamped his lips shut and returned to work.
    I leaned against my Runabout as he fit pieces into the engine—tightening, oiling, tinkering. I grabbed a clean rag from a shelf over the workbench to wipe the door of my dusty auto and remembered my desperation. What would Webster say if I told him I’d given all the money away?
    I couldn’t make myself chance his response. I had to find a way to replace the funds before anyone found out I no longer had them. My eyes caught on a simple gold bracelet circling my wrist. “Webster, do you think I could sell some pieces of my jewelry to raise the money I need?”
    “What kind of jewelry?”
    “Trinkets, really. Like this.” I held out my arm. He barely glanced my direction. “I doubt they’d bring much, but then every little bit would help.” I concentrated on a smudge of dirt that didn’t want to let go. I rubbed harder, until it flaked to the ground. “But I wouldn’t want to sell them around here. Too obvious. I don’t suppose you could help me, could you?”
    Clank. Clang. Tap.
    I drummed my fingers against the body of the car as he worked. With a grunt, he pointed at a large wrench. I picked it up and placed it in his hand before tossing my rag onto the workbench and perching on the back fender of my car.
    “Of course, selling a few baubles will only repay what I already gave away.” My throat tightened, and my voice fell to a whisper. “Which would be three hundred and sixty-two dollars.”
    Webster bolted upright, banging his knee on the race car. Growling through gritted teeth, he massaged the spot before pushing to his feet.
    “Say that again?”
    I breathed deep. “I gave away the rest of the money.”
    He groaned.
    “Clarissa’s sister’s house got hit by lightning. They lost everything.”
    His gaze burned into me, so intense it held me motionless.