“So we run the company until he’s of age,” she suggests.
Now that’s a little offensive, considering Dad’s big dog and pony show press conference we were all at his house for. But like I said before, she and I have never been close.
“I’m sure Adrienne or Bobby or both of them will find a place for this kid at DHR if that’s where they want to be when they grow old enough,” Dad says, and for the first time in my entire life, he sounds… tired.
“You’re not even listening!” she screams, and Bobby and I both wince at her shrill tone. “You’re sacrificing the legacy of what could be your only son, because you think you’re getting old?”
“I’m tired, Candy. Just let it go,” he says.
“No! I’m not going to fucking let it go until you march back out there and tell them our good news and that you’ve changed your mind,” she argues. “Tell them you didn’t know we were expecting, but now you realize you’ll wait to give your legacy to your son.”
“I have a twenty-eight-year-old daughter who’s more than capable, babe,” he says quietly, and his soft-spoken praise for me warms my heart but also has the hair on the back of my neck rising.
“What does she even do besides ride on Daddy’s coattails and spend his money?” she snipes.
“Adrienne works hard, trains hard, and races hard,” Dad replies through gritted teeth. “Which is more than I can say for you. Trust me, Candy, you don’t want to push me on this.”
“You can’t mean that,” she gasps.
“Woman, when have you known me to prevaricate? I mean everything I say.”
“So you’d toss your pregnant wife out into the cold?” she asks. “Just like that?”
“You, me, and the iron-clad prenup all know you wouldn’t leave penniless,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t push me.”
This is like watching a pileup on the interstate. As you creep by in your car, you can’t help but look to see what kind of wreckage is left behind. And if Candy pushes Dad too far, there is going to be wreckage. Like the kind that adds her name to the long list of record-holding race car driver Adrian Malone’s ex-wives.
The only one to make out like a bandit was my mom, because he loved her so much. She didn’t want to take anything with her, and she never played games, never used me like a pawn in their messy divorce. It wasn’t even messy. But it was heartbreaking, because everyone knew Adrian loved his wife, Abigail—even the woman he slept with on the road. No one expects athletes, rock stars, and race car drivers to be faithful spouses, but there was something different about them. When he came home and admitted what happened, she was just done. She couldn’t trust him again.
Mom moved us to another house, and I spent every other weekend with my dad. When I was old enough, I began racing, and she never begrudged me. Mom knew oil was in my veins.
I look at Bobby, who seems to be just as uncomfortable watching this drama unfold as I am. I give him a wide-eyed look I hope conveys the we-need-to-get-out-of-here message, but he just shrugs in a so-what-can-you-do kind of a way. I guess it’s going to be up to me.
“I uhh… I think I should probably go,” I stammer.
“You don’t have to leave,” Dad says. “This will always be your home.”
“I’ll call you later, Dad,” I reply, wrapping my arms around him in a hug.
When I turn to leave, Candy sneers in my ear, “Crown Jewel, my ass.”
Bobby follows behind me, walking me with his hand at the small of my back through the mansion and down to the front steps to where our cars are parked in the circle driveway. The press has all been gone for over an hour, and I’m left feeling a little bit foggy. What just happened here?
“It’ll all work out,” he says as I beep the locks on my Dodge Challenger.
“Yeah.”
“You just wait and see.” He pulls me in for a hug that lasts just a little too long and then lets me go.
I nod and climb in the Hellcat and listen to her growl when the engine turns over. I watch him in my rearview mirror as I pull out of the big circle drive, and as soon as he fades from view, I let out a relieved sigh.
Today was too much. Much too much.
I make my way from Dad’s house in Coronado to mine in Torrey Pines. My home, while not cheap, was a drop in the bucket compared to Dad’s estate. It’s a Spanish style, two-story stucco home with a terracotta roof that sits on the hill overlooking the ocean. I’m close enough to see it and smell it, but far enough away there’s a certain amount of land around my actual house that keeps the tourists and beachgoers away.
I hit the button on my remote, and the iron gate swings open, admitting me to my sanctuary. When I’m home, I relax, because at the track or out in public, I have to be switched on. I pull around to the four-car garage that sits separate from the house, pull in, and watch as the automatic gate swings closed again.
I climb out the Hellcat and make my way to the side door. I punch in the code on the keypad and hear the lock snick. I push open the door that leads into the mudroom off of my kitchen. I kick off my heels and hang my keys on the hook before pulling open the fridge and grabbing the open bottle of wine.
