“Somuch fun.” Now he’s grinning. “You get such a strong sense of freedom with it, which is something Jonas could really use right now.”
“Have you always liked bikes and cars and stuff?” I ask, touched by how protective he is of his brother.
“Ever since I can remember.”
“Did you always know what you wanted to do?”
“I mean, I always loved watching motor racing—I grew up fixated on IndyCar, NASCAR, and Formula 1—but I don’t think I ever imagined I’d be lucky enough to get into racing as a career.” He shrugs. “I was pretty good at school, though. Math and physics were my strongest subjects. And I had a good physics teacher who encouraged me to think big. Mr. Ryland,” he says fondly. “He was a total race-car fanatic. What about you?” he asks. “How did you get into architecture?”
We’re interrupted by Dad appearing from around the corner of the barn. “Hey there!” He’s thrilled at the sight of Anders.
“Hi,” Anders replies, going over to shake Dad’s hand.
“Have we got a customer?” I ask.
“No, I was just wondering if you wanted a coffee. Anders?” Dad asks hopefully. “Can we tempt you?”
Anders glances at me before nodding at Dad. “Sure.”
It’s just as well I’ve warmed him up with a few questions. The poor guy has no idea what he’s letting himself in for.
17
I can’t believe you were at the same race,” Anders says to me.
We’ve just discovered that we were both at the Indy 500 during the weekend that Luis Castro scored the first of his three 500 wins. I was only about sixteen or seventeen at the time, and this was well before the Brazilian racing driver went on to become a four-time Formula 1 world champion.
Some of Dad’s enthusiasm about racing has rubbed off on me over the years, so it’s actually been kind of riveting, hearing Anders talk. In the last half hour, Dad has bombarded him with questions.
I now know that there are two drivers in each team and Anders is the head race engineer for one of them; his driver, Ernie Williams, is currently leading the championship by only a few points; Anders never normally takes any time off during the season and every May feels particularly long and brutal because the Indy 500 is squeezed into an already jam-packed calendar; he’s one of the last to leave the track at night, and double-header race weekends are the worst, often with him working all night long to sort through the computer data and decide how the car’s set-up should be tweaked for consecutive racedays. He should be eight hours away in Iowa right now, at one of these double-header weekends, and he feels guilty because the assistant race engineer has to cover for him, but he’ll be back in Indianapolis for a speedway race next weekend, and in Nashville the weekend after that.
I’ve also learned that he did a motorsports engineering degree at IUPUI and that he started out as an intern in Indy Lights, the feeder series to IndyCar, but was quickly promoted and later headhunted by one of the better IndyCar teams.
And I get the feeling that he’s climbed the ranks faster than most, that he’s probably,likely, really quite brilliant.
My dad seems to have come to this same conclusion, judging by the way he’s hanging off his every word. I myself am feeling a teensy bit starstruck, which is probably why I’m now standing up and taking the empty coffee cups to the kitchen and telling myself to get a grip.
I hear Sheryl ask Anders something, then turn to see that Dad has followed me into the kitchen.
“Jeez,” he says, shaking his head with amazement. “What an interesting guy.”
“Yes.” I make the mistake of looking at him and it’s abundantly clear where his head is at. “Don’t even think about it,” I say, quietly enough that Anders won’t be able to hear from his position on the sofa.
He laughs under his breath and holds up his palms. “I don’t want to interfere, but you could do worse if you were looking for a summer romance.”
“Urgh, Dad, stop!” I clatter the cups into the sink. “I am definitely not interested—”
I freeze at the sound of a throat being cleared and turn with horror to see that Anders is standing in the doorway. Bloodrushes to my face, and judging by his slightly bashful smile, it’s clear he’s overheard our conversation.
“I should get back,” he says. “But thank you for having me.”
“Please! The pleasure was all ours,” Dad gushes, guiding Anders down the corridor to the front door. “You’re welcome anytime. I’m sorry I asked so many questions, but I find what you do fascinating.”
“No problem at all,” Anders replies affably.
I’m right behind them, cringing.
“I’ll walk you to your bike,” I tell Anders, then give Dad a pointed look and close the door in his face.
