Fuel To The Fire (New Adult Contemporary Romance) (12 page)

Carrie

Daytona
500 February 20
^th
2012…

Danny
Franchetti is dead.

 The
words keep echoing around in my skull and I keep doing my best to deny it.
Danny is dead! I swear to god those words will never pass my lips. I refuse to
believe I have just stood by and watched my fiancé die in an accident that
could have been prevented by me.

Rachael
has to drag me away from the car kicking and screaming.

“Check
again dammit!” I scream. “Check on more fucking time Rachael!”

The way
Rachael is looking at me. The same look you might give a rabid dog that is
trying to bite you but cannot on account of the leash. There’s a healthy bit of
respect in that look, but there’s also a measure of pity. She is watching her
best friend come unglued before her eyes.

“Look at
me Carrie. I’ve checked and rechecked. Hell, you checked yourself three times.
What more do you want me to do?”

“Just
check once more,” I reply, not realizing how crazy I must sound right now.

But she
obliges and places her two fingers at throat. I can tell by her expression that
nothing has changed. The track’s Chief Medical Examiner is standing by to
examine my fiancé and proclaim the time of death.

“Ma’am,
I’m going to have to ask you to step away from the car please.”

I look
up. It’s one of Daytona’s track officials along with the medical examiner that
I have been keeping at bay for the last fifteen minutes. Their expressions are
both set with determination. They won’t leave until they have the information
they came for and I guess there’s not much I can do now. I reach through the
window and unstrap his helmet. With great care and gentleness I slowly remove
his helmet.

My first
observation is that he looks fine; like he’s resting peacefully. Maybe he is.
He’s...he was a tortured soul and like many souls like him, they don’t find
their peace in life, only in death. And when I stand here looking at Danny one
last time in a race car, he looks like he’s found that peace he’s been looking
so hard for. I lean over and give him one kiss on his lips, then on his
forehead.

“Goodbye
Danny...”

I don’t
even bother to hide the tears as I walk away from the car. The Daytona official
and the ME look down and away as I pass by them. Don’t know if that was a
merciful act of sympathy or they just didn’t know how to deal with a grieving
almost widow. Rachael matches my steps and takes my hand in hers and I’m
grateful for the small comfort.

February
24
^th
2012 Four Days Later at the Funeral…

Today I
learn just how paranoid and superstitious race car drivers really are. I’ve
gotten to know a lot of drivers and crew members over the last 18 months. Danny
was an immensely popular guy. As I look around the church I don’t see a single
one of them. Of course his parents aren’t here, they died several years ago in
a boating accident. His little sister is here though and it’s probably the
third time I have ever seen her. She refused to watch him race, just like his
parents, just in case he got hurt. So that leaves just the non-racing people in
Danny’s life and that’s not a lot given how he eats, drinks, and breathes
racing. Rachael is here, not for Danny but to support me.

I don’t
know why, but at some point in the service I turn around and there are two
strangers standing up in the back of the church. One was clearly too old to be
a driver, and the other was too out of shape to be one. They were dressed in
expensive suits so I figure they’re here on official business.

Carpe
diem is the theme for the service. Seize the day, that’s what Danny certainly
did. I am full of conflicting emotions, anger and sorrow being the
predominating ones. I’m not bitterly angry at losing my fiancé before we even
got to start our life together. I’m not angry that he got taken away too soon,
he was only 26. I’m angry because he tried to cheat the system and got away
with it right up until the point he didn’t get away with it. Then he died. I’m
angry at myself for not stopping him.

I keep
trying to tell myself it’s not my fault. He was a grown man fully capable of
making his own choices and living with the consequences. It was not my place to
make his decisions for him. I keep telling myself that but it doesn’t help. I
suffer through another twenty minutes of people standing up there next to a
giant picture of Danny in his racing uniform and saying all these wonderful
things about him and it turns my stomach. Where’d they get these people anyway?
I certainly don’t know them and I don’t think they really even knew Danny.
Would they still be saying all the crap if they knew about his violent temper?
Danny had a short fuse when we were alone together. When we were in bed he was
like Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He could be the most loving person and a
controlling asshole at the same time. The real question is, how did I put up
with that for so long? There must have been a good side to Danny Franchetti,
but not one that these people up there are talking about. They really
didn’t
know him at all.

When the
service finally concludes and I’m making my way back down the aisle to the end
of the chapel and step outside into a grey wet afternoon. The two strangers
match my step, one on each side of me.

“What do
you want?” I ask, making no attempt to hide the scorn in my voice. I know these
two are up to no good and ambushing me like this the day of the funeral is
contemptible.

“My name
is Doctor Samuel Saul, I’m the medical director for the track hospital here in
Daytona, and this is NASCAR Chairman Brian France.”

“I know
who you are.” I reply coolly.

I have
met Dr. Saul on a previous occasion but I know Brian by reputation only. He is
related to Bill France, of NASCAR’s founding family. For them both to ambush me
here outside the church means there is something serious going on here.  

Dr. Saul
gets right to the point without preamble. “Ms. Zane, did you happen to see
Danny’s medical release form?”

“Just in
passing. I didn’t study it or pay it any attention, if that’s what you’re
asking.”                                                                                                                                                     

“That’s
what we’re asking. Did you happen to see which doctors were on those papers,
particularly a report from Doctor Carmichael, Danny’s neurologist? His report
would have to have been in with that report and it would have been addressed
and commented on...would have been quite a few pages that report if it was
legitimate of course.”

“Not
many drivers here today,” Dr. Saul observes.

“Drivers
are a suspicious bunch, aren’t they Carrie?” comments Mr. France.

“You
would know,” I reply.

“Some
nice things were said,” Dr. Saul says lamely.

“They
don’t like to be reminded of their own mortality,” Mr. France replies. “Makes
them feel vulnerable. Especially the ones who’ve lost their edge, for whatever
reason...”

“Was
that a thick report?” Dr. Saul asks abruptly.

“Yeah it
was pretty thick,” I reply.

“But no
report from Dr. Carmichael? That’s a bit odd, don’t you think?”

And here’s
where I blew it. “Oh there was something there with his signature on it,” I
reply without thinking.

“Forgive
me, but maybe I wasn’t paying attention Ms. Zane, but didn’t you say earlier
that you really paid no attention to the report?” asks Dr. Saul. “Just in
passing...That’s what you said, Ms. Zane.”

“Look,
I’m not thinking too clearly today for obvious reasons. You guys just ambushed
me and you expect me to remember every detail of some obscure conversation or
event that happened a while ago. Look, if you want accurate answers why don’t
you do the decent thing and allow me at least the weekend to grieve before you
start your interrogation.”

“After
you’ve had the time to get your answers straight of course, but this is not an
interrogation Ms. Zane, just a casual conversation in a chance meeting,” Brian
replies. “We’re just doing our jobs.”

“Your
jobs? I thought this was a casual conversation in a chance meeting. That’s what
you said Brian. Now I’m going to go home and grieve for my fiancé. Have a good
day.”

Without
waiting for a reply I step away from them and hurry to my car. When I finally
reach my trailer I’m still shaking. What kind of trouble have I gotten myself
into?

Two
weeks later…

Getting
a private helicopter ride was expensive enough. Finding someone who was willing
to look the other way when I began dumping, well that was another story. But I
finally found the right guy, a former NASCAR driver turned pilot. I wasn’t sure
I was going to go through with this, but after being harassed by race officials
after the funeral I decided a big fuck you to NASCAR is in order.

I’m
pretty sure NASCAR would frown upon what I’m about to do, but I don’t really
care anymore. Danny never left any final instructions in his will so I am left
with my best guess, and that’s that he would want to be buried as close to the
Daytona 500 as possible. So I did one better than that. I’m going to spread his
ashes as we fly around the track at 500 feet.

Rachael
is good enough to come along for emotional support. I’m not sure how this is
going to strike me. The flood of emotions I was expecting during the service
never did show up. How can I not cry over my dead fiancé? Rachael has some
theories but I just don’t know. She thinks that I am just way too conflicted to
grieve right now, what with the way Danny treated me, the problem with NASCAR
officials...It’s no wonder I’m blocked. Maybe she’s right.

“Okay,
we’ll need to make this fairly quick,” our pilot instructs us. “We don’t want
track authorities catching on about a chopper flying around overhead and I
really don’t need the heat. I’ll make three laps around the track at a slow
speed. That should give you three or four minutes to do whatever it is you’re
doing with those ashes.”

“How’d
you know?” I asked, thoroughly surprised.

“You
think this is the first time I’ve helped spread some driver’s ashes over the
track?” he replies.

As we
approach the edge of the track, our chopper slows down and drops elevation. I
say a quick prayer under my breath before speaking again. I open the urn, crack
a window and tilt the container.