Page 33 of Lightning in a Mason Jar
“Your grandfather was a thoughtful man.”
He’d died two years earlier. Annette had struggled with the loss, so much so she’d begun asking Libby and me for more help with small tasks in the rescue operation. To start, we’d hand carried documents—new birth certificates, diplomas, and driver’s licenses—from the paralegal to the library.
“Yes, he was. I miss him.” Russell’s throat moved in a long swallow, and he dried his palms along his jeans. “When I first got back from ’Nam, this was the best place to blow off steam and help me return to my old self.”
He didn’t talk about his time in Vietnam often, and I knew well that a person was entitled to secrets. So I just let him choose his own words and pace now.
Russell scratched his collarbone, his sepia-hued skin glistening with a light perspiration. “These days, I come out here sometimes to practice and test out tweaks to the Chevy. What do you say? Would you like to go for a spin?”
“Are you sure? You might take that offer back when you hear I got ill on a Ferris wheel.” Only once since I’d never tried again. Looking back, it could have been the cotton candy and caramel apple I’d begged my father to buy since Mama restricted my desserts. In hindsight, that seemed ironic, given all the sweets she’d taught me to bake.
Russell tucked a lock of hair behind my shoulder. “I won’t go any faster than you’re comfortable with.”
We both knew he wasn’t just referring to the car.
I leaned my cheek against his wrist. “How about we take it one lap at a time and see how it goes?”
Again, we were talking about more than this afternoon. I trusted this man with my safety.
“I think that’s a mighty fine plan.”
He passed me a shiny silver helmet, which gave me a moment’s pause as I envisioned wrecks from races. But this wasn’t a competition, and I wasn’t living my life on the sidelines anymore. Besides, if I wanted to know more about Russell, this was an important facet of him. I longed to experience what he did when he raced.
Dropping his own helmet into place with one hand, he shifted the car out of park with the other. He kept his foot on the brake, revving the engine, once, twice, fueling the RPMs. Then peeling rubber, off we went. The Chevelle sure had a lot more giddy-up-and-go than my Dodge Dart.
Cautiously, I watched the speedometer as we took the first lap around the track at fifty miles per hour. Nothing more than a highway speed, but it felt faster without slowing for the turns. My nerves tensed and I braced myself, but at the same time, the motion of the vehicle gave me a thrill. Russell cast quick glances my way as if to check my comfort level, and each time I gave him a nod.
I’d attended Russell’s races countless times over the years, cheering him on alongside his grandparents and my friends. But sitting inside the vehicle with him offered new insights to the sport. And to Russell. I’d seen his calm control over the years, but there was an edge to him now.A fire in his eyes. An energy that had begun building from the moment he put on his helmet. His passion behind the wheel mirrored what I’d experienced firing up a torch to create works of art.
Again, he turned to look at me, and I offered a thumbs-up. Faster. By the fifth loop, we were almost flying. This time, he pressed the pedal to the floor and my heart leaped in my chest. Squealing, I grabbed the roll bar and braced my feet against the floorboards.
He guided the vehicle around a hairpin turn, the back end of the car fishtailing. Dirt spewed behind us in a cloud, and for an instant I thought we would spin out. Then he righted our world, powering straight on again, shifting gears. My squeal turned to a shout of exhilaration.
To think I could have missed this.
Missed him.
Somehow, Russell milked even more power from the Chevy, sending it soaring across the finish line, then sliding sideways to a stop. The dust created a cloud around us, the grit settling faster than my heart rate.
Ears ringing, I sagged back against the seat, the world spinning in front of me. Breath by breath, I let the experience sink inside me as I inhaled the scent of earth and Russell. A heady perfume. I turned my head to smile at him. He smiled back. The world stopped spinning, his dear, familiar face coming fully into focus.
Memories drifted around me like leaves falling from the trees. Of him replacing the bald tires on Olive and refusing to charge me. But more than just helping me. How he cleared limbs from old Mr. Underwood’s front lawn after a storm. When he anonymously placed a sack of school supplies on Libby’s front stoop, something I wouldn’t have known except I’d run into him at the Thrifty Nickel and recognized the Evel Knievel lunch box he’d tossed on top of a buggy full of paper, crayons, pencils, and glue. Russell was a good man.
And mighty easy on the eyes.
I unbuckled my helmet and shook out my hair. “That was incredible. A little scary, but so exciting. Although I can’t imagine what it’s like with other vehicles crowding the track.”
My heart rate had almost returned to normal. But not quite. With Russell’s voice in my ear, I had the feeling that my pulse wasn’t thrumming just because of the car ride anymore.
“It’s a lot like navigating that channel over there in a johnboat during the height of fishing season.” He motioned toward the riverbank, where another picnic table waited with a Mason jar of flowers in the middle. He’d planned. “I thought we could have our picnic over yonder. Best view in the county.”
When he said the last part, he was staring at me.
Butterflies swirled in my stomach. “I brought a blanket too. Maybe we can sit by the shore and feed crumbs to the fish.”
“Great idea. Next time, I can bring fishing poles.”
Next time.The flutter increased, and my toes curled in my sneakers.
