“She drowned.”
“Oh, Klaus.” Natalia lifts my hand and kisses it. “I didn’t realize you had so many tragedies.”
“Life is a house constructed of tragedy. We decorate it with our fragile joys to make a suitable home.”
Hugging my hand against her heart, she laughs. “I don’t think you’ve ever said anything more Austrian. We should start a socialmedia account where you offer grim quotes every day. Like gloomy poetry.”
I stop the car in front of the house that was once mine.
“Here it is,” I say quietly.
It’s a different color now. A cat is curled on the stoop. In one window a plant hangs, in another—the kitchen, I remember—a dangling prism. It comes back to me, the scent of my mother’s baking. Linzer plätzchen. Icing sugar dusted across the table, and my fingerprints walking through it.
These small details before me now—the cat, the plant, the winking crystal teardrop—are the fingerprints of someone else’s life. The seeds of their future memories.
Natalia and I watch the house in a close silence. Her hand repositions, dovetailing more firmly with mine, and the connection seems to align like a battery I’ve been installing incorrectly for many years. An intense wave of complex feeling lights up and moves through me.
I’ve left so many things behind in life and been left behind by so many. This cocktail of emotions I’m experiencing is overwhelming: tenderness, communion, fear, expectation, hope, a passion somehow both physical and spiritual.
It’s soon, maybetoosoon… but I can’t risk leaving this behind.
“Not all my poetry is dark,” I say. Turning in my seat, I pull her toward me for a lingering kiss. “The loveliest poem, perhaps, is one of the simplest.” Her eyes are bright with earnestness and desire as we realign and kiss again. “Three words—short and sweet, but certain as sunlight.”
Her hand on my face is warm. She smiles against my lips. “It’s not always sunny.”
“Sunlight is always there, even when obscured by clouds, or on the opposite side of the globe.”
She ducks her head on my shoulder as if shy. “And just whatisthis mysterious three-word poem?”
I sweep her hair around her neck and put my lips against her ear. “I love you, Natalia Jane Evans,” I whisper.
“Oh my God.” She combs one hand into the hair at the back of my head, and the other grasps the fabric of my trouser leg. “I love you too…”
Where I’m touching her back, I feel her heart pounding. My own drums in echo.
It’s been years since I said these words to anyone, even in a casual sense. And nothing about this is casual. It’s a full commitment. I’ve been standing at a cliff’s edge, and a prescient gust of wind has toppled me into the void, knowing I will fall only long enough to remember my wings.
20
HUNGARY
THREE WEEKS LATER
NATALIA
During the week of the French Grand Prix, Klaus and I stayed in a beach cottage twenty minutes from the track, at Saint-Cyr-sur-Mer. Despite the overwhelming busyness of the GP lead-up, we were, in those precious hours together on the French coast, like the only two people in the world. He cooked for me, read to me, and we made love with abandon.
It would’ve been paradise if not for the fact that he’s hiding something. There were a lot of furtive texts, or him wandering off to “take a quick call” alone, pacing the beach in front of the cottage. I’d watch his body language, his agitated gesturing, and wish I could overhear what was being said.
I confess, one of the times he was outside ranting into his phone about something that had him more emotional than I typically see him, I crept to his laptop and tapped the track pad, hoping some clue might pop up. It was, of course, passworded.
I do feel emotionally safe with him, but as far as business stuff goes, we’re bothsocautious. More than once I’ve idly fantasized about another life we could have where he’s not a team principal and I write books in that cozy home office of my dreams. Lazy days with coffee and conversation and long walks, no pressure… no secrets. I’ve even pictured it as being at the old Marshall farm in my hometown, which has been for sale for the past year. But the idea of a jet-set billionaire setting aside his glamorous life and moving to some tiny Kentucky town is pretty silly.
On Nefeli’s not-quite-an-order, I’ve kept my ear to the ground about the issues with the new GP location, but there’s nothing solid. On fan forums, people discuss the rumors of political instability in the host country. Once I’m done with this deep-dive article about Klaus, I plan to focus more energy on the topic. I gained a few new contacts since losing the one from Amnesty International, but I haven’t secured anything concrete enough to be useful. A trip to the country in question will be necessary, and… yeah, that’s not a conversation I’m looking forward to having with Klaus.
I didn’t tell him about it last week when I got an anonymous, semi-menacing email telling me to keep my nose out of things. I turned it over to the IT department atARJto see if they could determine whether it was a credible threat. But I won’t allow myself to feel intimidated when this could be such an important—and career-making—story.
Formula 1 is no stranger to controversy. The ultra-high stakes aren’t only on track. It’s a billions-per-year business. As a journalist,I know the rules aren’t the same for me in every race location. There are questions that would land me firmly on the “persona non grata” list if I dared to ask them during Thursday press days.
