At Every Turn by Anne Mateer Page B

“Some.”
    “And you haven’t given it away yet?”
    I laughed. “No, not yet.”
    He eased back, brushed his fingernails on his jacket, cleared his throat. “So you found a safe place for it?”
    “It’s in my bedroom, for now. Grandmother gave me a special box to keep the money in.”
    “Do you think that’s wise?”
    My forehead crinkled. “Why not?”
    “So many people in and out of your room.”
    “Betsy? She wouldn’t think anything of it, even if she ran across it.”
    “Hmm.” Tiny wrinkles framed his eyes, making him look older than I imagined him to be. “Just be careful, Alyce. I would hate for anything to happen to your money.”
    “Thank you. Less than six weeks. I need every penny I can get. Oh—and Webster is going to sell some of my jewelry for me in Chicago. It should bring enough to replace what I gave away.”
    “I see.” He glanced back toward the office building, concern rumpling his usually placid face.
    “Go on. Get back to work. Father will only be patient for so long.” I settled behind the wheel, shut the door, and started the engine. I had a feeling Mother would get over her bee sting as soon as the prospect of a trip to Chicago dangled in front of her. Now to plot my disguise . . .

 13 
    T he sharp smell of wet paint enveloped me as I stepped inside the garage.
    “Whew!” I flapped my hand in front of my nose. “Why didn’t you do that outdoors?”
    Webster didn’t look up as his brush, wet with white paint, stroked the top of a number 7 on the engine cover. “Too much wind. Blowing grass.” He lifted his hand, squinted at his work. “That should do.”
    He dumped the brush into a can of liquid. “Can’t take her out again until this dries. This evening. You okay with that?”
    “So you’ll let me drive again?”
    “Are you going to be in Chicago?”
    I nodded. “I worked it out with Father.”
    “Then I guess you’ll be driving.” One corner of his mouth lifted as his gaze of admiration fell on the race car and then lifted to my face. “She couldn’t be in better hands.”
    Warmth bloomed in my cheeks as I dropped my chin.
    “But don’t you think you ought to tell your father, Ally? I mean, secrets can be dangerous things.”
    My stomach roiled, but at the thought of keeping silent or telling? “Good heavens, no! He’d, well, he’d never allow it. I think it’s best to keep it to ourselves. For now.”
    He wiped the paint from his hands and tossed the rag onto the workbench. “But what if something happens?”
    I stepped toward him, thankful I’d put off my silk dress in favor of my driving clothes. “It won’t. You’ll be there to help me. And the Lord will protect us.”
    “You sure about that?”
    “This is His plan to provide for the work of the gospel. It has to be.”
    He stared at me for a long moment, much as he had the painted number on the car. Then he knelt on the ground to clean up his paintbrush.
    I scooted onto the nearby stool. “There is one little rut in the road.”
    He stopped working. “How big a rut?”
    Setting my feet on the upper rung of the stool, I gripped my knees. “Lawren—Mr. Trotter is coming along.”
    Scrubbing commenced again, with more agitation than before. “With your father?”
    “Yes, but with me, too.”
    His head shot up. “What do you mean?”
    “Father insisted he come along to escort me on race day.” I hopped to the ground. My hand found his shoulder, keeping him from rising to his feet. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure Mother comes, too. I’ll tell him I’m shopping with her, that I’ll meet him there later. Besides, Father needs him there for business, too. Not just for me. And if I know my father, he’ll mix that business with the pleasure of a day at the races.”
    Webster’s shoulders relaxed a bit. “You sure you can manage all that intrigue and drive, too?”
    “You get me to the pits and on the track. I’ll orchestrate the rest. Just find a place where I can change