Rush to the Altar. Rebecca Winters
Acting as if she hadn’t heard him, she placed a jug of fresh ice water from the cart on his bedside table, but he knew she was dying to hear more.
“You’re not even going to ask what it is?”
“Need I remind you that for it to be a true gift, the right hand mustn’t let the left hand know what it’s doing?”
“I’m not the one striving for perfection. You, however, are very close to that sublime state and wouldn’t dream of stooping to a petty weakness like curiosity. Therefore I’ll tell you I’ve made a donation to your convent in honor of Sister Francesca.”
When his declaration penetrated, she bowed her head.
“You may not have succeeded in getting me to bare my soul, but you’ve convinced me there are angels on earth. Thank you for preventing me from giving up when I was at my lowest ebb. For that you’ve earned a permanent place in this sinner’s heart.”
No doubt she was hiding her face because she didn’t want him to see the moisture filling her eyes, another sign of weakness she was determined not to display.
As she turned to push the cart out of the room she said, “Ever since you were brought in here, you’ve been in my prayers, Mr. Garrow. You always will be.”
“That’s a comforting thought. With you as my advocate, maybe there’s hope for me after all. Take care, Sister.”
“God bless you,” she whispered before disappearing from the room.
No sooner had she left him alone than Bart entered.
“Sorry I’m late, but I think you’ll forgive me when you see what I’ve brought you. I dug through my old things in the trailer to find this for you. It was published while you were working in Brazil with your father.” He handed him a copy of International Motorcycle World.
The October issue from last year showed a female on the cover with a blond braid swinging below her helmet. She was riding through a farmer’s muddy field on a motorcycle. There was a doctor’s satchel strapped to the back. The caption read: Even a modern day American vet still rides an old Danelli-Strada 100 Sport Bike to work because they’re built to last forever.
“Go ahead and take a look while I get us a couple of soft drinks from the machine.”
“Thanks, Bart.”
The magazine had been printed the same month his father had been killed doing what he loved best. With an eagerness Riley hadn’t felt about anything for a long time, he opened the magazine. A small paragraph on the inside about the cover said, “The children in Prunedale, California, call her the ‘mad’ vet as she rides around on her trusty cycle.”
He chuckled before turning to the main article. His first surprise came when he learned there were two men involved in the creation of the original company; Luca Danelli and Ernesto Strada. Riley had always thought Strada meant it was a street bike because strada was the word for street in Italian.
The story followed their fascinating lives from their childhoods in Italy, through the World War II years and beyond to the culmination of their dream to build a motorcycle empire in Milan.
Riley and his father had always performed their stunts on Danelli-Strada bikes. Then much to the motorcycle world’s chagrin, all manufacturing suddenly ended. His parent had insisted Danelli-Strada was the only brand to be trusted and never could understand why it had gone out of business.
“Listen to this—” Riley said as soon as Bart came back in the room. “After Ernesto Strada died, Luca Danelli lost heart, stopped production and dropped out of the manufacturing scene.” He put down the magazine. “So that was the reason.”
The older man opened one of the colas and handed it to him. “Keep reading.”
After swallowing the contents in one go, Riley picked up where he’d left off.
International Motorcycle World has learned that once again Danelli motorcycles are being manufactured at their new headquarters in Turin, Italy. This announcement comes from CEO, Nicco Tescotti, who granted International Motorcycle World’s chief staff writer Colin Grimes an exclusive interview.
Racers around the globe are ecstatic in welcoming back this manufacturing giant after a long dearth. Already the new prototype called the Danelli NT-1 is clocking faster race times than any of the competition. Everyone else better move over because once again Luca Danelli is making his genius known. According to Tescotti, the company is here to stay.
Excitement swept through Riley’s body. Maybe Sister Francesca’s prayers for him hadn’t been in vain after all. He lifted his head to find Bart smiling at him.
“I thought that article might put a light in your eyes.”
“Might?” Riley blurted. “This has to be my lucky night.”
“How come?”
“I was just told I’m getting out of here tomorrow.”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard since the plastic surgeon promised he could fix up your face like new.”
Not exactly like new, but Riley could live with the subtle changes and wasn’t about to complain.
“With this article I know exactly where I’m headed after I leave the hospital. You must have been inspired to bring it to me.”
“For years now I’ve been aware you wanted to pursue your own career, but you couldn’t do anything about it while your father needed you so badly.”
If Bart knew that, then he knew a lot more than Riley had given him credit for.
“I also happen to know the only reason you worked as a Hollywood stuntman for the last year was to make some fast, big bucks to pay off the bills he left owing.
“Now that you’ve accomplished your objective, I’m anxious to find out what you’re going to do with the rest of your life. I figured the news about Luca Danelli would get your mind thinking. As I recall, Italy always did feel like home to you.”
Riley nodded. “It was home to me for many years. Now I’ve got another reason to go back.” There was one more debt to pay…
He eyed the other man for a long moment. “Dad said you were the best friend a man ever had. He knew what he was talking about. Thanks for being here for me, Bart.”
The burly older man’s eyes watered. “I never had a wife or family. You kind of filled that spot, you know?” he said in a strangely gruff voice.
“Until Mitra straightened me out, I thought you were my uncle.”
When they’d both had a good laugh, Riley levered himself from the bed to give him a bear hug. “I promise to keep in touch with you.”
“That’s all I needed to hear.”
“You didn’t like any of the scripts I had sent over?” D.L. thundered.
Annabelle Lassiter, known to her family and closest friends as Ann, met her agent’s incredulous gaze across the lunch table at Pierre’s without flinching. “I’m sorry, D.L., but I don’t want to be typecast, and I don’t happen to think any of these scripts are worth the paper they’re printed on.”
His thick red brows bumped together. “Listen to me—if you want to make a real name for yourself in this town, you’d better stop being so choosy. You may be a long-legged, classy looking blonde with a load of natural talent, but one successful film with Cory Sieverts doesn’t guarantee a lifetime of work. You have to pay your dues, honey.”
“I’m aware of that, but I refuse to act in a film aimed at sex-obsessed eighteen-year-old boys. That’s all these are.” She stared pointedly at the four scripts she’d put on the table.
“That’s what’s selling these days!”
“It’s