A Nascar Holiday 3 by Liz Allison;Wendy Etherington;Brenda Jackson;Marisa Carroll;Jean Brashear

Author:Liz Allison;Wendy Etherington;Brenda Jackson;Marisa Carroll;Jean Brashear
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: NASCAR (Association), Man-Woman Relationships, Anthologies (Multiple Authors), Contemporary, Christmas Stories, General, Romance, American, Fiction, Short Stories, Stock Car Racing, Love Stories
ISBN: 9780373773374
Publisher: HQN Books
Published: 2008-10-31T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS STILL DARK WHEN Trace woke even though the clock said it was after seven. He might as well get up. He didn’t like lying in bed by himself. He’d make a pot of coffee and wait for Annie to wake up. They’d have waffles for breakfast with strawberry topping and whipped cream on top.

He didn’t have much fear of spoiling their Thanksgiving dinner with a big breakfast. Not when it was going to consist of frozen dinners and prebaked pie. He wondered if there was a restaurant anywhere nearby that would be open for the day? Probably not. He could still hear sleet chattering against the windows. They might have to stay longer than he expected. He shoved himself off the bed and headed into the bathroom before he started remembering the Thanksgiving dinners Beth had cooked for the three of them. Or the year he’d finished third in the Chase for the NASCAR Sprint Cup and they’d spent Thanksgiving in New York for Champions Week. She wouldn’t want him to be always looking to the past. That hadn’t been her way. She had wanted him to be strong and focused on the future, for Annie’s sake. Even though she hadn’t been able to articulate those thoughts after her stroke he could see it in her eyes, and he had given her his word he wouldn’t dwell in the past.

So far, keeping that promise was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

He hurried through his shower, shaved and pulled on jeans and an old chamois shirt, faded from blue to gray with many washings. He slid open the pocket doors that separated the master suite from the small area behind the kitchen that could be closed off to form a second bedroom. He bent to pull the covers over Annie’s shoulders as he passed her bunk bed, and brushed his hand over the silky softness of her hair.

So like her mother. He said a little prayer of thanks every day for this precious reminder of Beth and their love. The furnace kicked on, sending warm air flooding through the motor home as he slid the pocket door between Annie’s room and the kitchen closed as quietly as possible.

Fifteen minutes later the smell of waffles and warming syrup filled the air and Annie appeared in the doorway looking both sleepy and hungry, her fine, straight hair tousled around her shoulders. She was wearing flannel pants, an oversize T-shirt sporting his sponsor’s logo and fluffy slippers with googly monster eyes that had been a gag gift from Jake Winslow, his spotter, for her tenth birthday. Peanuts was cradled in her arms, squirming to be let down and taken outside.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Daddy,” she said. “Something smells good.”

“Waffles,” he replied, waving her to the dinette. “Give me the dog. I’ll put him out. It’s still sleeting a little.”

She handed over the poodle and slid into the padded banquette that seated six while Trace pushed the button that automatically lowered the outside steps and urged the reluctant poodle to head out into the cold gray of early morning.

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