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The judge stopped and hung a ribbon on the ’33.
“Yesss!” Sean hissed, pumping his fist at his side.
“I think you’re more excited than I am,” Delaney laughed. Her humor died away as she watched Dick walk up to the judge and pull him aside. Dick pointed at ’33 and said something to the judge, who nodded and said something back. Dick made a few gestures and spoke again. The judge nodded, then knelt down and inspected Delaney’s bike.
“Sean, what are they doing?” Delaney said, her voice almost a whisper.
“I don’t know,” Sean said, even though both the question and the answer had been rhetorical.
“’33 is prime for the show,” she insisted. “What’s going on?”
This time, Sean stayed silent.
Dick, who was still standing behind the judge, glanced up at that moment. His gaze connected with Delaney’s.
Dick smiled.
It felt like Delaney’s heart stopped.
The judge finished his perusal, rose, wrote on his clipboard, then handed his list over to the emcee.
Dick turned away, collected Dude, who was standing a few feet behind, and the two of them headed back toward the stage for the final results.
Delaney drew a deep, steadying breath and looked up at Sean.
Sean returned the look, but said nothing, his face set in hard lines, his jaw grinding.
Delaney swallowed the tightness in her throat, then knelt and poured her water bottle over Wyatt’s lapping pink tongue. He was panting now, as the searing sun was directly overhead and beating down. “We’re almost done, boy,” she said. “Then we can go back to the shop where your dog bed is. Trust me, I want to go home, too.”
Wyatt lapped up the stream of water and seemed to enjoy the drops that landed on his face.
“Alright, folks.” The emcee had a big Southern twang to his voice. “We’re down to the last trophy of the day—the Dogwood Classic Motorcycle Award. This is also considered Best in Show. We’ve seen a lot of amazing bikes today and we want to thank everyone who participated. This is a great field of motorcycles. Okay, here we go.” The emcee slipped on his glasses and peered at the sheet he’d been handed by the judge. “In third place we have Ginny Wilson with her beautiful ’65 Ducati Mach 1.”
The crowd cheered and applauded as Ginny, a petite woman with dark brown skin and a head full of silver hair climbed the stage. She wore a motorcycle vest that had Black Magic Woman Bikers emblazoned on the back. A pack of older ladies near the front of the stage who wore similar vests called out, “Go, Ginny!” as she accepted her bag of prizes.
“Thank you, Ginny,” the emcee said as she exited the stage. “Gorgeous bike. Okay. We’ll announce the second place and the first place winners at the same time.”
“This is it.” Delaney’s heart was beating so hard she felt sick. Sean was beside her in complete silence, like he sensed a storm coming. Wyatt rose to his feet and wagged his tail.
The Dudes, up front near the stairs, were laughing and chatting with each other. Dick glanced her way. Delaney quickly averted her gaze, her legs now shaking.
“In second place...we have Delaney Monroe, with her ’33 Indian Four! And in first, winner of the Dogwood Classic Motorcycle Award, is Richard Worley, with his ’64 Triumph! Come on up, y’all!”
The Dudes high-fived each other and climbed the stairs to the stage. Sean placed his hand on Delaney’s shoulder and squeezed. Delaney stood there a moment, the jangle of her nerves settling into disappointment and confusion. After a while of just standing there, frozen, unsure if she could move, the emcee repeated Delaney’s name. Sean gave her a little nudge, so Delaney put one foot in front of the other and discovered that her legs worked, even though they felt like concrete. She climbed the stairs as the crowd clapped and cheered, and stood next to the emcee. The Dudes were on his other side, smiling. Dude held a trophy in his hands and Dick had an envelope, which presumably contained his cash winnings.
“Congratulations, Richard and Delaney! Good job today, everyone. Thank you. Please enjoy the rest of the day. Show is open until four.”
The emcee and judge both shook Delaney’s hand as she accepted her second place ribbon and a bag of swag. “Good job, Ms. Monroe.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, her voice sounding thin. “Thank you.”
The judge, an older man with a bushy white beard and long, white hair to match, smiled at Delaney. “That’s a fine piece of machinery you got there, miss. You’ve taken good care of it.”
“Thank you, sir.” Delaney’s palms were sweaty and a headache was forming at her temples. “It was my father’s. He passed away this year.” She bit down on her lower lip. TMI. Nobody wanted to know her sob story. She’d taken second place to what was admittedly a beautiful bike. It was her own fault for banking so much on winning that cash prize and advertising. And all of that would’ve been fine, if it weren’t for the Dudes, standing there, looking like the fat cats that had eaten an entire flock of canaries. She desperately wanted to ask the judge what Dick had said to him, but that wouldn’t be appropriate and she would come off like a poor loser.
“I’m sorry for the loss of your dad,” the judge said, his voice taking a tender, grandfatherly tone. “But good on him for taking care of that cycle. And for how you’ve cared for it, too.”
“Thank you, sir.”
