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Lynda will never claim to be an expert in body language or the like but after some fifty odd rotations around the sun you pick up a thing or two.
Like being able to spot when a young woman is uncomfortable in the presence of a man.
They’re at one of the racing socials. Usually she would call them Strip’s racing socials but now she’s here supporting Cal and his up and coming career. They’re a bit of a drain but there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.
She stays by her husband’s side most of the time. Strip dislikes these kinds of events since they deal with a lot of having to make small talk and she loves her husband so very much but he is not the best at that sort of thing. People talking to him unexpectedly still makes him get that deer in the headlights look even after a long career like his. She used to get that same look at the beginning, back when she didn’t understand what she was getting herself into when she fell into a relationship with the awkward racer, but now she’s an old hat. Not that anyone would dare call her old to her face.
They drift around the room of people. Talking to fellow racers is always the easiest since they’re either old friends or they look at Strip like the ground he walks on is sacred or somewhere in between. There’s always an air of respect not just for him but for her too.
Sponsors are pretty draining. Thankfully they’ve long since stopped asking Strip to race for them instead of Dinoco, and with him in the box instead of the car they’re much more amicable. Still the same old rich people looking to get richer by any means necessary but it’s much easier to hold a conversation with them when they don’t see you as a means. Most of them don’t pay her much mind at all.
The group that ends up being a tossup between a nice conversation and the most absolute draining, soul-sucking people in the room are the reporters.
There’s a nice long list given to the Dinoco tent security every year with the names of reporters barred from entry by Lynda’s own word, backed up by Tex Dinoco himself. After so many years of doing this, most of the reporters she deals with on a weekly basis are respectful enough. They know to keep their name off that list they have to behave, especially around her. It’s a bit of a power trip but by God she will not have that tent be turned into a media circus if she can help it. Especially now that it’s her nephew racing.
But that list doesn’t apply to events like this. So they chat with some reporters that she basically knows personally now after so many years of rubbing elbows. But they also have to talk with the others, the ones whose only chance to talk with them are outside of the heavily guarded Dinoco tent. And she’ll play nice as long as they play nice. She’ll answer questions about the sport they’re supposed to be reporting on, but once their questions become invasive, like asking where Cal’s parents are, she cuts them off as gently as she can handle and pulls her husband away to someone more enjoyable to talk to.
It’s one of those reporters she sees pushing himself into the space of a young woman Lynda only vaguely recognizes.
And it’s hard to make out much past the eb and flow of the crowd between Lynda and Strip and the young woman and the reporter. She keeps an eye on what’s happening for a few minutes.
“My wife wasn’t very happy,” Strip says to one of the older racers-turned-crew-chiefs. Lightning’s, she thinks. Which is so fun to see because the man is so mild-mannered and stone-faced, while Lightning is so wild and crazy. They make a good team, she thinks.
Lynda tunes back into the conversation to give her two-cents. “Well, when my husband and teenaged nephew, who, I might add, was grounded at the time, are missing for hours and then come back with the car all scratched up and dented to hell and back, I feel I’m allowed to be the smallest bit angry,” she says, a sly smile creeping onto her face as she recalls her husband and Cal coming back that night of Cal’s first race. “And not even an invitation to come with?”
The man, Doc he said he wanted to be called, chuckles. She misses what he says, attention drifting back to the lone woman across the party. Lynda frowns as it seems the situation’s gotten worse. The reporter’s gotten closer into the woman’s space. The young woman seems to be trying to discretely look for an out, and when she makes accidental eye contact with Lynda, she feels it’s about time to step in.
She lays a gentle hand on Strip’s arm. “I’ll be right back,” she whispers and leaves him in Doc’s good hands.
Most of the people move out of her way like she’s actually royalty. Not everyone, but enough that it makes getting to the situation a little bit easier. She feels the dress she wore tonight float behind her like the train of a queen’s gown and stands to her full six foot height. Because sometimes taking advantage of people’s perception is a good thing.
The reporter backs off when she arrives at the scene. No one else around them seems to have noticed them before but are paying attention now that the Queen herself is here. “Mrs. Weathers, what an honor,” the greasy man says to her.
Lynda can’t even remember the man’s name but she’s sure it’s on her list. She nods to him so as to not be seen as rude but turns her attention to the young woman. “Ms. Carrera, was it?” She hopes she’s right.
The young woman relaxes minutely. “Yes,” she says, obviously having needed the help. Lynda discretely places herself between the man and Ms. Carrera.
“It’s wonderful to finally meet you,” Lynda says honestly, because she does like to meet all the women involved in the sport, no matter how far removed they may be from the actual racing. She runs a small, unofficial support group for the wives and long term girlfriends (and the one boyfriend, who loves being included and making the most excellent lemon bars). To the reporter, she says, “I’m terribly sorry to cut this short, but I was hoping to steal Ms. Carrera for a bit.” She smiles oh-so-nicely at the man.
Who backs off. “Of course, Mrs. Weathers.” To the young woman, he shoots her an oily smile. “Maybe later I could get your comment, Sally.”
The young woman smiles tightly. “Of course, Mr. Bardge.”
And Lynda gently leads the woman to the bar, where it’s slightly calmer than being in the center of the room. Which seems to have been a good idea because Ms. Carrera collapses into one of the empty bar stools as soon as one's in front of her. Lynda stands next to her.
“I’m sorry,” Ms. Carrera says. She plants her face in her hands and huffs an exhausted, shaky laugh. “I just need a minute.”
“Take your time,” Lynda says, drawing out the syllables a little more than is necessary. She keeps an eye on the people around them, making sure no one gets too close.
After a minute Ms. Carrera sits back up with a deep breath. “Okay, I’m good. I’m good.”
“Are you sure?” Lynda can stand guard here all night if she has to.
“Yes, thank you, ma’am.“
At the woman’s thankful smile, Lynda moves her champagne glass to her left hand and holds out her right. “Lynda Weathers,” she introduces herself.
“Oh.” The woman takes her hand. “Sally Carrera. I’m Lightning McQueen’s, uh, plus-one.”
Ah, young love. Lynda was Strip’s “plus one” for a few years. She just smiles. “It’s lovely to meet you. Really.” She leans against the bar, into Sally's space and whispers conspiratorially. “I have a list of reporters banned from the Dinoco tents. I can give it to you to give to the Rust-Eze guys. Should keep the worst of them off your back. If you’d like.” She’ll offer it to anyone and everyone until the worst of the worms are weeded out of this sport.
She seems to relax even more. “Please,” she says. “I don’t go to most of the events but the ones I do are...”
“Draining?” Lynda smiles knowingly. “Trust me, I’ve been there.”
Sally meets her smile with an awkward one of her own. “I’m sorry, I’m new to all this. You’re the King’s wife, right? Weathers?”
Lynda chuckles. “Was it the name that tipped you off or all the blue?” She gestures down to her dress, in all its Dinoco-blue glory. She’s used to wearing her husband’s colors to events but with every Dinoco-blue outfit she buys, she makes sure to buy one not in blue. As compensation.
Sally laughs. “I wasn’t going to be the one to say it,” she jokes, a lot more relaxed than when Lynda first noticed her presence. Her eyes widen. “Wait, does that mean I’m going to have to wear that awful shade of red my entire life?”
And Lynda laughs now. Because it really is an awful shade on most people. “I’m sure you can pull it off just like I’ve pulled off baby blue,” she says honestly because Ms. Carrera does have the complexion that could easily pull off firetruck-red. “Just make sure you have clothes in other colors because the day you wake up and realize your closet is monochrome is a sad one.”
Sally waves over the bartender and orders another drink. Lynda polishes off her own and orders another as well while they have his attention. “So,” she asks when the bartender goes to make their drinks. “Where is your red racer?”
“Oh I have no idea,” Sally says, looking out over the sea of people. “You know how he is. Just took off. Haven’t been able to find him since. I swear, if this is how it’s always going to be then I’m buying one of those kiddie leashes.”
And that makes Lynda laugh, picturing that. “Honestly, may be a good idea. Strip, my husband,” she adds when Sally seemed confused at the first name, “left me too the first time he dragged, I mean invited me to one of these. The second time around I had learned enough to latch onto his arm the whole time. But I quickly realized just how bad he was at this and took over most of the conversations.” She winks. “He never left my side after that.”
Sally blows out a breath and thanks the bartender when he drops off their drinks. “I’m pretty sure he’s better at this than me, to be honest. I mean, he loves talking. Especially about himself.”
“Oh, honey,” Lynda smirks. “It may seem that way. See, you get Strip talking about racing or, God-forbid, those cars of his and he won’t stop,” she says like it’s a burden and not the most endearing part about her husband. “But that doesn’t mean when someone asks him about how he feels about a new rule the officials put out or fiscal policy making or what have you that he’d give a coherent answer.” She shakes her head with a laugh, remembering. “I swear, by the third time I came along, I was ready to make up note cards to practice with him beforehand.” Her quiet laughter peters out and she sighs, checking her watch. “Speaking of..." She’s been gone for longer than she’d like. “I should probably find him before he gets pulled into something.” Lowly, she adds. “I once left him for I swear not even ten minutes to fix my makeup and I come back and the poor man is trapped in a conversation about investors and financial crap. He almost cried when he saw me, he was so relieved.”
Sally laughs, then her smile drops as she looks around the room again. “Do you mind if I, uh...”
“Tag along?” Lynda posits. “No problem. You can meet my husband. And last I left him he was talking to Lightning’s crew chief.”
“Doc?” She perks up.
Lynda nods and leads the way back to where she left the two men. Again, the crowds split some for her. Not as much as earlier now that she’s not on a warpath but it’s still probably easier for her to get through than if Ms. Carrera was on her own.
Finally she spots her husband’s golden hair above the crowd. She zeroes in on the sight and in no time she’s back by his side.
“And I swear they had it out for us, askin’ us to put God-damned inhibitors on our engines,” Strip is saying when Lynda slips next to him. They link their arms together without even thinking about it.
Across from them, Doc shakes his head. “Crazy,” he agrees.
“Baby,” she cuts in, “Are you talking this poor man’s ear off?”
“Sally,” Doc also says, noticing the young woman following behind Lynda. She slides in next to Doc, who wraps an arm around her shoulders.
“Hey, Doc,” she says, sounding exhausted. “Where’s Lightning?”
Doc frowns. “I thought he was with you?”
"Nah, he left me."
Now Doc’s really frowning. Lynda watches it all go down, wondering how long these two have known each other. “I’ll have to have a talk with him.”
"Oh, me too, Doc."
Strip looks around the crowd, his height over everyone sometimes giving him the ability to spot folks in a crowd better than anyone else. He nods over to a different part of the room. “I think he’s over with Cal and some of the other rooks,” he says.
Doc tries to look over but he’s shorter than even Lynda, who can’t see what Strip's referencing. “Course. Let’s go find him,” Doc says to Sally. Then he turns back to Lynda and Strip and says, “Good talking to y’all. I’ll see you out there, Weathers. Mrs. Weathers,” he nods respectfully, then the two are disappearing into the crowd.
Lynda swings around to face Strip, who looks down at her with a brow-raise. “Still saving strays?” he asks.
“Always,” she says, gently swaying to the music that’s coming on. “C’mon, I think I’ve had enough of this. Let’s go for a drive.”
And her husband's never one to say no to a drive.