Spring Fever (44 page)

He glanced around the restaurant. It was only eight o’clock, past the dinner hour, too early for the night owls, and nobody he knew ever frequented the Waffle House, which was why he’d agreed to meet there.

“Hey, uh, you don’t think Mason knows, do you? You know, about us? I mean, you didn’t happen to mention that, right? Because that could make things kind of awkward. Him being my brother and all.”

The seed of an idea took hold in Celia’s imagination
. If you got right down to it, they were both from the same gene pool, so one Bayless was as good as the other, wasn’t it? Davis wasn’t the man Mason was. He never would be. But once the Jax deal was inked, he’d be just as rich.

“It’s our little secret,” she assured him.

She was about to pay for her coffee and leave when her cell phone rang. She grabbed for it, still not totally convinced Mason wouldn’t have a change of heart. She saw the caller ID too late.

“Sissy! Is that really you?” Her baby sister Jaymie sounded drunk.

“Hey, Daddy! I got Sissy on the line,” Jaymie called. “Hang on, hon, Daddy needs to talk to you real bad.”

“Where did you get this number?” Celia said through clenched teeth.

“Veronica gave it to Terri and me,” Jaymie said. “Listen, Sissy. Daddy’s not doing too good. That last accident, he messed up his back. For reals. He’s in a wheelchair…”

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid you have the wrong number again,” Celia said pleasantly. She clicked the Disconnect button and dropped the phone into her purse. Davis was staring open-mouthed at her.

Celia took a deep breath. She really had to work on keeping her cool. “On top of everything else some lunatic keeps calling me over and over again. I’m going to have to get a new number.”

“Yeah, tough luck,” Davis said. He pushed away the money Celia placed on the tabletop. “I’m glad we got together to talk tonight. Cleared the air. No hard feelings, right?”

She sighed and tried to look forlorn. It wasn’t her strength. “Maybe it’s for the best,” she said, giving her imitation of wistfulness, standing to go, giving him the shot he was hoping for. She leaned over and gave him a lingering kiss, just to remind him of the good times.

“Good-bye, Davis. It’s been fun.”

“Well, hey,” he said, confused. “It doesn’t have to be good-bye, now, does it? I mean, I’ve got the evening free, and there’s always the Pinecone Motor Lodge.”

“That’s so sweet,” she said. “But I’ve had a really long day. I think I’ll just drive over to Pinehurst and get myself a motel room and try to figure out my future.”

“You do that,” Davis said, beaming. “And give me a call when you get your new number.”

“Don’t worry,” Celia promised. “You’ll be hearing from me.”

45

The florists were having themselves a high old time at the Pinecone Motor Lodge. A long banquet-sized table had been set up in the grassy courtyard and draped with a gauzy white cloth. A series of elaborate silver candelabras marched down the middle of the table, punctuated by raised epergnes of gorgeous centerpieces spilling lilies, hydrangeas, roses, tulips, and flowers whose names Annajane didn’t know. The men, and a few women, were dressed in spring finery, milling about the tables, sampling from dozens of platters of appetizers and sipping wine from plastic champagne flutes.

She’d been holed up in her motel room most of the day, her phone turned off, all her focus turned toward the Quixie summer ad campaign, until, finally, Harold and Thomas had coaxed her out for a glass of wine shortly before dusk.

“I’m not really dressed for a cocktail party,” she’d said, trying to beg off, but the men had insisted, so she’d changed out of her yoga pants and T-shirt into a somewhat respectable flowered, cotton ankle-length sundress and a pair of teal ballet flats. The dress dipped deeply in the front and criss-crossed with buttons at the shoulders. She pinned her hair up in a modified french twist and, in lieu of any real makeup, applied a quick bit of peach lip gloss.

“You look adorable,” Thomas had assured her, handing her a glass of rosé and a stuffed mushroom cap. After polishing off the appetizer in two bites, she realized she hadn’t eaten all day and gratefully accepted the plate full of food Harold fetched for her. “Much lovelier than that hussy who spent the night with your friend Harry Dix last night,” Harold said. “You’re like something out of
The Great Gatsby.
”

“Thank you,” Annajane said, squeezing his arm affectionately. “Is flattery part of the package deal at the Pinecone Motor Lodge? If so, I might have to rethink my checkout date.”

“We wish you would,” Thomas said. “You’re the first real friend we’ve made in Passcoe. People are curious about what we’ve done with the motel, but they seem a little standoffish. I mean, where’s all that famous southern hospitality we’ve always heard about?”

“We’ve got to do a little marketing and networking for you,” Annajane said. “Get you out and about and meeting people in town. Seriously. If you haven’t done it already, you should join the Chamber of Commerce. And either the Kiwanis or Rotary. And have you thought about hosting an open house here? People need to see what you’ve done with the Pinecone. Most of them probably still think it’s this slightly sleazy no-tell motel it was for years and years.”

“We
should
do that,” Thomas said.

“This would be the perfect place to have out-of-town guests for weddings or the holidays,” Annajane enthused. “It would be a great function space, too, especially if you built some kind of covered gazebo or pavilion. Passcoe doesn’t really have that many places to hold gatherings, outside of the country club and the church social halls. You’d probably want to get a pouring license, too.”

She gestured toward the elegant cocktail party spread out before them on the grassy courtyard. “You should take some photos tonight and put them up on your Web site and use them in all your marketing materials. The gorgeous flowers and food, and the light is so beautiful right now.”

“Web site?” Harold said.

“Marketing materials?” Thomas said. “Annajane, we don’t know anything about that kind of stuff. It’s all we can do to keep this place up and running.”

“If only we knew a good marketing person!” Harold said, shooting a sideways glance at Annajane.

“Somebody with taste and talent and energy,” Thomas said, looking squarely at Annajane. “You know anybody like that?”

“Sorry,” she said. “I’d like nothing better than to work for you two. But I’m moving away after this week. Remember?”

“You said you were quitting your job,” Harold said. “You’ll need a new one, right? That doesn’t mean you have to move away, does it?”

“I’m afraid so,” Annajane said. “I’ve already given notice…”

“Ooh,” Thomas said, interrupting. “Look at this cute car!” As he spoke, a flashy vintage red Chevelle convertible came cruising toward them. The top was down, and the driver’s dark blond hair glinted in the late-day sun.

Harold turned toward Annajane, who had the oddest look on her face. “Somebody you know?” he asked.

“Used to know,” she corrected him, watching as Mason parked the convertible in front of her unit. He spotted her in the courtyard, waved, and began to walk over.

“Excuse me, fellas,” Annajane murmured.

*   *   *

Mason glanced around the courtyard at the men who were strolling the grounds, laughing and chatting and sipping wine. “What’s all this?” he asked.

“It’s a florists’ convention of sorts,” Annajane said. “Mason, what are you doing here? I thought we agreed not to see each other alone again.”

“Don’t you ever answer your phone?” he asked, sounding irritable. “I must have left you half a dozen messages this afternoon. And I’m pretty sure Pokey left a bunch. The wedding got called off.”

She dimly heard her own breath catch. “Is that so?” She was trying for nonchalant, but her voice was shaky. She sucked at nonchalant.

Mason didn’t look like much of a bridegroom. He wore a faded and rumpled pink oxford-cloth button-down shirt tucked into a pair of threadbare old jeans that rode down on his hips and sagged in the seat. His sockless feet were jammed into a pair of beat-up Top-Siders that she was sure he’d owned since his high school days. He was paler than she could ever remember seeing him before. Celia seemed to have sucked all the life out of him.

He nodded. “We need to talk. Will you go for a ride with me?”

Annajane looked dubious.

“Not to the farm this time, I swear,” Mason said. “Please?”

Her heart was thudding in her chest. She wanted to go, wanted to ride off into the sunset with him, but what happened after sunset? She’d been Mason’s second choice, after Celia. What made this time any different?

He must have guessed what was on her mind.

Mason took her hand and swung her around to face him. His mouth softened, and his eyes took in the flowered dress that swirled around her ankles in the late-day breeze and the graceful arch of her bare neck and slim arms. Annajane wasn’t model-thin. She had curves, real hips and thighs that he could see silhouetted through the thin cotton of her dress, and breasts that were round and promising. Her full lips were slightly parted, her large green eyes serious and sad. He’d hurt her badly, and had no right to ask for another chance. But how could he not?

He looked puzzled. “Have you always been this beautiful?”

Annajane cocked her head. “Mason? You’ve seen me five days a week every week for the past five years. I look like I’ve always looked. Except maybe a few pounds heavier and a few more wrinkles,” she said ruefully.

“No,” he insisted. “You’re different. I can’t describe it. Like a peach, perfectly ripe. Wait, that’s no good. You were always pretty before. But now, it’s like, you’ve grown into who you were supposed to be. Luscious. Yeah, that’s it.”

She blushed and looked away. “What am I supposed to say to that?”

“Say you’ll come with me,” he said. “One more time.”

*   *   *

The sun was slipping toward the glowing green horizon as the convertible bumped slowly down the dirt road, washboarded by rains and tree roots. Overgrown branches slapped at the sides of the car and kudzu vines scratched Annajane’s bare arm. She knew, of course, where they were headed as soon as they passed through the wrought-iron gates at Cherry Hill.

Annajane glanced at Mason’s profile. He seemed more relaxed, steering with his left hand, his right arm slung casually over the seat back.

“I need to get out here with a sling-blade and cut back some of this stuff before it completely blocks off the road,” he said. “I had to stop the car twice the other night to drag fallen trees out of the way. And, I swear, I think I saw a glimpse of a coyote.”

She shivered and tucked her legs beneath her and turned toward him. “When was the last time you were out here before that?”

He looked chagrined. “Probably the day I moved the last of my stuff out. How about you?”

“The second anniversary of our breakup,” she said. “I was in a particularly melancholy mood. Guess I just wanted to torture myself. I was shocked by how fast everything went to seed.”

A moment or two went by, and then they turned a curve in the road and the stone cottage came into view. Annajane gasped.

Vines completely covered the stone façade, with the exception of the doorway, where Mason had obviously cut a path through the growth. Part of the chimney had tumbled down, and the camellia bushes had reached nearly roof height, completely obscuring the front windows.

“This is so sad,” she said softly. “Much sadder than when I was here last.”

He pulled to the side of the house, driving as far forward as he could, until the nose of the Chevelle protruded from a thicket of privet and they could see the glint of the lake in the fading daylight.

Mason got out of the car, went around to the trunk, brought out a long-handled pair of loppers, and proceeded to spend ten minutes shearing off enough of the privet until they had an unobstructed view of the water.

“It’s a start,” he said, wiping his hands on the seat of his jeans before climbing back into the driver’s seat.

“Looks like you’d need a backhoe and probably a bulldozer, too, to get all the way to the edge,” Annajane observed. She half-stood in the seat, trying to get a better look.

“It’s getting so dark, I can’t see the dock and the boathouse,” she said. “Is it even still there?”

“It’s there, but it’s gotten so rickety it’s not safe to walk out onto it,” Mason said. “Guess I need to post warning signs. Now that the weather’s warming up, I’d hate for somebody to come over here by boat and try to explore—and wind up getting killed when the dock collapses under them.”

Annajane shivered involuntarily at the idea. Mason reached into the back seat of the car and handed her a blanket. “Here,” he said, drawing it around her shoulders. “I’d forgotten how quickly it cools down out here after dark.”

“What, no flask?” Annajane asked.

He reached under the seat and produced a leather-wrapped thermos. Uncapping it, he poured a drink into the cup-shaped top, and the sound of crushed ice chinked against the worn silver. “I wasn’t sure you’d come tonight,” he said. “But I thought if you did, considering what happened last time, maybe I should mix up a proper drink.”

Annajane took a tentative sip and laughed. It was Quixie and bourbon. “Very nice. So. What did you want to discuss?”

“I have a proposal I’d like you to consider,” Mason said, turning toward her. “And I know I have no right to ask. But I have to anyway. I came so close today to ruining my life, it scared me. Pokey was trying to talk me out of marrying Celia, and she said something that hit home. She said Celia would ruin my life if I went through with the wedding. But I knew, as soon as she said it, that I’d already damned near ruined it myself. Worrying about what other people think. About my mother, about people in town. I was so concerned with
my
image,
my
responsibilities. All I could think about was my big, selfless sacrifice. And how noble I was. Marrying a woman I’d come to detest, just because I thought she was having my child.”