Spring Fever (41 page)

“Where’s the Chevelle?” she asked, looking out at the quiet parking lot, half-empty now.

“I had to park clear out in back, right near your car,” he said. “Just as well. Everybody in town knows the fun car by now.”

“Are you worried about the gossip? About what Celia will think?” Annajane asked.

His jaw muscle twitched. “I don’t give a damn what Celia thinks. But I’d rather not have another lecture from Sallie.”

She nodded. “I’m not going to kiss you good-bye.”

“Better not to,” he agreed.

“I’m almost done with the promotion,” Annajane said. “By midweek, I’ll have it wrapped up. By the time you get back from your honeymoon, I’ll be gone.”

“Honeymoon?” He nearly spat the word. “I said I’d marry her, but there’s just so far I’ll go with this farce. I never said anything about a honeymoon. If she wants to take one, she’s going solo.”

There was so much she wanted to ask him, but the time had slipped away. They’d only had a few hours. She was glad they’d spent them loving each other. One last time.

“Have you told Soph you’re leaving after all?” he asked, stuffing his hands in the pocket of his jeans to keep from touching her again.

“Not yet,” Annajane said. “I’ll figure something out. One good-bye at a time is all I can manage right now.” She swallowed hard. Her tear ducts apparently hadn’t dried up after all.

It was chilly out, and she was barefooted. She hugged herself and hopped up and down to keep warm. “Okay. I’m going in now.”

“See ya,” Mason said. Then he turned and walked right out of her life.

*   *   *

Sunshine flooded in through the slats of the wooden window blinds. She heard the slam of a car door and the murmur of voices from outside.

Annajane sat up in bed and peered groggily at the alarm clock. It was only seven o’clock. Her head throbbed dully, leading her to wish, too late, that she hadn’t finished off the shaker of martinis after Mason’s early-morning departure.

She showered and dressed in a pair of jeans and a pale blue Dandelion Wine T-shirt. Her mouth felt dry and cottony. Coffee, she thought, heading toward the motel’s office, might be her only hope of salvation.

“Good morning,” Thomas called, as she pushed into the little lounge area. He held up the coffee pot, and she nodded gratefully.

“You’re an early bird this Saturday,” Harold said, looking up from the computer screen behind the check-in desk.

“Too early,” Annajane said, taking the mug of coffee Thomas offered. She looked out the window at the quiet courtyard and half-empty parking lot. “What happened to all your florists?”

“The Stallion Club happened,” Harold said.

“It’s an after-hours gay bar they discovered in Pinehurst,” Thomas explained.

“They have gay bars in Pinehurst?”

“Bar. Singular,” Thomas corrected. “Apparently it’s quite the scene. A couple of the boys came knocking on our door at two, asking if we wanted to go along.”

“Honey, we are too old for that kind of nonsense,” Harold said.

“Now,” Thomas added. He raised an eyebow. “But there was a time…”

“Annajane is a nice girl,” Harold told his partner. “She doesn’t want to hear about the scandalous behavior of our youth.”

“You mean your youth,” Thomas shot back. “I’m not the one who traveled with a Village People tribute band the summer I turned twenty-four.”

“Were you the Indian chief or the construction worker?” Annajane asked.

“Both!” Harold said. He smoothed his hands over his nearly bald head. “But that was back in my drinking days. The strongest thing I drink now is your delicious Quixie.”

“That reminds me,” Thomas said. “We’ve got another guest staying here who works at Quixie.”

“Really?” Annajane took another sip of her coffee. “I wonder who it is?”

Harold looked down at the old-fashioned ledger book on the reception desk. “Hmm.” He laughed. “It says here his name is Harry Dix. And he paid cash for the room. Whoever he really is, he has a delightful sense of whimsy.”

“Harry … oh, I get it,” Annajane said, blushing slightly. “He used a pseudonym. But how do you know he works at Quixie?”

“He asked for the corporate rate,” Thomas said. “Seemed like a nice guy. Dark hair, late thirties, getting a little bit of a paunch, drives a Porsche Boxster. There can’t be that many of those around here.”

“A dark-haired guy driving a Boxster?” Annajane said, her eyes widening.

“I’m surprised you didn’t run into him when you came over here this morning,” Harold chimed in. “He’s staying in unit twelve, on the end. It was the only room we had when he checked in last night.”

Annajane felt the blood drain from her face. Davis Bayless drove the only Boxster in Passcoe that she knew of. And of course, according to Pokey, he’d been using the Pinecone Motor Lodge to shack up with his girlfriends for years. She’d totally forgotten he had a history with this place.

What if Davis had seen Mason’s car here last night? Was he aware that Annajane was staying at his favorite motel?

Her head pounded. She took another gulp of coffee, and tried to reassure herself. Mason had parked on the other side of the complex, in the unlit back parking lot. And he’d left in the middle of the night. He’d been gone for hours now. Where was Davis’s car?

She stood and gazed out the window, and, as she did, the door to unit 12 opened. Annajane’s head was muddled, but her reflexes were fine. She hit the floor.

“Do I sense some drama?” Harold asked.

“Don’t worry, hon, she’s not even looking this way,” Thomas said.

“She?” Annajane pulled up to her knees, crawled over to the window, and peeked out.

A petite woman in tight black slacks, a slightly askew silver halter top, and high-heeled silver mules peeked out the door of unit 12. She had short, white-blond hair and a large overnight bag slung over her shoulder.

Annajane gasped and ducked again.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Is she looking this way?”

Harold walked over to the window and looked out. “Not really. She’s talking on her cell phone. Do you know her?”

“Afraid so,” Annajane said. “Her name’s Celia. She’s the one who’s marrying my ex-husband today.”

Now Thomas was standing at the window, too. “Hmm. She’s certainly blessed. Do you think those are real?”

Harold went back to the reception desk and fetched his bird-watching binoculars. He studied the set in question. “Ooh, look, here comes Mr. Harry Dix.”

Annajane’s heart was pounding in her chest as she poked her head high enough to see out the window. Sure enough, a man had stepped onto the tiny porch of unit 12. His dark wavy hair looked damp. His white dress shirt was rumpled and untucked, and he carried his expensive pin-striped suit jacket over one arm. He glanced around furtively, ducked his head, and headed around to the back of the unit, in Celia’s wake. A moment later, the black Boxster came roaring from the rear of the unit.

“Oh. My. God.” Annajane breathed. “I should have known.”

“So you do know him?” Harold asked. “What’s his real name?”

“His name is Davis Bayless,” Annajane said, standing slowly, hoping her head would stop pounding. “He’s the groom’s baby brother.”

“Uh-oh,” Thomas and Harold said in unison. They did a well-choreographed fist-bump. “Undercover lovers!”

40

Pokey was fifteen minutes late, which was actually early by her own standards. She slid onto the cracked orange vinyl dinette bench opposite Annajane and automatically reached for the oversized laminated menu.

“I already ordered your french toast and sausage,” Annajane said.

The Country Cupboard was jammed as usual on a Saturday morning. There were other breakfast spots in Passcoe, but none as popular as the CC, as everybody in town called it. The long counter at the bar was filled with people tucking into their runny eggs, country ham, bacon, hash-browns, grits, and biscuits, and every table and booth in the restaurant on the town square was full.

“What’s up?” Pokey asked.

Annajane took a sip of ice water and looked around nervously. She should have picked a quieter, more private place, she realized. The tables were set close together, and everybody in the CC knew everybody else.

“I have news,” Annajane said, trying to keep her voice low.

Pokey eyed her best friend with unguarded curiosity.

“You look different this morning,” she said.

Annajane blushed.

“Wait a second. Oh, yeah. I remember that look. You’ve got afterglow!” Pokey exclaimed. “Or maybe it’s beard burn. You did it, didn’t you? Finally.” She clapped her hands excitedly. “Yay! I’m so glad.”

“Shh!” Annajane whispered. “Lower your voice! Everybody in here knows us, and they all think they know what we’re talking about. So, can we
not
talk about what they think we are?”

Pokey leaned forward. “Okay, we won’t discuss. Just nod your head, or tap your glass once for yes, two for no. Did you or did you not? Do it with you-know-who?”

“All right,” Annajane groused. She tapped her glass once with the side of her spoon.

“Was it amazing?” Pokey demanded.

“Pokey! None of your business,” Annajane said, and then, with a shrug, she tapped her glass once. “Now, can we change the subject? Because that is not what I need to talk to you about.”

“Sure, after you tell me where the deed was done.”

Annajane looked away. “Some things a lady doesn’t discuss.”

“I’m no lady,” Pokey replied. “Despite Sallie’s best efforts. Did you do it at his house? Or did you go back out to the farm?”

“No! God, no.”

“Where? You might as well spit it out, because you know I’ll get it out of you eventually.”

Annajane did know. “All right. It was at the Pinecone.”

“Oooh,” Pokey said, rubbing her hands together gleefully. “Perfect. Your own little love nest.”

Annajane glanced around the room and leaned her head toward Pokey’s. “Not as perfect as you might think. Guess who else was checked in at the love nest?”

“The baby mama? For real?”

Annajane tapped her iced-tea glass once with her spoon.

“And she had company! When I saw him sneaking out of her unit this morning I almost wet myself.”

“Who?”

“It was almost a family reunion,” Annajane whispered.

“Davis?” Pokey’s eyes widened.

Annajane tapped her spoon once against her glass. “And he’d signed the guest register with a pseudonym. Harry Dix!”

A plume of ice water erupted from Pokey’s nose.

“Oh my God!” Pokey said, dabbing at her face with a paper napkin. “You can’t tell me that kind of stuff without a warning.”

“I know,” Annajane whispered.

“Day-yummm!” Pokey exclaimed. “Harry Dix! That must be his porn name.”

Annajane snickered. “Wonder what Celia’s is?”

“Lotta Lays?” Pokey offered. She reached for the basket of biscuits in the center of the table, selected one, and sliced and buttered it. She took a bite and chewed slowly.

Annajane sipped her coffee and waited.

“You have to tell Mason,” Pokey said.

“No way,” Annajane said.

“Somebody needs to. We can’t let him marry that, that, woman. Not now.”

“I can’t be the person to tell him his brother betrayed him like that,” Annajane said. “And neither can you. He and ‘Harry’ might not get along all the time, but it would destroy Mason to find out that ‘Harry’ slept with ‘Lotta.’ Anyway, we don’t really know for sure what they were actually doing there.”

“Oh, please. You saw good old Harry coming out of a room with you-know-who at the Pinecone Motor Lodge this morning. And we both know that’s where Harry has always stashed his girlfriends over the years,” Pokey said.

“Maybe he was just dropping off some papers to her,” Annajane said. “Or they were plotting how to overthrow Mason at Quixie.”

“And maybe I’ll be the cover model for next year’s
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit edition,” Pokey said. “We always knew she was a skank. And now she’s a double skank—sleeping with brothers. Eeeewww.”

The waitress brought Pokey’s french toast and set it down on the table. Pokey carefully drizzled maple syrup across her plate. “You’re not eating?” she asked.

“Not hungry,” Annajane said. “I’m just so … sad and mad. And maybe a teensy bit hungover. I wish I knew how to save Mason. I wish he wanted to save himself. But he’s resigned to marrying her and making the rest of his life miserable.”

“Don’t forget he’s ruining your life, too,” Pokey added.

“I don’t have to live with her,” Annajane pointed out. She slumped against the back of the vinyl bench. “Are you going to the wedding?” she asked.

“I’m not invited,” Pokey said. “Not that I’d go even if I were invited. I’m going to go pick up Sophie after I leave here and take her over to spend the night at my house.”

“Sophie’s not going to the wedding, either?” Annajane asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nope. According to Mama, it’ll just be her and the happy couple. Oh yes, and Bonnie and Matt Kelsey, who will be the witnesses.”

“Interesting that old Harry Dix won’t be performing best man duties today,” Annajane said.

Pokey gave a smirk. “My guess is, he’s already performed for
Lotta
.”

41

Mason sat behind the desk in his study, stone-faced, as his sister made one last attempt to change his mind.

“Don’t do this, Mason,” Pokey begged. “Please? You do not have to do this. You do not have to marry Celia.”

“I appreciate your concern,” he said quietly, “but I have to do what’s best for the child.”

“You don’t even know that the child is yours,” Pokey said bitterly.

“That’s enough,” Mason said, scowling. “You’re talking about the woman I’m marrying. I know you’ve never liked Celia, but you won’t make things any better for this family if you keep up this kind of talk.”

“I don’t care,” Pokey said. “She’s a liar and a phony, and I’ll risk pissing you off if it means keeping you from marrying her.”

“I have obligations,” Mason pointed out. “And I won’t run from them.”

“Fine! Wait til the baby’s born. Get some DNA testing. Pay Celia a shitload of child support and buy her a house. But don’t, for God’s sake, marry her. Look, you never married Sophie’s mother, and nobody cared,” Pokey said.