Текст книги "Spring Fever"

Автор книги: Mary Kay Andrews

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“We don’t even know what she’s up to.”

“So we’ll figure it out,” Pokey said. “You’re smart and I’m conniving. Are you in, or are you out?”

Annajane took a long sip of her iced tea. She plucked a package of Town House crackers from the basket on the table and picked nervously at the cellophane wrapper.

“I care about Quixie,” she said finally. “And I care about you and the family, really I do. Especially Sophie. But let’s be honest here. I don’t actually have a dog in this hunt.”

“You admitted to me yesterday that you still have feelings for Mason,” Pokey protested.

Annajane sighed loudly. “I should have kept my big fat mouth shut.”

“But you didn’t. Anyway, you didn’t have to tell me. It’s written all over your face. You’re still in love with Mason. And you still work for Quixie.”

“Only until Friday. Although Celia suggested earlier I should get the hell out right away because she’s having my office painted for my successor.”

“And you said?”

Annajane gave her a conspiratorial grin. “That I couldn’t possibly vacate the premises that early.”

“Good for you,” Pokey said. “Until Friday, you’re still on the company payroll, so you actually do have a dog in this hunt. If Celia is plotting to take over the company or sell it off to the highest bidder, or whatever, this is an emergency. You have to help.”

“You’re being overly dramatic,” Annajane said. “Maybe Celia was talking about something else entirely. I only heard a few sentence fragments, and we can’t be sure…”

“Hey!” Pokey said, interrupting. “Oh my God.” She held her hand over her heart, as though she were having palpitations. “I just realized we’ve both overlooked one incredibly important fact.”

“That you can save a pony’s life by nagging your parents?”

“No,” Pokey said, a slow smile spreading across her round pink face. “I think we’re both forgetting how much my daddy loved you.”

“I’m not forgetting that,” Annajane said. “Your daddy was always wonderful to me. Treated me like I was his own daughter.”

“He sure did,” Pokey agreed, nodding her head for emphasis. “He loved you so much he gave you your own stock in the company as a wedding gift, didn’t he?”

Annajane’s mouth fell open. “You’re right. I had forgotten. Five hundred shares. He drove over to my mama’s house the morning of the wedding. He wouldn’t come inside, but I went out on the porch and he handed me an envelope, and kissed me on the cheek and told me I’d made him a very happy man. I didn’t even know what a stock certificate looked like before that.”

“You never gave the stock back, right? Not in the divorce or anything, right?”

“I still have it,” Annajane said, sitting back in her chair. “I hadn’t thought about it in ages. And I bet Mason hasn’t either.”

“So there’s a chance Celia doesn’t know you own stock in Quixie,” Pokey said.

“It’s just five hundred shares,” Annajane pointed out. “A drop in the bucket compared to what you all own.”

“True,” Pokey said. “Still, down the line, that could be important. We won’t know until Mr. Thomas meets with us about that stupid trust agreement. Right now, we’ve got to figure out what Celia is up to. And then we have to get Mason to open his eyes and see her for the scheming, manipulative little bitch that she is. And get him to realize he still loves you.”

“In a week,” Annajane said. “No problem. Easy. Peasy. We should be able to get that done by Monday lunchtime.”

“We need to do some research on Celia,” Pokey went on, ignoring Annajane. She reached into her pocketbook and brought out a pen. “What was the name of her company?”

“Gingerpeachy,” Annajane said.

Pokey was making notes on the back of her paper placemat. “And it sold to who?”

“I think the company is called Baby Brands,” Annajane said. “I guess I could look up the announcement of the deal on the Internet.”

“Do that,” Pokey said, scribbling. She put down her pen. “Who do we know that might know something we can use against Celia?”

“I don’t know anybody,” Annajane said. “She’s not from around here, didn’t go to school in the South. This is impossible. Celia’s from a whole different world from us.”

“Don’t be such a defeatist,” Pokey scolded. “Come on, think, Annajane, dammit.”

“I think Celia is from Nebraska,” Annajane said. “Do we know anybody in Nebraska?”

“We don’t know anybody who even knows where Nebraska is, probably,” Pokey said. “But I’ll google Celia’s name, just in case. Who knows? Maybe she’s a wanted murderess. In the meantime, one of my sorority sisters is a buyer for Belk’s. Maybe she’d know somebody who knows somebody. I’ll give her a call.”

“It’s too bad we can’t ask Davis what he knows about all this,” Annajane said.

“Ha! He’s the one we have to thank for bringing that pit viper into the family bosom in the first place,” Pokey said. “Davis thinks Celia is ‘awesome.’” She made finger quote marks.

“And you can’t really ask Mason any questions about Celia,” Annajane said. “What about your mama?”

Pokey toyed with a forkful of coleslaw. “Are you kidding? Celia’s the daughter Sallie never had! Let’s see. She’s beautiful and skinny, plays tennis and golf, always looks perfect, and she’s got an adding machine instead of a soul. Yup, Celia’s everything I’m not. Mama’s even giving her bridge lessons. Plus, she sucks up to Sallie every chance she gets. It’s revolting.”

“Hey,” Annajane said sharply. “You’re beautiful. Inside and out. You’re a great wife, friend, mother, sister. You’re what Celia will never be.”

Pokey blew her a kiss. “Back atya.”

“How do you think Sallie would feel about the company being sold, or moved, or whatever?”

“Good question,” Pokey said. “If Daddy were still alive, the answer would be a big ‘hell no!’”

“But he’s not.”

“I know,” Pokey said. “She’s always talked about Quixie being our family legacy. But if this were something Mason wanted, or if Davis convinced her it was a good idea, she might just go along with it.”

“But it’s not something you’d agree to, right?”

Pokey stared at her best friend. “Not in a million years. Not for a billion dollars. My brothers may think the grass is greener someplace else, but I don’t. Passcoe is home. We were raised here. I intend to raise my own children here. And I don’t intend to let anybody change that. Not without putting up a hell of a fight.”

“That’s what I thought,” Annajane said, smiling.

“And what about you?” Pokey asked. “You’re supposed to be leaving town Friday. That’s what you keep telling me.”

“I’d hate to see anything happen to Quixie,” Annajane said, trying to choose her words carefully. “If the company got sold, or moved, or swallowed up by a bigger company, it could be devastating to Passcoe. I’m like you. No matter where I go or what I do, this is my hometown. And Quixie is a huge part of that. It’s a part of me and who I am and what I’ve been doing for the past eight years. Yeah, I know it’s just cherry soda. But I don’t want to see Quixie get swallowed up or closed down. I can’t promise anything, but I can make some phone calls, and ask around. I want to find out what Celia’s up to.”

“And if she’s up to what we suspect?”

“I don’t know,” Annajane said.

“Have you talked to Shane? Did you tell him about Mason’s wedding?”

“We talked late last night,” Annajane said. “I didn’t mention the wedding. Didn’t think it was important. Not to Shane, anyway.”

“I see,” Pokey said.

“No you don’t,” Annajane said with a moan. “This is all just a big mess. And I don’t know how to fix it. He wants me to move in with him, Pokey. As soon as I get to Atlanta. And he doesn’t see why we should wait til fall to get married. I tried to explain to him, everything is all happening so fast. I love him, but I want it to slow down. Just a little.”

“Are you sure that’s all it is?” Pokey asked.

“Yes. No. I can’t explain how I feel. Something’s just … making me want to hold back. Maybe I’m just gun-shy about marriage, after what happened with Mason.”

“No,” Pokey insisted. “You are gun-shy because you don’t really love Shane. You’re still in love with Mason. And you’re scared to death to admit that Shane is rebound guy.”

“Oh Gawwwd,” Annajane said, burying her head in her hands. “You can’t be right.”

“But what if I am?” Pokey asked.

15

Sophie’s eyelids fluttered. She yawned widely and looked around the room.

“You’re awake,” Celia said brightly. “Did you have a nice rest?”

“Where did Annajane and Aunt Pokey go?” Sophie demanded. “We were watching Milo and Otis.”

“You were sleeping, and they had to leave,” Celia said. “But look what I brought you!” She propped the huge stuffed bunny on the pillow next to Sophie.

“Thank you very much,” Sophie said politely, clutching the teddy bear the nurse had given her the night before and ignoring the bunny.

“You’re welcome,” Celia said. She whisked the plastic off the plate of wedding cake she’d placed on Sophie’s dinner tray. “And look at this beautiful cake I brought you. It’s our wedding cake!”

“It’s pretty,” Sophie said.

“Shall I get you a fork?” Celia asked. “We can ring the nurse and get her to bring one. And maybe some nice cold milk.”

“No,” Sophie said, shaking her head. “I’m only ’lowed to have Jell-O. And apple juice.”

Celia laughed. “Who told you that?”

“Daddy.”

“Oh, well, daddies don’t know everything,” Sophie winced as Celia’s tinkly laugh filled the room. Mason pushed through the door. “What’s this?” he said, trying to sound stern. “Since when don’t daddies know everything?”

“I was just about to tell Sophie it wouldn’t hurt for her to have a little piece of our wedding cake and some milk,” Celia explained, snaking her arm around Mason’s waist.

“She actually isn’t allowed to have something like that,” Mason said.

“See!” Sophie smirked.

“Sophie…” Mason said, trying to look stern. “That’s not nice. Celia didn’t know the doctor doesn’t want you having much in the way of real food just yet—this soon after surgery.”

“Oh,” Celia said. “Well, of course. In that case, we’ll just freeze some cake for her, and she can have it later, after she comes home from the hospital.”

“I don’t like wedding cake,” Sophie said stubbornly.

Celia cocked her head and considered the little girl. “How do you know? I’ll bet you’ve never even tasted wedding cake.”

“Have too!” Sophie shouted vehemently. “Have too, have too, have too.”

“All right,” Celia said with a note of resignation. “If you say so, that’s fine.”

“She was a flower girl at my cousin’s wedding last summer,” Mason said. He gave Sophie another stern look. “But that is no way to talk to Celia. I’d like you to tell her you’re sorry for being rude.”

“I’m sorry for being rude,” Sophie said. She pulled the sheet up until it completely covered her head. Her voice was muffled. “Now go away.”

Celia shrugged and reached for her pocketbook. She patted Sophie’s sheet-covered knee. “All right, lamb-chop. I’m going now. Feel better fast so we can bring you home!”

Mason shook his head. “I’ll talk to her,” he said in a low voice. “She’s not herself.”

Celia arched one eyebrow. “If you say so.”

“I’ll call you later,” Mason said, kissing her cheek.

“Tell Celia good-bye, Sophie,” Mason said.

“Good-bye, Sophie,” the little girl singsonged.

*   *   *

Mason was sitting in the living room, reviewing a memo about maintenance costs for the Quixie truck fleet when he heard a key turn in the front door.

Celia bumped the door open with her hip. She was carrying a large sack of groceries and had an overnight bag slung over her shoulder.

“Let me get that,” Mason said, jumping up to take the packages from her. He kissed her cheek and glanced at the contents of the sack. “What’s all this?”

“Dinner for two,” Celia said, heading for the kitchen. “You haven’t eaten already, have you?”

“Uh, no,” he said, following her into the kitchen and hoping she wouldn’t find the greasy brown paper takeout bag from the Smokey Pig. “I was waiting to see what you wanted to do.”

He put the groceries down on the kitchen counter. Celia wound her arms around his neck. “I just want to spend a quiet evening all alone with my man tonight. I want to cook him a gorgeous dinner, and drink some gorgeous wine, and later on, maybe show him just what he missed out on last night.”

“You mean like a wedding? Hey, it’s gonna happen. We just have to get Sophie…”

Celia gave him a coy smile. She unzipped the overnight bag and presented, with a flourish, a filmy black scrap of fabric, only slightly larger than a handkerchief. She held it up to her torso.

“I mean like a wedding night. I thought since you didn’t get to see this last night, maybe we’d have a showing tonight.”

Celia kissed him, and he kissed her back, and she pressed herself tightly against him, and his body responded in a predictable way.

“Mmm,” Celia purred. But she pulled away. “Now don’t try to distract me,” she said, wagging a finger at him, as though he’d been a naughty schoolboy. “I have to get this dinner going.”

Mason leaned back against the counter. “Need me to do anything?”

“Not really,” Celia said. “I thought we’d just have a big, juicy pan-seared steak and some baked potatoes and garlic-creamed spinach. I looked up the recipe from that steak house in Charleston that you love. Oh, and a salad.”

Celia removed a head of romaine from a plastic bag and rinsed it under the faucet.

“Mase?”

“Hmm?” He was staring out the kitchen window at a robin hopping around on the grass outside. He’d talked about putting in a garden out there. It was nice and sunny, but Celia didn’t want the lawn disturbed, and, anyway, she’d informed him that tomato cages and pepper plants looked “trashy.”

She hesitated. “I had a call from an old friend last week. I think maybe you might have met him around? Jerry Kelso?”

Maybe if he put the tomato plants in some nice wooden planter boxes or something? That wouldn’t look trashy, right?

“Kelso?” He frowned. “The president of Jax Snax? You know him?”

“Davis introduced us at a marketing thing in Houston a few months ago.”

Jerry Kelso was a name that had been on Mason’s mind for weeks. Ever since Kelso requested a confidential meeting six weeks earlier. He hadn’t said anything to anybody about the meeting, and was hoping that might be the end of the issue. But apparently, it wasn’t going to be.

“Oh, yeah,” Mason said. “Now I remember the name. What’s up with Kelso? He trying to recruit you away from Quixie?”

She laughed the tinkly laugh, and it sent a shiver down his spine, as though someone had walked over Mason’s grave. What was up with that?

“As if I’d leave Quixie. Or you.”

“As if,” Mason agreed.

“Did you know Jax Snax is the second largest packaged chip and cookie baker in the Eastern U.S.?” Celia asked.

“I knew they were big, but not that big,” Mason said, wondering why they were having this discussion.

“They just bought out Cousin Ruth’s Old-Tyme Chips and Pretzels, that company out of Knoxville,” Celia informed him. “You’ve seen their stores; they’re in all the malls.”

“Yeah, maybe I read about that somewhere in one of the trade magazines,” Mason said, trying to sound noncommital. “Didn’t they buy another company at around the same time?”

Pole beans would be good. He could make tepees from bamboo for them to climb on. Pole beans weren’t trashy looking, were they?

“Monster Cookie,” Celia said. “They sell those enormous chocolate chip and peanut butter cookies you see in those jars at the convenience stores.”

“That’s the one,” Mason agreed. “Looks like Jax is on a buying binge, huh?” He was mentally surveying that scraggly patch of lawn outside the kitchen window. Maybe he’d take a ride over to the garden center next weekend; if the weather stayed decent, he could put in a garden by Good Friday, which was when his granddaddy always planted.

Just how well did Celia know Jerry Kelso?

“A huge Dutch grocery conglomerate just bought a big chunk of Jax,” Celia said. “They’re pretty flush with cash right now. Jerry was saying they’d really love to add a soft drink company to their business mix. You know—Pepsi and Frito-Lay are the same company, so it makes sense.”

That got his attention. “You’ve been discussing selling Quixie with Jerry Kelso?”

“No,” Celia said hurriedly. “Of course not. Jerry just mentioned it. So I thought it would be worth mentioning to you. I mean, with Jax’s saturation of the chip market—especially in convenience stores, where we’re trying to grow Quixie, I thought it was an interesting idea. There’s the potential for amazing synchronicity. That’s all.”

“Synchronicity, my ass,” Mason said, his tone sour. “They’d like to gobble us up, spit us out.”

“It’s just something to think about. Don’t get yourself all worked up,” Celia said, wrapping her arms around his waist. “I don’t want us to talk about business tonight. It’s our wedding night, remember? Forget I even mentioned it.”

“I will,” he assured her. “Quixie is not for sale.”

She changed the subject in a hurry. “I saved some of your chocolate groom cake from the wedding. It seemed like such a shame to throw it out. I thought we’d have it for dessert.”

“Fine,” Mason said, leaning back against the counter. “Sorry I jumped on you. Need me to do anything?”

“Not a thing,” Celia said, unwrapping the steaks. “I have everything completely under control.”

“As always,” Mason said. He regretted it the minute the words were out of his mouth.

She wheeled around to face him with a mock pout. “What exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” Mason said. “It’s a compliment. You’re the most organized, efficient woman I’ve ever met.”

She frowned, and a deep crease appeared between her eyebrows. “Honey, it doesn’t exactly sound like a compliment to me. You make it sound like I’m some kind of control freak or something.”

“Not at all,” Mason said. “Look, let’s not fight, okay?”

Celia centered the romaine on a cutting board and began whacking at it with a large sharp knife. “This isn’t a fight,” she said, slamming the knife’s edge against the hapless romaine. “It’s a constructive conversation. If we’re going to make this marriage work, we have to get things out in the open, Mason. So, I need you to know that it hurts me when you make derogatory comments about me.” She took another whack at the lettuce, sending bits of it flying.

“I’m sorry,” Mason said, picking a piece of romaine from his eyebrow. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“See?” she said brightly. “Communication. It’s the key to everything.”

“Right,” he said, feeling his jaw muscle twitch.

She sighed dramatically. “Sweetheart, while we’re on the topic, I really think we need to talk about Sophie, and the way she spoke to me today, at the hospital. She treats me as though I’m the wicked stepmother—and you know I’ve gone out of my way to treat her like my own child.”

Mason winced, and his jaw twitched again. Twice. “She’s just a little girl, Celia. And remember, she just had surgery.”

“I know, poor little angel. I just think you need to be a little stricter with her. Or let me deal with her, when it’s an issue that affects me.” She gave that little laugh again. “Honestly, I know everybody means well, but between you and Pokey and Annajane, you’ve all managed to spoil the child rotten.”

“Spoiled?” One of his dark eyebrows shot upward. “Sophie’s a nice, normal little kid. Somedays she acts out, cuts up. But that doesn’t make her spoiled.”

Celia began scooping the lettuce into a wooden bowl. “Look. I get that she feels threatened by me. I mean, Sophie’s been daddy’s girl her whole life, and she’s had you all to herself. Until I came along and changed everything. I totally understand that. But I need you to back me up when it comes to disciplining her.”

“Let me get this straight,” Mason said, his fists clamped tight on the countertop. “You’re calling Sophie spoiled and me spineless? Is this your idea of a constructive conversation?

“No!” Celia cried. “Oh, I’m just no good at this. You know I adore Sophie. But I think she’d be happier with some guidelines. I want her to see me as an equal in her parenting. Mason, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything at all. Never mind. I don’t want our nice evening spoiled.”

Celia gathered up the discarded steak wrappings and lettuce bits. She flipped the trash can lid to dump them in and spied the large Smokey Pig takeout bag. She held the bag up for Mason to see. “What’s this?”

“Lunch?”

“Mason!” She dropped the bag back into the trash and put her hands on her hips. “You’ve already eaten dinner, haven’t you? Why didn’t you say something?”

“More like a late lunch,” Mason protested. “But it was hardly anything. I’m still starved.”

“You’re just trying to humor me,” Celia said. She dumped the bag and food scraps into the trash with a huge, martyred sigh. “Never mind. I’ll just fix myself a salad. Will you still want dessert?”

“I had lunch hours and hours ago,” Mason said. “Besides, you haven’t eaten, have you? Come on, let’s fix dinner together.” He picked up the steaks. “You want me to grill these?”

“No,” Celia said petulantly. “It’ll take too long for the coals to get ready. I’ll just pan sauté them.” She grabbed a skillet from the pot rack hanging over the kitchen island and dropped it onto the range.

Mason took a step backward. “I’ll open some wine. White, right?”

“Never mind the wine.” Celia drizzled olive oil into the pan and turned on the burner. “I’m getting one of my stress headaches. The last thing I need now is wine.”

But wine was what he really, really needed right now, especially if she was getting one of her headaches. He opened a bottle of burgundy and poured a hefty serving into one of the fancy ultrathin Riedel wineglasses they’d gotten as a wedding gift. At the last moment, the lip of the wine bottle clinked against the goblet. Ching. A wedge-shaped chunk of glass fell neatly onto the countertop.

“Damn,” Mason said. He opened the cupboard and reached for his favorite cut-glass old-fashioned tumbler and transferred the burgundy out of the ruined Riedel.

Before he could stop her, Celia swept the wine glass into the trash. “It’s all right,” she said. “I can always order more from the store in Charlotte.”

“Sorry,” Mason said under his breath. “I’m gonna get out of your hair now. Call me if you need me to do something.” He picked up his wineglass and retreated to the study.

But not a lot of studying got done. He made notes on the margins of the reports, began working on a draft of a memo to Davis, and read more e-mails, but from the clatter of pots and pans and the slam of cupboard doors coming from the kitchen, he could tell things were not going well.

He googled Jax Snax on his computer and was amazed by the number of hits his search brought up. Jax had been on a shopping binge for sure. Just within the past year, in addition to the cookie company and potato chip outfit Celia told him about, Jaz had bought up a family-owned soft-pretzel baker out of Pennsylvania called Dutch Uncle and a popcorn outfit from Iowa called Poppinz’. As he scrolled down the list of stories mentioning Jax Snax, he spied a reference from Beverage World that was only two months old. He clicked on the citation and read with alarm.

Jax Snax CEO Jerry Kelso confirmed that his company is on the hunt for a small-to-average-sized regional soft drink bottler to add to their mix of businesses. “We’ve got the expertise, the distribution channels and the proven success story in the convenience food business,” he said in a recent interview. “We’re looking at several options right now, including one novelty soft drink bottler in the Carolinas that we think could be ripe for the picking.”

Mason slapped the cover of his laptop.

“Celia,” he hollered.

She didn’t answer. She was still out in the kitchen banging pots and pans around. He didn’t get the big deal about dinner. He didn’t get her compulsion to prove to him that she could cook. There were restaurants in Passcoe, not a lot, but enough that they’d never starve. They belonged to the country club and could eat there any night except Mondays, when the club was closed, and, anyway, he was a pretty decent cook himself. He’d fended for himself all those years after he and Annajane broke up, hadn’t he?

“Damn!”

He looked up to see Celia standing in the doorway, holding her cell phone and looking supremely pissed off.

“Something wrong?”

“Your mother just called,” Celia said. “It’s my aunt Eleanor. She was napping in her room, and Sallie went to check on her, and according to your mother, there’s something wrong with Aunt Eleanor’s breathing.”

Mason stood up abruptly. “Do we need to get a doctor? Take her to the hospital?”

“Who knows?” Celia said. “She’s in her nineties. I don’t know why she insisted on coming down here all alone for the wedding if her health is this precarious. I could just strangle my cousin Mallery for putting her on the plane.”

Mason reached for his car keys. “Come on. I’ll drive you over to Cherry Hill. We can call Max Kaufman, and if need be, he can come over and check out the old girl.”

“I don’t want to bother you,” Celia said. She had her pocketbook over her shoulder and her car keys in hand. “It’s probably nothing. I’ll call you if I need you.”

“What about your dinner?” Mason asked. “Can I just put it in foil or something for later?”

She glanced in the direction of the kitchen, her lips pursed. “I’m sorry, darling. Just pitch it out.”