Текст книги "Spring Fever"

Автор книги: Mary Kay Andrews

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

16

Mason exhaled slowly. Was Celia upset with him? She was usually so sweet and accommodating. What had gotten into her lately? She’d left in a huff. If she’d stayed, he would have had it out with her over this Jax Snax thing. She knew more about the subject than she’d told him. This was no casual bit of gossip. Celia didn’t do casual. Maybe she just thought it best to alert him to the fact that they were being checked out by another company. No harm, no foul, right?

He should feel bad about their dinner, he knew. After all, her wedding had been spoiled, and her prospective stepdaughter was being a little bit of a pill, and now her great-aunt might be sick. Really sick.

Upon reflection, he realized he didn’t actually feel bad at all. Probably this made him a terrible person, certainly a terrible husband-to-be. He should call and apologize, at least drive over to his mother’s house and insist on helping her take care of her aunt, or something. But right now he really just wanted to do what he wanted to do. And hadn’t she just called him spineless and his daughter spoiled, in a roundabout kind of way?

So he strolled out to the garage, found his golf clubs and some whiffle balls, and went out to the side yard, to that scruffy future garden plot. For an hour or so, he practiced putting because his short game sucked. He didn’t think about postponed weddings, or pissed-off brides, or why he seemed to take such perverted pleasure in pissing off his bride to be. But he did feel something, unease, maybe, about the fact that he was actually feeling relieved that Celia’s big night with him was probably not going to happen. He was a totally shitty husband-to-be, for sure.

After he’d worked on his putting, it was still daylight, and there was still at least another hour of warm, buttery sunshine left. Without giving it much thought, he got in his car and drove over to the bottling plant. He let himself into the garage, found a clean rag, and dusted a film of thick yellow pollen off the red Chevelle. Had it been that long since he’d driven the fun car? He got in and fired her up, doing a silent fist-pump when the engine throbbed to life. He put the top down and carefully backed it out of the garage.

Ten minutes later, he was tooling around Passcoe, seeing the sights, tooting his horn at anybody and everybody he recognized. He felt really, really good. But, and this surprised him, maybe a little lonely.

What he needed was a passenger. Somebody who could share his appreciation for just how cool it was to drive around on a beautiful spring evening with the top down. He reached for his phone, and without giving it much thought, tapped the icon for Annajane’s cell.

Wrong. He disconnected before her phone could even ring. He drove another block and reconsidered. Why the hell not? It was just a car ride, for God’s sake. He tapped the icon again, and at the next block, swung the Chevelle back in the direction of her loft. All she could say was no, right?

*   *   *

Annajane’s cellphone rang once. The screen lit up, and she saw that it was Mason calling, but he’d disconnected before she answered.

She held the phone in her hand and stared at it. Should she call him back? Act as though she didn’t know he’d called? She felt like a stupid teenager. She started remembering all the Friday nights she’d spent, staring at the phone, fantasizing about picking up the phone and hearing Mason’s voice on the other end of the line. She remembered the sleepovers at Pokey’s house and how she’d sneak into his empty room when the rest of the household was asleep, studying his books, his bed, the football and baseball trophies casually lined up on the shelves. She remembered the notebooks she’d filled in high school, practicing her signature: Mrs. Mason Bayless, written in stupid, girly flourishes. While she was remembering all the things she missed about being a stupid teenager, the phone rang. Mason, again. She let it ring three times and then answered.

“Hey, Annajane,” he said.

“Hey, Mason.” She felt herself blushing with pleasure. “How’s Sophie?”

“She’s good. Sleeping. So, there’s something I was wondering about. We’re okay, right?”

“Okay?”

“You know. As friends. We’ve been through some stuff together. Good and bad.”

Annajane laughed ruefully. “That’s the understatement of the year. But yeah. I’d say we’re okay now. Mind if I ask why you’re asking?”

There was a long pause at the other end of the line. “I don’t know. This is just so weird. I guess I’m sad that you’re leaving town. Leaving the company.”

“That’s sweet. But you’ve known for months that I was leaving the company and moving to Atlanta. And getting remarried,” she reminded him.

“Yeah, but none of that seemed real until today. I went by your office at the plant, and I saw all the moving boxes and stuff.”

“It’s real. I’ve sold the loft. I’m finishing up packing right now,” she lied. “Friday’s my last day.”

“I wish you’d stay,” he blurted out.

Annajane held up the phone and stared at it. Who was this guy? Were they really having this conversation? Mason had never once expressed any regrets about her leaving—not him, and not the company. No regrets, that’s what he’d always told her in the past.

“Staying is not a good idea,” Annajane said. “Not for me. It probably wasn’t a good idea for me to stay in town after we split.”

“I don’t know why you say that. I mean, yeah, it was a little awkward at times, but I think we managed to keep things on a pretty professional level. You don’t think we could keep that going?”

No, she wanted to scream. We cannot keep things going while you’re married to Celia, because I want to throw up whenever I see you two together. We cannot keep things professional because I cannot keep telling myself I’m over you when I’m pretty sure I’m not over you.

“This isn’t about any of that,” she said finally. “It’s not about you and me, Mason. That’s over. This is about me getting a great job offer and really challenging myself. It’s about me starting a new life with Shane. Maybe even starting a family. I think it’s time, and I think I deserve some happiness. You should be happy for me. I’m happy for you.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

She heard him inhale and then exhale. “Hey,” Mason said. “You’re not doing this because you’re pregnant, right?”

That’s when she disconnected the phone and tossed it onto the sofa. Annajane stomped into the sleek galley kitchen and, spying the bottle of Maker’s Mark she’d left on the counter Saturday morning, poured herself two fingers of bourbon, which she drank, straight up. She heard her phone buzzing from its resting place among the sofa cushions. It stopped buzzing. She poured a little more bourbon in the glass and, not wanting to become a sloppy drunk, thoughtfully added some ice cubes to the glass, forcing herself to sip slowly while the phone buzzed softly in the other room.

17

Mason banged his head on the Chevelle’s steering wheel. Once, twice, three times. He needed to knock some sense into his own skull. What the hell was wrong with him? Had he really just suggested that Annajane was only getting married because she was knocked up? He massaged his forehead and tried to call her again. Of course she wasn’t answering. He looked up at the second floor of her building. The lights were on. He redialed. Nothing.

He should go home, he knew, but he didn’t feel like being alone, and he couldn’t leave things with Annajane like this. He got out of the Chevelle, squared his shoulders and approached the inset entranceway to her loft apartment. The real estate listing sign had a cheery SOLD! placard attached. He scowled at it and pressed the intercom buzzer. Once, twice, three times.

He looked up and down the street. It was deserted. Sunday night in Passcoe. You could have fired a cannon down the middle of the street and not hit anybody. He put his finger on the intercom buzzer and left it there.

“What?” Her voice sounded tinny, but unmistakably pissed.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Really. Can I come up? I really need to talk to you in person. To apologize.”

“No. Go away.”

“Annajane?”

Silence.

He leaned his back against the faded gray brick wall and considered his next move. He was feeling desperate, not an emotion he was used to, especially when it came to women. Come to think of it, the last time he’d felt this shitty, this desperate, was when Annajane left him for good.

Mason rang the intercom buzzer again.

Her voice came on. “What?”

“Please let me come up,” he said, enunciating each word. “Just let me apologize in person, and then I promise not to bother you again.”

“All right,” she said finally. “Let’s get this over with.”

*   *   *

She heard his footsteps echoing in the stairwell. He knocked once. Annajane unlocked the door and looked Mason straight in the eye. “You’re a pig,” she said stonily. “And for your information, no, I am not pregnant. Asshole.”

“You’re right, I am a pig,” he agreed. “A swine.”

He stepped inside the loft and looked around. “This is really nice,” he said, sounding surprised. “I’ve never been in one of these places.”

“Walk around. Enjoy the view. Because I’m outta here come Friday,” she said, trying her best to sound mean. Why was it so difficult to be mean to Mason, even when he was being such a monumental jerk?

“You told me you were all packed,” he said pointedly, gesturing around the decidedly not-packed-up room.

“I lied,” she said. “So sue me.”

“Can I sit down?”

“Whatever.”

“Here?” He pointed at the sofa, which was covered with stuff.

She moved a stack of books from the sofa and gestured for him to sit, but she stayed standing, arms crossed defiantly. What she needed now was a position of power. “You were saying?”

“I needed to tell you face-to-face. What I said to you was inexcusable,” Mason said, sounding miserable. “I’m sorry, Annajane. I don’t know why I’m being such an asshole, when all I really wanted to do was say I’m gonna miss you. And not just because you’re great at your job and I’m worried about what’s gonna happen at Quixie without you. Sophie and I are gonna miss you, Annajane.”

He looked up and gave her that dopey sad-dog look of his.

She returned his look with steely resolve not to get sucked into the charm that somehow managed to ooze from every pore of his body with absolutely no effort on his part.

“Thank you,” she said tartly. “I’m sure the company will survive without me. I hate the idea of not being around Sophie, but Pokey has promised to send me lots of pictures. Was there anything else?”

“Well, I did have an idea. But probably you don’t want to hear it now. Because I’m such a major dickhead and everything.”

Momentarily putting aside the need for power, she perched on the edge of the armchair opposite his. “I’m listening.”

“It’s a gorgeous evening,” Mason said. “I actually came over here to ask you to come out and go for a spin in the Chevelle with me. Would you even consider that? For old time’s sake?”

She felt her heart thudding in her chest. The memories came rolling over her like a tidal wave. The two of them, riding through the night in the fun car, top down, headed for the beach, back to their lake cottage, or even just to the Dairy Dog for soft-serve ice cream. Anywhere at all. Against her will, she felt the corners of her lips tilting into something like a smile.

“Annajane? Is that a yes?”

She sighed, and tried to force herself to think about reality. Those golden memories of hers were just that. Memories. Tricky and totally unreliable. They should be packed away like all the books and old clothes she’d bagged up for giveaway to the Goodwill. From now on, she was going to live in the here and the now. Right?

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“What would Celia think?” She deliberately avoided the question of what Shane might think.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe I don’t care.”

She raised one eyebrow. “Really?”

He stood up and walked over to look out the window onto the street. It was dusk, and the street lights were just winking to life.

“What is this about, exactly?” she asked, afraid to hear his answer.

“Does it have to be about anything? It’s a gorgeous night. We’re old, old friends. Can’t you just come out and go for a ride with me? Just for the hell of it. I swear I’ll be nice.”

Annajane felt herself caving. What would be the harm in going for a ride on a beautiful spring night with an old friend? Old lover. Old husband. Whatever. She looked down at herself. She was dressed in tattered jeans with the knees ripped out, an old oversized Atlanta Braves jersey, and a pair of red Chuck Taylor high-tops. Her hair was pulled back in a headband. “I’m not really dressed to go out.”

He turned and smiled. “You look fine. Great, actually. Do I recognize that jersey?”

She blushed. Why had she hung onto this ratty old shirt? In fact, it was his jersey, as he well knew. His lucky jersey, he’d called it.

The first spring after they’d gotten engaged they’d driven down to Atlanta for the Braves home opener. Mason bought her a sun visor and himself a jersey at the game, but their team had lost steam early, and by the seventh-inning stretch, with the Braves losing eight to zip, they’d left, returning to their cheap hotel not far from the stadium, telling themselves they’d watch the end of the game back in their room. It never happened. At his request, she’d modeled his jersey for him, doing a slow striptease while Mason did his own X-rated play by play of her performance. For the rest of that summer, she’d worn the jersey for him every time they made love. His lucky jersey had nothing to do with baseball and everything to do with sex.

She should burn the jersey.

Yeah. Right.

Mason obviously sensed her indecision.

He held up the car keys and jingled them tantalizingly. “I’m parked outside. C’mon, Annajane, for once, don’t overthink things. Let’s just go for a ride, can we?”

“What the hell,” she said finally. She had all week to pack. It was, as Mason had said, a gorgeous night out. She shoved her phone in her pocket, grabbed her keys, and walked right out the door, with Mason following closely on her heels. She closed and locked the door in a hurry, before she could, as he’d put it, overthink things.

*   *   *

Annajane swept a film of cobwebs from the dashboard. “Wow,” she said. “When was the last time you drove this thing?”

Mason turned off Main Street and onto Seventh, rolling past Willard’s Feed and Seed, the Family Dollar Store, and a couple of boarded-up storefronts.

Seeing the vacant buildings made him sad. He could remember the name of every single business on that street. His father traded at Passcoe Hardware, and his mother always bought their school shoes at Fashion Shoe Shop, which she’d said was a joke, because the owners had zero sense of fashion. Cline Drugs was still hanging in there, but the soda fountain at the back was closed, and the last time he’d been in the store, the shelves looked more like a museum than a functioning store. His family had made a point of doing business at those stores because the owners were neighbors and friends. Passcoe was hurting, just the way Quixie was hurting. He hated to think about what would happen if Quixie left town.

“Mason?” Annajane snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Anybody home?”

“Sorry,” he said, returning to the here and now. “I haven’t driven the old girl for a few months,” he admitted. “I’ve been pretty busy at work. And Celia hates this car. She refuses to ride in it. So I’ve been keeping it in the garage at the plant.”

“But you used to love this car,” Annajane said. “What’s to hate about a classic convertible?”

“She says it’s a pimp car,” Mason said. “And as she points out, it doesn’t even have air-conditioning.”

“Hmm,” Annajane said. She slung an arm on the open window and leaned back into the headrest. “So, where are we headed?”

“I thought we’d ride out to the farm,” Mason said.

Cherry Hill Farms wasn’t a real farm anymore, and hadn’t been since Sallie’s father, Sam Woodrow, passed away in the 1980s and the family had sold off the last of his cattle and horses. The last Annajane had heard, the old farmhouse was being used as hay storage for the tenant farmer’s cows.

“That sounds nice,” she said.

Mason slid a cassette into the tape deck and “Walk This Way” blasted out of the speakers.

“Mötley Crüe?” Annajane rolled her eyes.

“Aerosmith!” Mason said, chastising her for her rock ignorance. “Root around under the seat there and find something else if you don’t like it,” Mason said, secretly disappointed in her musical taste.

“I like Aerosmith sometimes. Just not tonight. Have you got anything … mellower?”

Mason reached over the backseat and found a battered leather box that he plopped in her lap. “Here. Pick your own damn music.”

Annajane opened the box gingerly. “Okay, let’s see what you’ve got. Wow, this is like a for-real time machine. Led Zeppelin, Santana, Blue Öyster Cult. Were you even born when these guys started playing?”

“Those bands, madam, are rock classics,” he said. “Ageless and timeless.”

She held up a tape with a bright purple case. “John Denver. Really?”

He snatched the tape out of her hand and stowed it safely under his seat. “That’s Sophie’s. I think she saw him on an old Sesame Street rerun.”

Annajane laughed. “I can’t hate her for that. C’mon, give it back. Tonight’s perfect for John Denver cheese. A little ‘Sunshine on My Shoulder’ maybe. Or some ‘Rocky Mountain High’?”

“Nope,” he shook his head. “You’ve hurt my feelings. I’m afraid you’ll have to find your own mood music.”

She leafed idly through the tapes, pausing to look out at the deep green countryside flashing by.

“Maybe later,” she said. She threw her head back and enjoyed the feel of the wind whipping through her hair.

But she couldn’t shake the need to know what had brought about Mason’s unexpected visit. And she desperately wanted to know what had happened between the happy couple. She stole a sideways glance at Mason. He looked as happy and relaxed, as unguarded, as she’d seen him in years. And years.

“What’s going on between you and Celia? Not that it’s any of my business.”

Mason shrugged. “Nothing really. She was annoyed that I ate a late lunch, and then she was annoyed because I broke one of our wedding-present wineglasses. I think I kinda wrecked her plans for our big evening together.”

“Where is she now?”

He laughed. “At my mom’s. Her aunt had some kind of spell, and you know Sallie. She’s not exactly Nurse Nancy. She called and issued a summons, and of course Celia went.”

“Nobody, not even Celia, ignores a summons from Sallie Bayless,” Annajane agreed.

Mason laughed. He’d forgotten how easy Annajane was to be around. Effortless. With Annajane there was no subterfuge, no hidden messages. She was as open and real as … well, he didn’t know. Just easy, that’s all.

How the hell had things gotten so complicated, so quickly, with Celia? He felt like he was treading on broken glass every time they were together lately.

“Let me ask you something,” he said. “Do you think I spoil Sophie?”

Wow, Annajane wondered. Where was this coming from?

“Spoil?” She repeated the question, stalling for time. “I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I’m probably biased. Sophie’s … she’s special, you know? She was so tiny, and so needy, when you first brought her home. I guess maybe some people might say you went a little overboard. But she’s your daughter! And she is the sweetest, smartest, most loving little girl in the world. She doesn’t ask for a lot. And it’s not like she really plays you or manipulates you.”

Mason was nodding thoughtfully as she spoke, so Annajane took a deep breath and asked a question of her own.

“Does Celia think Sophie’s spoiled?”

“She thinks I should be firmer with her,” Mason said. “Sophie was kind of rude to Celia today at the hospital. You know, pulling her covers over her head, not talking to her, that kind of thing. Kid stuff, really. But it really got under Celia’s skin.”

Annajane was tempted to fire off something clever or flippant about evil stepmothers. But something made her hold back.

Sophie’s only five, but she’s no dummy. She could tell Celia was trying to buy her off. And she can spot a phony, even if her clueless daddy can’t. Tread cautiously here. Think before you open your mouth.

“Well,” Annajane said finally. “Discipline and rules and politeness, those are things every child needs. It’s not like Sophie to be rude. Maybe that’s something you and Celia are going to have to work on together.”

Mason nodded. “Yeah, probably you’re right. Guess I shouldn’t be so touchy, huh? Anyway, it’s too nice a night to get into all this heavy stuff. We’ll work it out. Eventually.”

Hope not, Annajane thought.