Текст книги "Spring Fever"
Автор книги: Mary Kay Andrews
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 29 страниц)
42
Celia stood by the fireplace, still clutching the plastic bag of dry-cleaning. But Mason had retreated to his desk. He had the package of birth control pills, and he kept turning it over and over. “Mason,” she said, pleadingly. “You can’t believe I would lie about the baby. Pokey did this. And Annajane. I swear, they refilled that prescription just to make me look bad, and then planted them with Sophie, so that you would find them. They’d do anything to keep us apart.”
“Enough,” Mason said. “You lied. Please don’t make it worse by blaming my sister.”
“You don’t know them,” Celia said, flinging the suit onto the back of a leather wing chair and marching over to the desk. “You think your baby sister is so perfect. And Annajane! You have no idea what that woman is capable of.”
Mason kept staring down at the birth control pills.
“There never was any baby, was there?” he asked, when he finally looked up at her.
“Of course there was!” Celia cried. “Would I make up something like that?”
The muscle in Mason’s jaw twitched. “I think you did,” he said, in disbelief. “I don’t know why, but I do believe you cooked up a phony pregnancy because you knew that was the one way in the world I would go ahead with marrying you.”
“No,” Celia insisted. And then, her voice fainter. “No. This is Pokey and Annajane. They’re out to get me. They refilled those pills…”
He sighed. “What would you say if I asked you to take a pregnancy test? Right now?”
“I’d say that proves you don’t trust me,” Celia said, her face growing pale. “That you’d take the word of your sister and ex-wife over mine.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t think I can trust you,” Mason said. “I just can’t understand why you would do something like this. You know I’m in love with another woman, but you’d go to this kind of lengths to trap me into a loveless marriage?”
“It wouldn’t be loveless,” Celia said. “Once we’re married, and you see how good we are together, how happy I’ll make you, you’ll forget about Annajane. We’ll sell Quixie, start a new business, have a family. I’m perfect for you. Everybody says so.”
“No,” Mason said. “Enough lies, Celia.” He picked up the telephone.
“Who are you calling?” Celia asked, her voice panicky.
“I’m calling Sallie,” Mason said. “To tell her the wedding’s off.” He held up the receiver to her. “Unless you want to call her yourself?”
43
Mason Bayless was a man who lived up to his obligations. And the one he dreaded nearly as much as he’d dreaded going through with his wedding was telling his mother that he hadn’t.
By four that afternoon, he’d arrived at Cherry Hill, removed the festive wreath of orange blossoms and hydrangeas from the front door, and poured his mother a stiff scotch and water and briefed her on the most salient details of the breakup.
“I don’t understand,” Sallie repeated, for the fifth or sixth time. “How could this happen? Are you sure this wasn’t just some misunderstanding between the two of you?” She took a deep drag on her cigarette, tamped the ashes into the kitchen sink, then turned on the tap to wash them down the drain.
“No misunderstanding,” Mason said drily. “There was never any pregnancy. Celia made it up, because she knew that was the only way I would marry her.”
“That’s just not like Celia,” Sallie protested. “Such a lovely girl. With a wonderful head on her shoulders. I’m heartbroken. Really devastated.” She studied her oldest son’s lack of expression.
“Aren’t you the least bit upset? About the baby, at least?”
“Relieved is the word I would use,” Mason said. “Relieved and grateful.”
Sallie sighed deeply. “And I was so looking forward to a Bayless grandchild.”
“You have four grandchildren,” Mason said sharply. “Remember?”
“Of course,” she said quickly. “But Pokey’s boys aren’t Baylesses. They’re Riggses. And Sophie, well, you know what I meant.”
“No, Mother,” Mason said, his voice icy. “What did you mean? That Sophie isn’t a Bayless, because I never married her mother? Is that another reason you were so hot for me to marry Celia, so that you’d have a legitimate grandchild from me?”
“Stop it, Mason,” Sallie demanded. “I won’t have you speak to me like that. You know perfectly well that I’ve accepted Sophie as one of our own. I’ve always treated her exactly as I have Pokey’s children. And I wanted you to marry Celia, and for her to have your children, because I believed she would make you happy and be an asset to this family. Is that so wrong for a mother to want?”
She took another drag on her cigarette and let the smoke curl from her nostrils, waving it away, as though she could wave away anything unpleasant or displeasing in her life.
“Whatever,” Mason said. “It’s done.”
“But where will she go?” Sallie asked. “You’ll let her stay on at the company, won’t you? She has a consulting contract.”
“Celia is gone,” Mason said emphatically. “She’s moving her things out of my house as we speak. As for Quixie, no, of course I’m not going to keep her on. We’ll pay out what we owe her, but under the circumstances, it would be disruptive to business to allow her to stay on.”
Sallie’s eyes flared. “And yet you kept Annajane on. Even after the divorce.”
“Yes, and thank God I did,” Mason said. “No thanks to Davis. Or Celia.”
Realizing that she was on shaky ground, Sallie quickly changed tack. She flicked a fingertip at the tray of plastic-wrapped crab bundles, the caviar-topped deviled eggs, and the bacon-wrapped chicken livers. “All this food,” she said with a sigh. “For the second time in a week. And there are six bottles of champagne in the refrigerator and half a case of expensive-looking red wine in the dining room. And should I even mention the wedding cake? What on earth am I supposed to do with yet another wedding cake? I still have the top layer of the first one in the freezer down in the basement.”
Mason shrugged. “I don’t give a damn. I told Celia I didn’t want any of it in the first place. Feed it to your bridge club. Throw it out. Or better yet, send it over to the nursing home, why don’t you?”
Sallie winced. “I am not looking forward to explaining to the girls in bridge club about this latest debacle in your personal life. And as for sending caviar and chicken livers to a nursing home? Certainly not.” She picked up the telephone on the kitchen counter. “We’ll just have a particularly extravagant family dinner instead. Pokey and Pete and the children will come, of course, and I’ll call Davis, too. You’ll stay, of course.”
“No thanks,” Mason said. “There’s somebody I have to see tonight. If she’ll see me.”
* * *
When she finally stopped laughing, Pokey hung up the phone.
“Was that Sallie you were talking to?” Pete Riggs asked, looking up from the DVD player he was trying to repair on the kitchen table.
“It was,” Pokey said, still chuckling.
“What makes your mother such a laugh riot this afternoon?” Pete asked. He stabbed the Shuffle button, but the machine didn’t move.
“Poor Mama,” Pokey said, sitting down beside her husband. “I know I shouldn’t have laughed right in her face like that, but she’s really so clueless.”
“What’s she so clueless about this time?” Pete asked.
“Life. Family. All of it. She actually wanted me to call Mason and try to ‘make him see the light’ about his breakup with Celia.”
“Like that was gonna happen,” Pete said. He picked up a screwdriver and jabbed at the DVD player.
“And then when I told her I was thrilled that the bitch had been caught in her own web of deceit, she invited us all over to supper tonight—to eat the appetizers Celia ordered from the country club, for a wedding to which we were specifically uninvited.”
Pete sniffed the DVD player and wrinkled his nose. “Does this thing smell funny to you? I think it smells like something crawled up here and died.”
Pokey inhaled. “Eew. Rancid peanut butter. Probably Petey. I don’t know what it is with that kid and peanut butter.”
“So what did you tell her about dinner?” Pete asked.
“I said hell to the no,” Pokey retorted. “Then she got her panties all in a wad because I told her I didn’t think caviar and deviled eggs and chicken livers were ideal food for three little boys.”
“But I love caviar and deviled eggs and chicken livers,” Pete said plaintively.
“Pete! We are taking a stand here. We are not eating any food that has any connection to Celia Wakefield or her foiled attempt to drag my poor brother to the altar. Besides, we’re having pizza tonight. And then Sophie and I are baking cupcakes. Pink ones.”
“Okay, fine,” Pete said. “I’m good with pizza. Also cupcakes, pink or otherwise. What does Sophie think about her father’s canceled wedding?”
“Not fazed in the least.” Pokey said. “She’s really more upset about the fact that Mason made her give back that sapphire necklace of Celia’s that she had in her pocketbook.”
“Not to mention the birth control pills,” said Pete, who’d already heard his wife’s triumphant blow-by-blow account of the demise of Celia Wakefield. “Soph really saved the day, didn’t she? If the kid hadn’t found those pills and stashed them in her purse, and you guys hadn’t found them when you did, poor old Mason would be celebrating his wedding night right now.”
“Not a chance,” Pokey said, jabbing at the back of the DVD player with a butter knife. “If Mason hadn’t called off the wedding himself, I still had plan B.”
“Do I want to know what that was?” Pete asked.
“Probably not,” Pokey said. She got up, sat on her husband’s lap, and patted his cheek. “Know this, Riggs. When it comes to messing with my family, Pokey don’t play.”
44
Celia Wakefield was an unholy mess. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, and a nasty patch of acne had spontaneously erupted on her chin and was working its way north toward both her cheeks. She was hot and sweaty from lugging all the belongings she’d packed up from Mason Bayless’s house and cramming them into the back of her Saab. She’d broken two nails and twisted her ankle.
And the very cherry on her parfait of personal misery was that she had gotten her period within the past hour. Two weeks early.
She’d been examining her options, and they didn’t add up to much. If it weren’t for the money she’d be losing out on, she’d have been positively giddy at the prospect of seeing Passcoe, North Carolina, in the rearview mirror. Where to next? Not Kansas. The lawyers from Baby Brands were making noises about a lawsuit, so she wouldn’t be launching another children’s clothing business anytime soon. Hmm. Texas? Or maybe Florida? Lots of wealthy men with lots of lovely money. It was something to ponder. Now, she was already late for her meeting. Her cell phone rang and she snatched it up and answered without checking the caller ID, an impetuous decision she immediately regretted.
“Hey, honey,” Cheryl’s voice, coming live over the phone from South Sioux City, Nebraska, sounded like she’d been gargling with broken glass and battery acid. “Vernonica tells me you’re living in North Carolina now. I hear it’s real nice down there.”
“How did you get this number?” Celia demanded.
“Veronica give it to me,” Cheryl said. “But that’s not a very nice way to talk to your mama.”
“Sorry, I’m having a really shitty day,” Celia said. “What do you want?”
“Why do you assume I want something everytime I call you?” her mother asked.
“Because you always do. What is it this time? I hope it’s not money, because I don’t have any to spare. I just lost my job.”
“Oh.” Silence. “I wasn’t calling to ask for nothing,” Cheryl said, sounding hurt. “I just wanted your new address, so I could send your birthday present. Gene’s got these real nice Louis Vuitton purses now, and I know you like that kind of stuff.”
Her mother’s boyfriend for the past ten years was a grifter named Gene, who spent more time in lockup than he did in the house he shared with Cheryl.
“My birthday isn’t until November,” Celia said. “And how would Gene get his hands on Louis Vuitton handbags?”
“He’s got his ways,” Cheryl said airily. “Anyway, it’s too bad about your job. I was thinking it might be nice to come visit you. I’ve never been to North Carolina.”
“Why would you suddenly want to visit me now?” Celia asked. “Did Gene kick you out of the house?”
“Hell, no!” Cheryl said. “I just thought it would be nice to see you. It’s been a real long time.”
Not long enough, Celia thought. It had been six years and counting. She’d dropped in and out of college and was waitressing at a steakhouse when a good customer there offered her a job as a traveling sales rep for a company that sold a line of hospital linens. She’d “borrowed” her sister Veronica’s car and headed out that night for St. Louis, with nothing more than the clothes on her back. The wad of cash she’d found in the glove box was a pleasant and unexpected bonus.
“Now is not a good time,” Celia said flatly.
Never would be the perfect time to be reunited with her family.
“Maybe you could come on back here, while you’re between jobs,” Cheryl suggested. “There’s plenty of room in the house. You hadn’t even seen Jaymie’s twins, and they’re almost six. And Terri’s boy Richie, he’s a big old thing. Nearly twelve, I think. He’s already started shaving, you believe that? And Jasmine, she’s nine and just as tall as her mama.”
“Are they all still living with Daddy in the double-wide?” Celia asked.
“I don’t ask,” Cheryl said. “Those girls don’t care nothin’ about their mama. I don’t even get a card on Mother’s Day. Doyle’s the only family they care about.”
Most likely, Celia thought, what her two youngest sisters cared about was their father’s latest disability check. Neither Jaymie nor Terri had bothered to graduate from high school, or to marry the various fathers of their children. Instead, they’d gotten an early and thorough education in the art of scamming from Doyle Wakefield.
Celia peered through the Saab’s windshield, at a booth near the window of the restaurant. “Look, Mama,” she said. “I gotta go now. I’ll give you a call with my new address when I get settled.”
And when hell freezes over, she thought. She really was going to have to get a new phone number now.
“You do that, precious,” Cheryl said. “And you know, if you did happen to have a few extra bucks laying around, you could send ’em my way.”
* * *
Davis Bayless sat across the table from Celia at the Waffle House on the bypass and wished he were somewhere else.
“You have to do something,” she told him.
“What?” Davis said. “I can’t hold a gun to his head, Celia. I can’t make him marry you if he doesn’t want to.”
“He did want to,” she insisted. “Right up until the minute that Annajane Hudgens crooked her little finger and decided she wanted him back.”
Davis shrugged. “What can I say? My big brother is a big sap. Ole Annajane must know some tricks in the sack that we ain’t heard of. Anyway, I’m the last person he’s likely to listen to these days. My advice is, take what you can get and move on down the road. He offered to buy out your contract, right?”
“That’s peanuts. If we’d gotten married, and the Jax deal had gone through, it would have been worth millions. To all of us. Now, I walk away with what? Maybe fifty thousand dollars? Screw that!”
Celia glared at Davis. “You have to make this right, Davis. I’m the one who brought Jerry Kelso and Jax to the table for this deal. Kelso had never heard of Quixie until I met him in that hotel bar in Atlantic City. I’m the one who made them understand what this brand is worth. Most importantly, I’m the one who sucked up to your mother, gained her trust, and then hammered it into her silly southern belle head just how much cash she will get out of this sale, and just how much she needs to get out of the godforsaken town of Passcoe, North Carolina.”
“I know what all you did, and I appreciate it, Celia, I really do,” Davis said soothingly. “And don’t you worry. Once we get that deal with Jax inked, getting Celia Wakefield on board in an executive position, that’s gonna be my number one priority. Jerry and I have already discussed it.” He winked and then reached under the table and squeezed her thigh. “Davis is gonna take good care of you, baby.”
She slapped his hand away. “I don’t need taking care of that way. The only thing I want from you is an ironclad, signed agreement that I will be fairly compensated for my participation as a go-between in Jax’s acquisition of Quixie.”
“Sure thing,” Davis said. “You have my word.”
Celia’s laugh had a nasty edge.
Like I would take the word of a man who’d fuck his brother’s fiancée?
“I’d prefer to have it in writing,” Celia said. “Just so there won’t be any misunderstandings.”
“Hey, now,” Davis said, rearing back. “I’m on your side, remember? Didn’t I help you out with that little problem you were having?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
Davis slid his hand over Celia’s, trapping it on the tabletop. “Why, trying to get you knocked up, what else? Don’t you think I figured out why you were in such a hurry to get in my pants Friday night? And me without a condom? I’ll admit, my feelings were a little hurt when you first came to work at Quixie and immediately set your sights on Mason, instead of me, but I got over it eventually. Hell, I was even willing to take one for the team and let you pass off my baby as Mason’s, if that’s what it took to seal our little deal.”
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.”
