Текст книги "Spring Fever"

Автор книги: Mary Kay Andrews

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

4

Annajane never told Mason she’d fallen in love with him that first day at the plant. She’d never told anybody. Not even Pokey. After all, she’d been fifteen, he was nineteen, working in the warehouse for the first time that summer after his freshman year of college, at his father’s insistence. As far as Mason Bayless was concerned, Annajane was just some goofy girl who hung out with his baby sister.

He hadn’t given her a second thought, or a second glance. It would be another four years before they exchanged their first kiss.

Her cheeks burned now at the thought of that first time. She shook her head violently, trying to dislodge the memory.

“You okay?” Pokey whispered. “It’s not too late to make your escape.”

But it was too late. The music swelled again, and the violins and flutes and organ began the fluttering notes of the Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Every head turned toward the back of the church.

“Ahh.” Annajane heard the chorus of approving sighs, and in a moment she spotted Sophie.

The five-year-old tiptoed slowly up the aisle. Somebody had attempted to tame the wild mane of blond curls, but the circlet of baby’s breath and pink rosebuds rested at a crooked tilt, listing slightly over her right ear. She was angelic in the ankle-length pink organza dress with its delicate pin-tucked bodice and bell-shaped sleeves. Annajane held her breath as Sophie made her way up the aisle, flinging fists full of rosebuds from the satin basket dangling from her skinny wrist. Her sparkly pink cat-eye glasses slid down her nose, and she paused once, to push them back into place.

The sight of Mason’s daughter caused Annajane unexpected tears. Sophie was not her child, although she should have been. Mason had fathered her during a brief one-night stand not long after their separation and had legally adopted her after the mother couldn’t care for the baby.

People in Passcoe expected that Annajane would be outraged by the child’s birth, so soon after her split from Mason, but Sophie had stolen her heart the first time she held her in her arms. How could anybody resent bossy, enchanting, Disney-princess-loving Sophie? Her Aunt Pokey’s house was Sophie’s second home, and since Pokey’s best friend, Annajane, was there nearly as often as the child, Sophie considered her family. Which she was. Sort of. Leaving Sophie, losing her to Celia—the prospect of it felt like the unkindest cut of all to Annajane.

As always, Sophie seemed to move to her own inner soundtrack, which was unfortunately nowhere in sync to Canon in D. The little girl was anxiously scanning the aisles as she walked, looking, Annajane knew, for familiar faces. Finally, she spotted Annajane and her aunt Pokey and nodded solemnly. But behind the thick lenses of her glasses, her usually impish gray eyes were dark-rimmed and heavy-lidded. Her cheeks were hot pink in contrast to her alabaster skin.

Pokey leaned into the aisle. “You’re doin’ great, baby,” she whispered encouragingly, and Annajane nodded silent agreement and blew her a kiss. Finally, the child gave a tremulous smile and pressed a wad of rosebuds into Pokey’s outstretched hand. As she moved past, Annajane noticed that the streamers of the long satin sash were lopsided, and wet, which surely meant that the sash had somehow gotten dunked during a prewedding potty stop.

Why, Annajane wondered, hadn’t somebody spotted the wet sash? Perhaps, somebody like Sophie’s about-to-be stepmother? The dress was Celia’s own design, and no matter what Pokey or Annajane thought of her as a person, it was no secret that Celia’s successful children’s clothing business, Gingerpeachy, had recently sold to a national chain, netting Celia and her backers a rumored ten million dollars.

A few steps past their pew, two-thirds of the way to the altar, Sophie came to a dead stop. She was looking uncertainly, right to left. The music kept playing, but Sophie was not moving. Annajane held her breath.

She looked up at the altar. Father Jolly seemed oblivious, but Davis and Pete were frowning, exchanging worried asides. Mason had taken a couple steps forward. He was half-kneeling, smiling, his arms extended to his little girl, encouraging her to finish her triumphant voyage up the aisle.

Annajane could read his lips, even from this far way. “Come on, sweetheart,” he was telling her. “You can do it.”

She could not see the child’s face, only the slightest nod of her head, and then Sophie began to tiptoe forward again.

Only a few steps behind Sophie came a willowy redhead in an ankle-length cerise organza gown, cut so tightly through the skirt, she was forced to take tiny, mincing geisha-girl steps. The woman was in her late twenties and looked as though she’d just stepped off a Paris runway.

“Who’s that?” Annajane asked.

Pokey shrugged. “Never laid eyes on her before. Just another of Celia’s legions of best girlfriends, probably.”

Six more women in silk gowns of the same hue followed the maid of honor. Annajane knew most of the women, some of them only slightly. But when she saw a familiar brunette with long, wavy, blond highlighted hair, Annajane felt a stab of jealousy. McKenna Murphey Kelleher was her friend. They’d known each other since junior high, and Annajane had introduced McKenna to Jimmy Kelleher, the man she’d ended up marrying. When had McKenna defected to Team Celia?

There was no time for further discussion. The processional music faded, and the heavy wooden doors at the rear of the church opened with a theatrical boom. The congregation stirred and stood, and in the brief silence the rustle of satin, silk, and good wool filled the church.

Annajane’s eyes were riveted on the bride, the future Mrs. Mason Bayless.

Celia Wakefield was teacup-sized, with short, silvery hair and huge doelike liquid-dark eyes that were today emphasized with the most extravagant false eyelashes Annajane had ever seen. She seemed even smaller than usual, standing back there, poised and alone, framed by the twelve-foot oak door.

Mason, on the other hand, was at least eighteen inches taller than his new bride. He was solidly built, not heavy, but she estimated he weighed close to a hundred pounds more than Celia.

What, Annjane wondered idly, was sex like between the two of them? She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to dislodge the image of Mason and Celia, naked. After all, she was in church, not exactly the same church where she and Mason had been married, but it was still church, and the eyes of God and all of Passcoe were watching. Must stop thinking about sex in church, Annajane vowed.

Strings and woodwinds warbled, a lovely classical piece that seemed hauntingly familiar. “What’s that song?” Annajane asked, craning her neck to get a better look at the bride.

Must not think of sex in church. Must not think of sex in church. Must not think of Mason naked.

Instead, she tried to think of Shane, naked. Her fiancé had a perfectly nice body, tall and rangy, and he had long, artistic fingers, but he was just the slightest bit self-conscious, even in bed, which she thought must be unusual. Weren’t musicians supposed to be wildly uninhibited? Oh, but Mason, naked! Annajane felt herself shiver at the memory.

Fortunately, her best friend didn’t notice. She was humming the processional under her breath. Pokey had taken piano for years at Sallie’s insistence, and was actually a credible musician, when she cared to be. She gave a sniff of disapproval. “Handel. Arrival of the Queen of Sheba. As if.”

The bride took her first step down the aisle.

Celia was tiny, dainty, exquisite, a queen of Sheba in miniature, Annajane thought. Her gown, another of her own designs, was a severe architectural strapless column of lustrous ivory satin, its only ornament a series of stiff fabric folds forming an accordion-pleat fan at the alarmingly low-cut bodice.

Seeing the regal bride, Annajane felt instantly five sizes larger, dowdy in her fussy vintage dress with its prissy row of buttons and old-fashioned buckle. She’d dressed with such care only a few hours earlier, and dulled her inhibitions with bourbon, but now, she decided, she’d seriously overdressed and undermedicated herself. What the hell had she been thinking?

“Geezus H!” Pokey chortled, elbowing Annajane in the ribs again. “That’s some dress. I think I can actually see her nipples.”

“Hush,” Annajane said halfheartedly, looking around in panic for an escape route. But her pew was packed butt to butt. It was standing room only in the church, with latecomers lolling against the walls on the side aisles, and the bride about to process down the center aisle. No, not even Houdini could have extricated himself from such a tight prison. She would have to stay and see the cure all the way through to the bitter end.

The bride paused for a moment, basking in this, her moment of glory. She adjusted her train, raised her chin, and began to glide down the white-carpeted aisle. Celia’s ensemble was simplicity itself. She wore no jewelry other than her engagement ring, except a pair of shoulder-brushing diamond drop earrings, and in the now-darkened church, the diamonds spun kaleidoscopic reflections on the ceiling. She clutched a single immense calla lily—the size of a majorette’s baton—in her elbow-length gloved hands.

Halfway up the aisle, Celia’s cloak of poise slipped, just a bit. She frowned and slowed her gait.

The music was still playing. Annajane turned toward the altar, to see what was holding things up. Father Jolly, Pete, and Davis stood expectantly, watching the proceedings with detached solemnity.

Mason’s back was ramrod straight. His lips were curved in a slight, frozen smile, but the rest of his face seemed a mask, his eyes flickering rapidly, side to side.

Sophie had stopped again, this time only a few yards from the altar. She was looking around, studying the flowers, her grandmother and cousins in the front pew, waving shyly at her adored nanny, Letha, in the row directly behind Sallie Bayless and family.

Letha leaned out into the aisle. “Go on, baby,” she whispered. “You’re doing great.”

So what if the groom was nervous? Annajane thought. This meant nothing. It was perfectly natural. Mason had been single for five years. Since their divorce, he’d certainly played the field, dated his share of women, most of them wildly inappropriate, and one of those flings had resulted in Sophie, whose appearance, literally on the Bayless family doorstep, had at first been a shock and then what they’d all come to unanimously regard as a blessing.

She had to give Mason credit. Faced with a six-month-old baby and apparently irrefutable proof of the child’s paternity, he had done the right thing. The Baylesses did not shirk responsibility. He had been forced to, as Davis so cynically put it, “man up.” Letha had been hired as a nanny, and a nursery was established in Mason’s house, just down the street from the Bayless compound.

Sophie, who’d been a spindly, colicky infant when she came to them, had slowly begun to blossom. Mason’s responsibilities for Quixie had formerly kept him on the road four days out of every week, but after Sophie arrived, he’d reshuffled his responsibilities to allow him to spend most evenings with her. And he had fallen head over heels in love with his little girl.

Mason had a lot on his plate, Annajane thought. He had a first wife who still worked for the company, right under his nose, at least for the time being; a faltering business to run; and a crazy family to try to ride herd over. And any moment now, she thought, he would be adding a second wife and stepmother to that mix.

He seemed to be holding up reasonably well under the pressure, Annajane decided, studying him again. He rocked back slightly on his heels, and his lips tried, but failed, to form a smile as Celia began moving closer.

Annajane stared, her face growing hot again. A muscle twitched in Mason’s jaw. He worked to erase it with his right index finger, but it twitched again. For a second, only a second, she felt Mason’s eyes meet her own. And then his jaw muscle twitched six times in rapid succession, and he looked away.

Not soon enough. Annajane’s pulse quickened and her throat caught. She felt dizzy and grabbed Pokey’s arm for support.

It was a tell! How many times had she seen that involuntary signal? Across the room at a boring dinner party, in the middle of a contentious meeting with his mother or his brother? And yes, during the worst moments of their doomed marriage. When Mason was feeling trapped, desperate to flee, he would rock back on his heels, and his jaw muscle would twitch like a frightened rabbit’s ears.

He wants out, Annajane thought. He does not want to marry this woman.

As she watched, she felt the past come rushing back with a ferocity that nearly knocked her down. And it struck her, this was not just a flare-up she was experiencing, not just a bout of spring fever. This was full-blown passion.

This can’t happen. She can’t have him. I want him back.

Her fingers gripped Pokey’s arm in a death lock.

“Heey,” Pokey whispered, giving her a worried look. “What’s up? Are you okay?”

Annajane couldn’t speak.

The music kept playing. Celia floated past them in a cloud of perfume. Annajane took a half step to the left, sending Pokey half-sprawling into the aisle, but Celia never noticed.

Stop that woman! Annajane wanted to scream. But the words wouldn’t come out. And Celia was nearly at the altar. Father Jolly was beaming. Mason’s jaw was twitching so violently now, even Davis was looking at him oddly.

No, no, no! Annajane cleared her throat. She was going to do it. She had to do it.

But suddenly, a forlorn, high-pitched wail rose above the violins and the piccolos.

It was Sophie. Just a few feet from the altar, she crumpled to the carpet in a pink tulle heap. She was writhing and clutching her tummy. She howled. “It hurts! Daddy, it hurts!”

5

For a moment, nobody moved. An instant later, Mason was kneeling at Sophie’s side. He gently scooped her into his arms, and she twisted like a caged animal. Worse than screaming, she was only whimpering now, words Annajane couldn’t quite make out.

The music kept playing. Father Jolly held a whispered conference with Pete and Davis, who were helplessly shaking their heads, looking around for some kind of direction. Celia reached the altar, but there was nobody there to meet her, because her groom was rushing toward the side exit. She stood, momentarily stunned, tightly gripping her oversized calla lily.

“Oh my God,” Pokey whispered. “What on earth?” People were murmuring, heads turning, but mostly they were frozen in place.

Annajane didn’t wait to hear any more. She managed to slide past Pokey, and now she was sprinting for the front of the church. She had to get to Sophie.

As she reached the door to the robing room, she heard Father Jolly’s voice from the lectern. “Uh, folks,” he said tentatively. “We’ve got a sick little girl on our hands here. If you would, I’d like to ask you all to bow your heads and pray for God’s blessing.”

*   *   *

She found Mason seated on a brocade loveseat in the robing room, cradling Sophie across his lap. She was moaning, and her face was gray and beaded with perspiration. Mason was smoothing her hair with one hand, and fumbling with a phone on a table with the other.

“Here,” Annajane said, sliding onto the sofa beside him and extending her arms to the child. “Let me take her. Have you called for an ambulance?”

Sophie whimpered a little, but settled quickly into Annajane’s arms. The child’s body was hot to the touch, and as Annajane stroked her face, Sophie’s face contorted. She shuddered, coughed, and vomited. And vomited again.

“Oh my God,” Mason said, dropping the phone. “What … what should I do?”

Annajane grabbed for a box of tissue beside the phone and began mopping Sophie’s face. “I’m sorry,” the little girl sobbed. “I’m sorry.” She vomited again.

“It’s okay, baby,” Annajane said. “It’s okay.” She wiped Sophie’s face clean again, and poised her hand over the little girl’s abdomen. “Can I touch your tummy? Just for a minute?”

The child nodded. Annajane placed the palm of her hand flat against Sophie’s stomach, but even the lightest touch resulted in a yowl of pain.

“Jesus,” Mason said, shakily. “What do you think’s wrong?”

The robing-room door opened, and Celia rushed in. “Is she all right?” Celia started to ask. When she saw the vomit spattered across Sophie and Annajane, she took a step backward. Then she swallowed hard, bent down, and took Sophie’s hand.

“Where does it hurt, honey?” she asked softly. “Tell Celia.”

Sophie moaned and pressed her feverish face against Annajane’s chest.

Celia patted Sophie’s damp curls. “Poor baby.”

She gave Mason an exasperated shake of the head. “She ate a lot of junk at lunch today. I personally saw your brother sneaking her at least two bowls of that damned Quixie ice cream. It’s probably just a combination of an upset tummy and all the excitement.”

“You think?” Mason asked hopefully, his hand hovering over the phone.

Celia looked over at Annajane, treating her to a conspiratorial smile. “Maybe you could be an angel and go get Letha and ask her to take Sophie home and put her to bed?”

“I don’t think so,” Annajane said. “This isn’t just a bellyache. I’m sorry, Celia, but we need to get her to the hospital. Right now. She’s burning up with fever.”

“Excuse me?” Celia tilted her head, as though she hadn’t heard correctly. “We’ve got five hundred people sitting in that church out there. We’ve got a soloist from the North Carolina Symphony, and over at the country club, we’ve got lobster thermidor and a steamship of roast beef. My great-aunt Eleanor flew in this morning from Kansas City. With an oxygen tank.”

There was a quick knock at the door, and Father Jolly poked his head inside. “How’s the patient?” he inquired. “I hate to intrude, but people are concerned.” He shrugged apologetically. “Mason, your mother and sister wanted me to see how the little girl is doing. Mrs. Bayless doesn’t want anybody to panic.”

Celia stood and hiked up the sagging bodice of her dress. “Tell Sallie everything is fine.” She gave Annajane a pointed look. “There is no need to overreact. We just need somebody to fetch Letha, and then, I think, we can go ahead with the ceremony. Right, darling?” She rested her hand lightly on Mason’s broad tuxedo-clad shoulder, letting her fingertips drift down the lapel of his jacket. It was a clear signal of ownership, to Father Jolly, Mason, and most important, Annajane.

He is mine. I am in charge. The show must go on.

Mason glanced from his ex-wife to his next. He cleared his throat. “Well … uh…”

As if to settle the matter, Sophie moaned, coughed, and barfed again.

Annajane struggled unsteadily to her feet, clutching Sophie to her. She had had enough.

“Fine. You two do what you need to do. But in the meantime, Mason, I think you’d better call 911.” She was making a deliberate effort to keep her voice calm. “Tell them we’ve got a five-year-old with abdominal pain and a high fever. Her belly seems rigid and tender to the touch. And tell them to please hurry.”

“Excuse me?” Celia said. “What medical school did you say you attended?”

“My mother was a nurse for thirty years, and I was a candy striper all through high school,” Annajane said calmly. “Anyway, it’s just a matter of common sense. Feel her tummy, if you don’t believe me.”

Mason was dialing and reaching for Celia’s hand. “I’m sorry,” he said pleadingly. “But you understand. Right?”

Celia took only a moment to reevaluate the situation, shift tactics, and choose the proper response. “Of course,” she cried. “Absolutely. Do you think it would be better to load her into my car and take her over to the hospital ourselves?”

“Just a minute,” Mason said, turning his attention back to the phone. “Right. This is Mason Bayless. I’m at the Church of the Good Shepherd in Passcoe. There’s something wrong with my little girl. What? No, I don’t know the address. It’s on Fairhaven, about a block from downtown. It’s the only Episcopal church in town, for God’s sake. Don’t you people have a computer or something?”

He listened impatiently. “Yes, that’s it. Okay. She’s five years old, and she just … suddenly collapsed. She’s in a lot of pain. It’s her stomach. She’s got a high fever, and she’s throwing up … No, she doesn’t have any allergies that I know of. No! She hasn’t gotten into poison. Who the hell do you think you’re dealing with here?”

Annajane took the phone from him. “Listen, you need to send an ambulance. Now. I’m no nurse, but I think maybe it’s her appendix. Fine. We’ll meet you out front of the church.”

The robing-room door opened and Pokey stepped in. “What’s the news?” she started, and then wrinkled her nose. “Oh no. Stomach bug?”

“Annajane thinks it might be her appendix,” Mason said gloomily. “They’re sending an ambulance.”

“What do you need me to do?” She was addressing her brother, ignoring his fiancée, not something Celia was used to.

“Pokey, could you please ask Father Jolly to announce that the ceremony has been postponed?” Celia said, reasserting her authority. “Ask everybody to go ahead on over to the country club for the reception. Just say we’re doing things backward. Reception, then ceremony. We’ve got all that food and champagne chilled down, and it’d be a shame to waste it. We’ll try to get over there after we get Sophie taken care of at the hospital. But she’s the first priority.”

“We’ll have to get all those cars cleared out of the driveway and the street outside, before an ambulance can get here,” Pokey said. “And Mama’s going to want to go to the hospital, too, I can tell you right now.”

“Fine,” Celia said impatiently. “You and Pete can take her, or Davis or somebody, but in the meantime, could you please get those cars moved?”

“Sure,” Pokey said, bristling at being ordered around. She looked over at Annajane, who was pacing around the small room, softly humming to the whimpering Sophie. “I’ll be right back after the announcement, and we’ll get you some kind of clean clothes. You can’t leave looking like that.”

“I don’t mind,” Annajane protested. “Just do whatever you need to do, Pokey. I’m going to ride in the ambulance with Sophie.” She glanced at Mason. “If that’s okay with you?”

“Now, wait a minute,” Celia snapped, not about to let Annajane usurp her authority. “Her father and I will ride in the ambulance. He’s going to have to sign authorization for her to be treated. And I’m her, uh, I’m his wife.”

Pokey turned to go. “Not yet, you’re not.” She said it under her breath, just loud enough for Celia to hear.

“Daddy,” Sophie whimpered, reaching out an arm for her father.

“Right here, sugar,” Mason said, stepping to Annajane’s side and squeezing the little girl’s hand. “We’re going to get you to see a doctor right this minute. And guess what? You’re gonna get to ride in an ambulance. What do you think about that?”

“Will it hurt?” Sophie asked, huge tears rolling down her pale cheeks.

“Not at all,” Celia said brightly. “It’ll be fun! I’ll get them to blast the siren so everybody knows you’re coming.”

“It might hurt a little bit,” Annajane said, shooting Celia a look. “But we’ll be right there with you, the whole time. We need to get the doctors at the hospital to see what’s wrong with your tummy. I think they’ll give you something to make you sleep, and then they’ll take a look and figure things out.”

“Okay,” Sophie said wearily. “Only, don’t let me go, Annajane. Okay?” Her eyelids fluttered, and she dozed off, her forehead nestled against Annajane’s ruined dress.

“I won’t, baby,” Annajane whispered. “I promise.”

Mason reached over and gently removed the little girl’s glasses, which had slid off the end of her nose, tucking them into the pocket of his tux jacket.

The door flew open again, and Sallie Bayless bustled in with Davis in her wake. “Pokey says there’s some talk that it might be her appendix? And an ambulance is on the way? I just called Max Kaufman. He was on the third tee at the golf club when I reached him,” she told her son. “He’s going to meet you at the emergency room.”

“Max Kaufman?” Celia asked.

“Chief of surgery at the hospital,” Sallie said. “A very old family friend. He should have been sitting right out front in one of those pews, but Max is a hopeless philistine. Says he never goes to weddings or funerals. But he’s a wonderful doctor, isn’t he, Mason? He’ll take very good care of the child.”

“Mason and Annajane are going to the hospital, and I’ll follow in my car. Maybe you could ride with me,” Celia said.

Sallie shook her head. “Celia, dear, I think it would be better if you and I went on over to the club to greet our guests. Mason has his cell, and I have mine, and he can keep us posted.”

“I don’t know,” Celia said, her brow furrowed prettily. “I think I need to be with Sophie…”

“Look, y’all, we don’t all need to go to the hospital,” Davis spoke up. “Mama, I’ll take you and Celia over to the club for the reception. If there’s nothin’ seriously wrong with Sophie, Pokey can bring Mason back over there once Doc Kaufman gets it figured out. Hell, maybe it’s nothing. It’d be a shame to cancel the party if it’s only a bellyache.”

He glanced toward the doorway, where Celia’s sultry maid of honor leaned against the doorjamb, looking bored.

“Good idea,” Mason nodded in agreement. He grasped Celia’s arm and gently steered her toward the door.

“Well,” Celia said hesitantly, “If you really think you can do without me…”

Mason walked her to the door. His hand rested lightly on the small of her back, and he brushed a kiss on Celia’s forehead. “I knew you’d understand. Look, I’ll call you the minute we know something. Maybe it’s not really anything serious. In which case, I’ll be at the club in an hour or so. Okay?”

Celia responded by wrapping her arms tightly around Mason’s neck, molding herself to him, and kissing him deeply and passionately.

Sallie Bayless looked away politely. Finally, she cleared her throat. “Celia, dear, I think we’d better go. Your great-aunt is out there, and she’s beside herself with worry…”

In the distance, they heard the approaching keen of a siren.

Mason peeled himself off the front of his bride’s low-cut gown. “Better go,” he said.

“Call me,” Celia repeated, reluctantly allowing herself to be towed away.

*   *   *

When they were alone again, Mason went back to the settee, where Annajane was still holding Sophie in her arms.

“Let me take her,” he whispered, holding out his arms.

“You’ll ruin your tux,” Annajane protested, but Mason was already sliding his arms under the child’s limp torso. He straightened up and cradled Sophie against his chest.

“You really think it’s her appendix?” he asked.

Annajane shrugged. “My cousin Nadine had appendicitis one summer when we were up at the cabin. Thank God Mama was there, because my aunt really thought Nadine was just constipated. Mama insisted they go to the emergency room, and, sure enough, that’s what it was.”

Mason blanched. “Maybe we should take her to Raleigh. Max Kaufman is a good enough country doc, from what I know, but Passcoe Memorial is just a little old podunk hospital with, what, fifty beds? Maybe she should see a pediatric specialist…”

The siren was getting closer now.

“Mason, Passcoe Memorial is a fine facility,” Annajane said. “It’s small, but they have a state-of-the-art surgical wing, thanks to your father’s Rotary Club, and Mama always said Dr. Kaufman was the best surgeon, the best diagnostician, she’d ever seen. If it really is her appendix, there’s probably no time to take Sophie to Raleigh. If it’s something else, something more serious, Dr. Kaufman can refer us to a specialist, but in the meantime, let’s just take one thing at a time, please?”

Pokey rushed into the room, pink-faced and breathless.

“Okay, the cars are moved, and the ambulance is pulling around front,” she said. She put one hand to Sophie’s cheek. “Oh wow, she really does have a fever,” she said. “How long has she been asleep?”

“Just a few minutes,” Mason said.

“Where’s the bride?” Pokey asked, looking around the room. “Checking her makeup?”

“Not funny,” Mason snapped. “Mama persuaded her to go on over to the country club. Maybe you should join them.”

“Not a chance,” Pokey said. “Pete’s taking the boys over there, but I’m going to the hospital.”