Текст книги "Spring Fever"
Автор книги: Mary Kay Andrews
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 29 страниц)
6
Geographically, the distance from the church to the hospital, which was located on the bypass just outside the Passcoe city limits, was only seventeen miles.
To Annajane and Mason, the ride seemed to take a lifetime. Jammed into the back of the ambulance, perched on either side, with Sophie’s tiny form on a gurney between them, they could only watch helplessly as she writhed in pain.
“She’s hurting! Can’t you give her something?” Mason growled at the emergency medical technician riding in the passenger seat.
“Sorry, Mr. Bayless, but with kids this young, we just make sure their pulse and breathing are stable,” the EMT said. “We’ll be at the hospital in fifteen minutes, and they’ll probably give her something then.”
“Daddy,” Sophie whimpered. “Annajane. It hurts.”
She was awake again, and she looked terrified. Annajane squeezed the child’s hot, clammy hand and brushed back a strand of hair from her forehead.
“We’re taking a ride to the hospital, sweetpea,” Annajane said. “Can you tell how fast we’re going? This old ambulance goes even faster than your daddy’s fun car.”
Mason laughed despite himself. The “fun car” was what Sophie called his restored candy-apple red 1972 Chevelle convertible. It had been Glenn Bayless’s favorite big boy toy, handed down to Mason as a twenty-first-birthday gift.
The convertible was currently garaged in a truck bay at the bottling plant, brought out only occasionally, for Sunday drives to the coast, or as a special treat for Sophie, because there wasn’t room for it in the two-car garage at the house, what with his own Yukon and Celia’s Saab. And also because Celia had taken an instant disliking to—and distrust of—what she called his “middle-aged crazy car,” or, worse, “your pimp-mobile.”
“Why can’t you buy a nice Porsche, like your brother’s?” Celia had asked. “Or something with say, air-conditioning? Or satellite radio?”
The Chevelle’s air probably hadn’t worked all that well when it was new, and as for a radio, Mason preferred its tape deck, on which he listened to his stash of ’80s hair bands.
He’d had some times in that Chevelle, for sure. In his youth, he’d ripped up and down the East Coast in it, ridden the length of the Outer Banks, the one summer of his youth when he hadn’t worked at Quixie, his summer of rebellion, when he’d gotten a job working at a convenience store at Nags Head. He’d even driven to California and back, following the old Route 66, the summer he’d graduated from Penn.
Sophie’s tear-swollen eyes widened. “Can you make the top of the amb’lance go down so I can see out?”
“I can’t do that, sugar,” Mason said soothingly, “but just as soon as we get your tummy better, I’m gonna take you all the way to the beach in the fun car. Just you and me.”
“And Annajane,” Sophie added. “Annajane loves the fun car, too.”
Mason exchanged a look with his ex. Her cheeks colored and she looked away. He wondered if she remembered.
* * *
He’d been driving the Chevelle the second time he remembered an important encounter with Annajane Hudgens. She was what? Maybe nineteen? Which would have made him twenty-three.
It was summertime, and he’d somehow allowed himself to be roped into driving the convertible in the Passcoe Fourth of July parade, chauffeuring a local beauty queen, Tamelah Dorman, who’d actually been crowned Miss Passcoe, although it should have been Miss Spray-Tan, because she was surely the most artificially overbronzed girl he’d ever encountered.
Anyway, he and Tamelah were having a pretty good time that day. She, perched on the back of the Chevelle, decked out in a short, low-cut spangly firecracker-red dress that definitely showed off her best assets, and he in shorts and a white Quixie Soda polo shirt. He’d filled a flask full of crushed ice, Captain Morgan rum, and Quixie, and he and good old Tamelah had emptied and refilled it before they got a quarter of the way down the Main Street parade route that morning.
The Fourth of July parade was always a major deal in Passcoe, and that year, the hundredth anniversary of the town’s incorporation, made it an even bigger deal than usual. Thousands of people lined Main Street, seated on lawn chairs, standing in the shade of storefronts, or crouched on the curbs.
He’d hoped for a spot either at the very beginning or the very end of the parade lineup, but no such luck. They’d slotted him slap in the middle, between Patti-Jean’s Twirling Tykes—three dozen tap-dancing, baton-twirling preschoolers, and the El-Shazaam Masonic Lodge’s Shriner Klown Korps, which consisted of ten middle-aged men in white face, baggy pants, and red fright wigs, perched atop souped-up lawn-mower chassis.
Their progress was agonizingly slow. The Tykes’ twirling routines were limited to two songs—playing over and over again—which blared out from a huge boom box mounted on a wagon pulled by Patti-Jean herself, a Sousa march and I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy. Behind him, the Klown Korps guys zigzagged crazily across the pavement, popping wheelies and running a dizzying series of figure eights that left an acrid cloud of gasoline fumes hanging overhead.
The sun was blazing down, and Mason worried that their snail’s pace would cause the Chevelle’s supercharged engine to overheat.
What with the heat and all, he and Tamelah had slain one whole bottle of the Captain and were shaking hands with another, and they still had half a mile to go before they would reach Memorial Park, where the parade ended and a huge citywide picnic and carnival was set up. If his memory served, Tamelah was so trashed that she’d given up her regal, queenly wave, and begun flipping off the good citizens of Passcoe seated on folding chairs along Main Street. Twice, when male admirers ran up alongside the car to snap photos of her, Tamelah had obliged by flashing them her boobs. She and Mason had already discussed a postparade meet-up back at his apartment later that evening.
At some point along the route, he’d glanced to the right and noticed that his wasn’t the only Quixie soft drink unit participating in the parade.
There, pushing a hand cart and handing out complimentary cans of Quixie and fifty-cent coupons, was the company mascot, Dixie, the Quixie Pixie herself.
Somehow, somebody in the company had conned some poor sap into climbing into the pixie costume. Whoever it was, he thought, was probably ready to spontaneously combust in the outfit, which consisted of a long-sleeved green felt tunic, bright red tights, oversized green booties with curled-up toes, and a huge foam-rubber Pixie head, topped off with a pointy green and red elf cap.
Hell, he was roasting in the ninety-five-degree heat, and he was just dressed in shorts, flip flops, and a polo.
He slowed the Chevelle to a roll, waiting until the company mascot was right beside it. “Hey Dixie,” he called over. “How’s it goin’?”
The mascot head turned, and then the pixie made an exaggerated shrug and marched away at an accelerated pace. He studied the pixie’s shape, trying to figure out who might be wearing the costume. The tunic was loose-fitting, but it was short, ending midthigh, and from the looks of the tights, he was pretty sure there was a girl under there. A girl with awesome legs.
“Whoossh that?” Tamelah demanded, whipping her head around to see what Mason was staring at.
“Why darlin’, that’s just our company mascot,” Mason said, grinning.
“Zat a damned leprechaun?” Tamelah asked bleerily.
“Close. It’s a pixie.”
“What z’actly is a damned pixie?”
Mason gave it some thought. “A mischevious elf. Plus, it was the only word my grandmother could think of that rhymed with Quixie.”
“Hmmpph,” Tamelah hmmpphed. “Pass me that flask, will ya?”
Mason handed the flask back to Tamelah and rolled up alongside the pixie again.
“Hey Dixie,” he called. “Wanna ride?”
This time the pixie did not bother to turn around. She tossed three cans of sodas to a trio of cat-calling teenage boys in rapid succession, and then took off again, the brass bells stitched to her curly toes jingling merrily with every step.
Mason chuckled under his breath, and accelerated the Chevelle.
“C’mon,” he called, sliding easily alongside Dixie again. “Who is that under there? We’re almost at the park. You can tell me.”
But now the pixie was very nearly trotting, the cart bumping along on the street’s uneven asphalt pavement, spewing chunks of ice in its wake. She managed to sidestep the baton twirlers, and then, suddenly, she disappeared into the crowd.
“That damned pixie just shut you down, Mason baby,” Tamelah giggled. Mason turned his head, to tell her to pipe down, but he needn’t have bothered, because right about then, Tamelah’s eyelids fluttered, her head slumped to one side, and she rather inelegantly slid down onto the backseat of the Chevelle. Passed out cold. Or hot, in Tamelah’s case, with her spangly dress hiked up nearly to her waist.
Shit. He hoped none of the Twirling Tykes had seen that little performance. Mason turned and yanked the hem of the dress down.
Thank God, he was within half a block of the park. He would have left the parade right then, but he was hemmed in tight.
Fifteen minutes later, he finally pulled the Chevelle into the shade of a towering oak in the parking lot at Memorial Park. He got out of the car and walked around to check on Tamelah. She’d slumped into a prone position on the convertible’s white leatherette bench seat, her rhinestone tiara had fallen to the floor, and she was now snoring in a very unqueenly manner. Mason shrugged, again readjusted the hem of her dress for modesty’s sake, and looked around.
It was nearly one o’clock, he was hungry, and the irresistible aroma of kettle corn and charcoal-grilled hotdogs was wafting through the treetops from the area of the food concession tents. He pocketed his car keys and set out to find himself some lunch.
The park was already mobbed with people. He had to bob and weave his way through the chest-high banks of shrubbery and flowers, and he was finally making a beeline for the Kiwanis Club’s barbecue stand when he happened to see a flash of red out of the corner of his eye. He stopped short and grinned.
The slight figure of a girl in a green tunic and red tights was seated on a park bench a hundred yards away. The foam-rubber pixie head sat beside her on the bench.
Mason ducked behind an overgrown azalea bush, circled around, and came up to the bench from behind. He still couldn’t guess the girl’s identity. Without a word, he picked up the pixie head and sat himself down on the bench in its place.
“Well, hey there, Dixie,” he drawled.
The girl turned and looked at him. It was her, his little sister Pokey’s best friend, Annajane. She’d been a cute little kid when he’d seen her last, and he’d glimpsed her around the plant over the past two summers but had somehow never really run into her again.
He’d been right about the heat inside that pixie suit. Her hair was wet and plastered to her head, and her face was beet-red and slicked with perspiration. She’d taken off the oversized green booties, and was so busy rubbing her stocking feet that she hadn’t seen his approach. Also, she appeared to be crying.
“Oh no,” she said quietly, covering her face with her hands.
“No good,” Mason told her. “I can still see you, even if you can’t see me. It’s Annajane, right?”
“No,” she said, sniffing, and still not moving her hands. “I don’t know any Annajanes. Go away, please.”
He looked around. “Where’s your cart?”
“G-g-gone,” she wailed. “I was almost at the park, and this bunch of little thugs snuck up behind me. I could only see straight in front of me with that darned pixie head on. Two of the boys grabbed me by the arms and held me, and the others took off with the cart. I tried to chase after ’em, but I couldn’t run in these stinkin’ shoes. I tried, but I tripped and fell. I tripped and fell, and I’ve ripped these doggoned tights.” She stuck her right leg out, and Mason could indeed see the stocking was torn and stained with blood.
“You’re hurt,” he exclaimed, bending over to get a closer look. He could see now that the sleeve of her tunic was also ripped and spotted with more blood.
“Just scrapes,” Annajane cried. “But I’ve ruined the costume! And that cart—it was probably really expensive.”
“Well, hey,” Mason said. “It’s not like it’s your fault. Nobody’s going to blame you. You were mugged!”
Annajane drew her knees up to her chest and clutched them tightly. “God! I just want to go home and take a cold shower and forget about today.”
“Do you need a ride?” Mason asked. “How were you supposed to get the cart back to the plant today?”
She sobbed again. “I was supposed to call Voncile, and she’d have one of the route drivers pick me up once I got here to the park! I had my billfold and my car keys in the cart. And now it’s gone! And I’d just cashed my paycheck yesterday, and I had a hundred and fifty dollars in it, and now it’s all gone!” She buried her head and wept more bitter tears.
Mason looked around uneasily. He wasn’t really good with girls who cried, but Annajane was about to break his heart.
He patted her back gingerly. “Hey, it’s not the end of the world, you know.”
She raised her head and looked at him, rivers of tears and rivulets of snot dripping down her crimson cheeks. “It is to me. I can’t afford to lose a hundred and fifty dollars.”
Mason felt like a heel. “I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Look, sitting here crying isn’t doing you any good. We should find a cop, and fill out a report. Did you see what the kids looked like?”
“Not really. Just teenaged boys. Maybe thirteen or fourteen. I didn’t recognize any of them from around here.”
“Okay,” Mason said with a sigh. “I’ll go see if I can find a cop. Listen, are you hungry? Have you eaten today?”
“No,” she said, her voice wobbly. “I mean, no, I haven’t eaten, and yeah, I’m starved. But I don’t have any money.”
He stood up quickly. “All right. I’ll be right back. Hotdog or barbecue?”
“Hotdog.”
“Ketchup or mustard?”
“Both.”
“French fries or potato chips?”
“Chips,” she said, and then, managing a wan smile, “please.”
He found a cop lounging against the cotton candy stand and told him how the gang of adolescent boys had made off with the Quixie cart with Annajane’s billfold and car keys.
“I’ll put out a watch for the cart,” the cop promised. “They probably just wanted the drinks, and with any luck, they’ll dump it somewhere. Have your girlfriend come by the station later and fill out a report.”
Mason was about to tell him Annajane wasn’t his girlfriend, but something made him hesitate.
Fifteen minutes later, he was back at the bench with a grease-spattered paper sack containing three mustard-and-ketchup-soaked dogs, a bag of potato chips and a package of french fries, not to mention two huge Styrofoam cups of sweet iced tea.
He handed her one of the cups. “I figured you’d probably already had your fill of Quixie today.”
She nodded gratefully and gulped a mouthful of icy tea. “Oh God, this tastes good,” she said.
He sat down beside her again and parceled out their food. She gobbled down the hotdog and potato chips as though she hadn’t eaten in a week.
Finally, she sat back and sighed.
“Feel any better?” Mason asked.
“Fuller, maybe,” Annajane said. “Thank you for lunch.” She craned her neck and looked past him.
“What happened to Miss Passcoe?”
“She, uh, was a little tired out after the parade,” Mason said. “She was catching a catnap in the car.”
“Stone-cold drunk, right?” Annajane guessed. “Tamelah was a year behind Pokey and me in high school. She could drink the whole football team under the table, no problem.”
“It was pretty hot out there today,” Mason said, always the gentleman. “And we mighta had a little Captain Morgan’s with our Quixie.”
“A little?” Annajane raised one eyebrow. She’d somehow managed to clean herself up while he was on his food run. Her face had returned to its normal color, she’d fluffed her dark hair, and for the first time, he noticed her remarkable eyes, which were a light sea green in contrast to her thick, sooty eyelashes. She wasn’t somebody you’d call beautiful. Her nose was kind of stubby, and her mouth was probably too wide for her face. But her eyes made you forget those inconsequential details.
“I should probably go check on Tamelah,” Mason said reluctantly, balling up the paper sack. “What about you? Can I give you a lift back to your car?”
“You could,” Annajane agreed, “but since I don’t have my car keys, it won’t do me much good.”
“Riiight,” Mason said thoughtfully. “Look. Come with me. We’ll get Tamelah sorted out, and then I’ll take you home. All right?”
She hesitated. “Actually, I was supposed to go over to your house this afternoon. My folks are gone for the weekend, and I’m spending the night with Pokey.”
“Even better,” Mason said, feeling his spirits unaccountably lifted. He stood and picked up the foam-rubber pixie head. “After you,” he told her.
When they arrived back at the Chevelle, Tamelah was gone, tiara and all.
“Guess she had a better offer,” Mason said, secretly relieved. He tossed the pixie head in the backseat and opened the passenger door for Annajane.
“Shouldn’t we wait around, to see if she comes back? Maybe she just went to find the bathroom or get something to eat,” Annajane suggested.
Mason checked his watch. “I’ll give her ten minutes, and if she’s not back by then, she’s on her own.”
Fifteen minutes later, he and Annajane were riding down the highway, listening to the radio and singing along at the top of their lungs. An hour later, they were headed for the lake house, which was nothing more than a run-down caretaker’s cottage perched at the edge of the spring-fed lake they called Hideaway, on the Bayless estate. Pokey was nowhere to be found. But Annajane showered and changed into a bathing suit, and pretty soon they were cooling off in the lake, floating in a couple of old inner tubes Mason retrieved from the boathouse. Mason had been right about Annajane’s legs. They were spectacular. And the rest of her wasn’t bad either.
But the thing that did him in were her eyes. Those solemn, amazing green eyes. When she looked up at him through those lowered dark lashes, when she laughed, when she was surprised, or, later, as she dozed on a lounge chair, he couldn’t quit thinking about those eyes.
He was stretched out on the chaise next to hers, on the dock, his head propped up on one elbow, staring at her when she woke up.
Her sunburned cheeks flushed a deeper pink. “What are you looking at?”
“You,” Mason said. He leaned across and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Where have you been all my life, Annajane Hudgens?”
She blushed even deeper. “I’ve been right here. Pokey and I have been best friends since we were five. And I bet I’ve spent more nights at Cherry Hill these past five years than you have. You’re the one who’s never been around.”
“That’s about to change,” Mason vowed. “Starting today.” And for the next six weeks, they’d been inseparable. Knowing her mother’s low opinon of the Baylesses, they deliberately kept their families in the dark about their relationship. Mason could never understand why Annajane wanted to keep him a secret. “Your mom doesn’t even know me,” he’d protested. “How do you know she wouldn’t like me?”
“If your last name wasn’t Bayless, she’d probably love you,” Annajane finally admitted. “But Mama’s funny. She’s got some kind of bug up her rear about your family. She never has admitted she likes Pokey, even though we’ve been best friends our whole lives. Mama thinks your mother’s stuck-up, that she looks down on anybody who doesn’t belong to the country club.”
“Well hell, she’s right about that,” Mason said with a laugh. “Mama is a big snob. But that doesn’t make me one.”
In the end, though, they both came to enjoy the illicit nature of the romance. Only Pokey was in on the secret. She’d meet Mason at the lake, or stay late after work, and they’d head over to Southern Pines for dinner and a movie. And on the last summer weekend before she had to go back to school at State, she fabricated a story about an all-day shopping trip to Charlotte with Pokey.
Instead, she and Mason snuck out to the lake house, where she gladly gave up her virginity on a creaky army-surplus cot.
The following Monday, Annajane went off to Raleigh for her sophomore year at NC State and Mason went off to grad school. It would be two years before she would see Mason Bayless again.
Her first few weeks back at school, Annajane told herself Mason hadn’t called or e-mailed because he was busy with classes. Getting a master’s in finance was no joke, she knew. The weeks stretched out, and he still didn’t call or e-mail, and she was too proud to call him. She went home at Thanksgiving, but Mason didn’t. When Christmas rolled around, she was sure she’d see him. The Baylesses made a big deal of Christmas, with a huge open house on Christmas Eve and an elaborate family dinner. But Mason, Pokey told her, had been invited to spend the holiday with a classmate, at his family’s vacation home in Cuernavaca.
When Christmas morning came and went without so much as an e-mail from him, Annajane tore the card off the antique sterling silver cufflinks she’d bought for Mason and instead gave them to her stepfather, Leonard, who only wore short-sleeved dress shirts.
Stung by being so unceremoniously dumped, Annajane returned to school and threw herself into classwork and a rigorous social life. She dated with a vengeance, told herself she was in love with a cute but slightly dim-witted guy in her marketing class, slept with him once, and then swore off men who used more hair products than she did.
She found herself deliberately staying away from Passcoe, instead spending holidays with classmates, even taking a part-time job as nanny for one of her professor’s bratty nine-year-old twins, so that she’d have an excuse to stay in Raleigh year-round instead of going home—and facing the possibility of seeing Mason riding around town in that shiny red car with a new girlfriend.
The summer before her senior year, she got an internship with a New York advertising agency and shared a roach-infested six-hundred-square-foot apartment in Brooklyn with two other girls from NC State. Annajane had herself a very large summer; got invited to house parties at the shore, and dated another intern, Nouri, who introduced her to Pakistani food and who promptly fell in love with her and begged her to transfer to Columbia and move in with him.
Instead, Annajane returned to Raleigh in late September, with highlighted blond hair, a discreet butterfly tattoo on her right hip, and a tiny silver nose ring, which she quickly discarded after the shock value wore off.
Somehow, she managed to avoid seeing Mason Bayless for nearly two years. Right up until the day Pokey got married. But that was another story.
