Текст книги "Spring Fever"

Автор книги: Mary Kay Andrews

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12

Annajane sighed as she opened the door to the loft. She hated living in chaos. Half-packed boxes littered the floor and covered every surface in the living room. She knew without looking that her sink was piled with unwashed dishes and her bedroom floor covered with clothing. This was not like her. Not at all. She had let things get away from her. She picked her way through the boxes and went into the bathroom, where she stripped and tossed everything, except her bracelet, into the trash.

When she emerged from the shower wrapped only in an oversized towel, she pushed aside a stack of unfolded laundry and collapsed onto the bed. Her head still hurt. She was tired, and worried about Sophie. But mostly, she was worried about her own screwed-up emotions.

How could this happen? How could she possibly be falling for Mason Bayless again? And what could she do about it?

Forget it. Forget him, she vowed. Think of Shane. Of her new life. And get the hell out of Passcoe.

She could still make a clean break. By the end of the week, she would, by God, finish packing and get everything loaded in the rental van. By next Saturday, she’d be moving into her own studio apartment in a close-in Atlanta neighborhood. She would be with Shane, who was good and true and loved her without reservation.

And I love Shane, too, she thought fiercely. I do. I really do. Shane is my future.

And the Monday after the move, she would start her first day of work at the ad agency. She’d be so busy, there’d be no time to think about everything she’d left behind in Passcoe.

She found a clean T-shirt and pair of jeans among the jumble of clothes on her bed, got dressed, and got busy.

For three hours, she worked feverishly, packing up a lifetime’s worth of belongings. The quicker she got it done, the sooner she could see Passcoe—and the Bayless family—in her rearview mirror.

Annajane abandoned any semblance of order or organization in her packing. Emptying kitchen cupboards, she dumped spice containers in with dishes, cookware in with cookbooks.

She took grim satisfaction in assembling the flattened cardboard boxes, filling them, and then snapping a length of shipping tape across the intersecting flaps to seal them shut.

From the kitchen she moved into the living/dining room. She positioned a box in front of the bookcases and began unloading the shelves with a long sweep of her arm. A slip of paper escaped from one of the books and fluttered to the floor.

Stooping to pick it up, Annajane froze. It was a picture, an old snapshot of her and Mason, arms wrapped around each other, sitting on the front steps of the lake cottage.

She sank to the floor and studied the photo. They looked so young! Her hair was in a ponytail, and she wore a pink polka-dot halter top and white shorts and was sunburned, with a bad case of raccoon eyes from her sunglasses, and her mouth was wide open, in midlaugh. Mason was tanned and shirtless, his sunglasses obscuring his eyes, but his smile was wide and matched her own. The picture was undated, but she knew it had to be from their first summer together, when she was only nineteen. Funny, she remembered that top, bought on sale at the Gap for six bucks, but she couldn’t remember the circumstances surrounding that picture. Most likely it had been taken by Pokey.

There were no other photos of them together. Annajane had burned them all, the day her divorce was final. They’d made a nice blaze in a rusty old grill in her mother’s backyard at Holden Beach. How, she wondered idly, had this picture survived the fire?

Not that it mattered. She stood up and tucked the photo back into the book, but instead of dumping the book back in the box with the others, she walked into her bedroom and placed it on her nightstand. Thinking better of it, she put it under her pillow.

Then she picked up the phone and called Shane. His voice, when he answered, was husky.

“Oh no,” Annajane said softly. “You were asleep. I thought you’d just be getting in from your gig. I’m sorry. Go back to bed. I’ll call you in the morning.”

“No, no,” Shane said. “Don’t hang up, baby. It’s fine. I wasn’t even in bed. Must’ve just dozed off in front of the television. What time is it?”

“Past three,” Annajane said.

“What are you doing up so late?” Shane asked. “Something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said quickly.

Liar. Liar. Liar. Her subconscious taunted her even as she spoke the words.

“I just needed to hear your voice,” she said, and that part was true.

It was his voice, deep, honeyed, and southern as sorghum syrup that had melted her heart the first time they met.

She’d gone down to visit her mother at Holden Beach back in September. After two lo-o-o-n-g evenings of watching Wheel of Fortune and Golden Girls reruns, in desperation one night, after Ruth went to bed at nine, she went out for a drive. She’d seen the Holiday Inn sign and noticed they had a lounge, and since her mother was a teetotaler and didn’t keep any liquor in the house, she decided to go in and get a drink on the spur of the moment.

The Sandpiper Lounge, as it turned out, was the happening nightspot for locals. A band called Dandelion Wine was playing to a packed house that night. Annajane sat at a table near the bar, slowly sipping a glass of wine. The band played mostly bluegrass, with a little country and rockabilly, which she was surprised to discover she enjoyed. There were two long tables close to the stage, both of them packed with women, maybe two dozen, who all seemed to know each other and the band. The women seemed to range in age from early twenties to early sixties, but they were drinking and having a great time, singing along to every song, whooping and clapping at their favorites. The lead singer and Dobro player seemed to be their favorite.

And why not? He was tall and lanky, with a mop of satiny deep brown curls and the dark, gorgeous eyes of a poet. He had dimples, and just a hint of five-o’clock shadow, and he wore a faded plaid flannel shirt and jeans with worn-out knees.

When he’d start in on a song, the women whooped and called his name, “Shane! Shane!” He’d look up, smile shyly, and maybe treat them to a playful wink, but mostly he sat on a battered wooden barstool and played and sang.

Annajane had never believed any of that stuff she’d always heard about women falling for musicians. Until she met Shane Drummond.

She supposed she must have heard the song before, probably at those long-ago family reunions at her aunt’s cabin. “On the Other Hand” was an old country standard, he told her much later, and it had been covered by greats like George Jones, Keith Whitley, and George Strait. But she’d never heard the song about a married man tempted to cheat like she heard Shane sing it that night.

His voice was deep and true and fine, and he managed to wring emotion from every word, and as his long slender fingers plucked at the Dobro, she wondered if he was singing to her and for her.

“I called you twice, earlier,” he said now, sounding puzzled. “Didn’t you get my messages?”

She had gotten his messages, of course. But she didn’t want to tell him she’d been at her ex-husband’s wedding when he called.

“My phone is kinda messed up,” Annajane said. “What message did you leave?”

“I said I love you, and I miss you,” Shane said. That was how he’d been right from the start. So open and loving.

That first night, at the bar, she kept thinking it was late and she needed to leave, but she couldn’t. At the break, the rest of the band went to the bar, where the women mobbed them, buying them drinks, laughing and flirting. Annajane, bored, was scrolling through e-mails on her phone when she heard the scrape of a chair. She looked up and it was the Dobro player.

He had a glass of white wine in his hand. “The bartender thought this was what you’re drinking,” he said.

She took the wine and asked him to sit down, and the smile that spread across his face was liquid and sweet, and his dimples deepened. And for a moment, the insane thought occurred to her—Wouldn’t this man make beautiful babies?

He glanced toward the bar, where his bandmates were engaged in slamming back shooters and flirting with the women flocked around them. She looked, too, and saw a couple of the women staring daggers at her. He started to say something, stopped, started again, and then just grinned.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I can’t think of a single thing to say to you that doesn’t sound like a pickup line.”

“Oh.” She thought about it.

“You’ve probably heard every pickup line in the book, I bet,” he said.

“Not really.” She wasn’t being coy. She’d never been much for the bar scene, even in college. And she honestly couldn’t ever remember anybody even approaching her with a pickup line in a bar. She was pretty enough, she thought, but she just didn’t attract that kind of attention.

“I find that hard to believe,” he said. “My name’s Shane, by the way.”

“So I gathered, from your fan club,” she said with a laugh. “I’m Annajane.”

“That’s a pretty name, Annajane,” he said. “Kind of quaint, a little old-fashioned. Are you an old-fashioned girl?”

“I was named for my grandmothers,” she said. “But no, I’m probably not all that old-fashioned.”

“Are you a bluegrass fan?”

“Not really,” she said. “But I like your music. You’ve got a beautiful voice.”

“Thanks.” When he smiled, the dimples were so deep she was tempted to see if she could poke a finger in one.

“I really do like your name,” he said thoughtfully. “I guess I’m a sucker for double names. Good for songwriting.”

“Do you write music?”

He shrugged. “I tinker with it. Bars like this, though, the audience wants the familiar. You know, ‘Rocky Top’ and crap like that. How about you, what do you do for a living?”

She sipped her wine. “I work in marketing for a soft drink company.”

“Coke?”

She laughed. “I wish. Nope. Quixie—you know it?”

“The quicker quencher, sure, practically mother’s milk,” he said. “Don’t they make that somewhere around here?”

“Our headquarters are in Passcoe,” she said. “So … if you know Quixie, you must be from the Carolinas, right?

“Gastonia,” he said. “Went to Middle Tennessee, got an English degree, but decided I liked music better.”

They heard chords of music coming from the stage, and when they looked up, saw that the band was getting ready to start playing again.

“Gotta go,” he said, pushing his chair back. “Any chance you might stay for the next set?”

She looked at her watch, but it was a pretense. She knew she intended to stay.

Shane kept his eyes riveted to hers throughout the night. After the last song, as the last stragglers drifted out of the lounge, he came bounding up to her table, his Dobro case in hand, clearly delighted to still find her sitting there.

“How ’bout I buy us something to eat?” he asked.

They took her car and found a Waffle House out by the interchange, and Shane wolfed down a steak and eggs, with hashbrowns, covered and smothered. She nibbled at a grilled cheese sandwich. At three o’clock, they were the only customers in the place. He’d told her his story; she’d given him a brief version of hers.

Annajane drove him back to the Holiday Inn. She parked by the door of the lounge. He made small talk, clearly not wanting to get out of the car. “It’s late,” she said finally. “If my mama wakes up, she’ll think I’ve been kidnapped by aliens.”

“I know.” He had the Dobro case across his knees. He leaned in and brushed his lips across hers. “Will it sound like the worst pickup line in the world if I tell you I don’t want you to go?”

“Try it,” she suggested.

He took her face in his hands and kissed her, this time, a long, slow, deep kiss. He rested his forehead against hers. “I don’t want you to go.”

She felt her toes curl. “Hmm. Maybe try it again?”

He kissed her again. Even better. She gave into temptation and lightly touched one of the dimples with her fingertip. He caught it and kissed her hand, and drew him to her.

The next time she looked up, she giggled.

“What?” Shane was distracted.

She gestured at the Acura’s windows. “We’ve fogged ’em up,” she said happily. She hadn’t been with a man since her divorce. She hadn’t realized how long it had been until just that moment. And she hadn’t realized how much she missed being touched, either.

He pulled her toward him again. “You know, we don’t have to stay down here in this car. I’ve got a room here. Deluxe king, nonsmoking. Free Internet. Free cable. Free coffee. And there are a lot of windows there that we could be fogging up…”

Annajane sighed. “That sounds … nice. But remember how you asked me if I were an old-fashioned girl?”

“Yeah?”

“I guess I kinda am. I guess I’m not the kind of girl who picks up a musician at the Holiday Inn lounge and then goes to bed with him later that same night.”

“Oh.” He didn’t bother to hide the disappointment in his voice. “You probably think I do this all the time. I swear, I don’t. Maybe I did the first year the band was out on the road … but not anymore.”

“I believe you,” she said. She let her fingertips trail down her arm. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. Well, okay, I guess today is Saturday. I go home to Passcoe on Sunday.”

“We’re only here one more night before we head up to Roanoke for a gig,” Shane said. “Can you come back tomorrow, I mean, tonight?”

“Probably,” she said lightly. “Maybe I could bring a toothbrush.”

He grinned, and his dimples were deep enough to dive into. “I’ll buy you one my ownself.”

The weekend after that, she’d driven up to Roanoke, and two weeks after that, they’d met in Nashville, and then, when the band had a week off right after Christmas, she met him down in Jupiter Beach at his cousin’s condo. At some point, she was startled to realize how different he was from any other man she’d known. Being with him was so easy, so effortless. He was the exact opposite of the driven, intense Mason Bayless. And that was a good thing, she was sure. On their last morning at the beach condo, she woke up and found Shane, his head propped on an elbow, gazing down at her.

“What’s up?” she asked sleepily.

“I’m just thinking about how cool it’s gonna be years and years from now when we tell our kids the story of how we met when I picked you up in a bar and I spent the next night at the Holden Beach Holiday Inn rollin’ in my sweet baby’s arms.”

Kids? She’d deliberately told herself she was not getting that serious about Shane, that they were just two adults enjoying getting to know each other. But all along she knew she was falling for him.

“When and if we have kids, as far as they will be concerned, we met at a church picnic,” she informed him.

Two weeks later, the band was playing at a tiny club in Durham. She was sitting in the audience, sipping the glass of wine he’d sent over to her table, when the band swung into “Could I Have This Dance?” She’d been a little surprised, because it wasn’t on their usual set list, but mild surprise had turned to shock and numbness when Shane stepped off the bandstand, made his way to her table, and slipped the sterling silver band on her left ring finger.

“Okay?” he’d whispered in her ear, with everybody in the whole club watching. She’d started to cry, and eventually, she’d nodded her head yes. And so they were engaged. Just like that.

It wasn’t until she’d gotten back to Passcoe and unpacked her suitcase that Sunday night that the enormity of the situation struck her. She’d just agreed to spend the rest of her life with a man she’d only met three months earlier.

Every time she started to have reservations about the engagement, though, Shane managed to persuade her that she was doing the right thing. Even when she called him at three in the morning and woke him out of a sound sleep, he was ready to whisper sweet nothings.

“Why don’t you come on down here and let me show you how much I’m missing you?” His laugh was low and provocative.

“Can’t,” she said, hoping she sounded regret she didn’t quite feel. “I’ve got a million things to get wrapped up here. I’m not even packed yet.”

“I could come up there and help,” he offered. “You really don’t have to do this all by yourself, you know.”

He was amazing. So thoughtful. He loved her. She loved him, too. Didn’t she?

“No way,” she said quickly. “If you got a good look at how disorganized my life really is, you’d run the other way.”

“Never,” Shane said. “I’ll take you any way I can get you, not that I believe there’s anything disorganized about you. You’re the most together person I’ve ever met.”

“Not lately,” Annajane said, rifling through the pages of the book she’d put on her nightstand. “Lately, I feel like my life is all falling apart at the seams. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to hold it together.”

There was a silence at the other end of the line.

“Okay, I’m coming up there,” Shane said. “So don’t tell me not to. I can tell you’re upset. You’re stressed about the move and the new job, and you’re not sleeping. You’re not yourself.”

She found the photo again. As she stared at it, the image blurred through her tears.

Who was that girl?

“I’m fine,” she told Shane. “Really, I am. Guess I was just feeling overwhelmed. I packed a bunch of boxes tonight, before I called you. The kitchen’s almost done, and I’ve started on the bedroom and my clothes. I’m warning you Shane, we might have to add on to the cabin before the wedding, just to make room for all my shoes.”

“Done,” he said. “I’ve already moved all my stuff into the closet in the guest bedroom.”

“Shane! You know I’ve rented my own place. I’ve got a six-month lease.”

“I still think it’s ridiculous,” he groused. “A waste of good money, when you could just as easily move in here right away.”

Why didn’t she just move in with Shane? Why was it so important to have her own place? Didn’t she want to live with the man she loved?

“It’s only six months,” she said softly. “Just til the wedding.”

“And that’s another thing. I don’t get why we can’t just get married as soon as you get down here. Yeah, I’ll be on the road some this summer, but so what? You can come with me. It’ll be fun. An adventure.”

She laughed. “I’m starting a new job! Anyway, you forget I’ve seen how you live on the road. It’s fine for you guys; you’re used to piling four to a room, or sleeping in the van and living on warm beer and stale pretzels. But that’s not me, Shane.”

“We’ll get our own hotel room,” Shane said. “Like at Holden Beach. I don’t care. Let’s just get married. Right now. That’s all I’m saying.”

“We’ve already talked about this,” she reminded him. “Remember? I want to be with you, I really do. But I need a little time, and a little space. Just six months. To transition. That’s not so long, is it?”

“It’s forever,” he groused.

“How did the gig go?” she asked, wanting to change the subject. Shane loved to talk about his work. It was one of the things she admired about him, his unstinting enthusiasm for whatever went on in his life.

“It was awesome,” he said. “This club has only been open a couple months. It was packed tonight, babe. They had to quit letting people in the door at ten, an hour before we went on! The energy was amazing. They want us to come back in June, and we’ll be the headline act!”

“That’s great,” Annajane said.

“I’ve got an idea for a new song, too,” Shane said. “About a girl with green eyes. And long legs.”

“Anybody I know?”

“Only you,” Shane said. “All my songs are about you now. Why can’t you get down here tomorrow?”

“Hush,” she said. “Go back to sleep.”

He let out a long, extended yawn. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Annajane said.

Liar. Liar. Liar.

13

On Sunday morning, Annajane walked briskly down Main Street, turning three blocks down from her loft, onto Church Street. She passed Passcoe First United Methodist, Passcoe First Presbyterian, and the biggest church in town, First Baptist of Passcoe, with its imposing white columns and three-story marble-lined sanctuary.

It was early yet, not even eight o’clock, so the town’s worshipers were still presumably at home, polishing off their bacon, grits, and eggs; pressing their dress shirts; or dabbing on a final bit of makeup. Because that’s the kind of town Passcoe was, a nice southern town where nice southern men and women still wore suits and dresses to church on Sundays.

Two blocks past First Baptist, she finally came to the Quixie Beverage Company, which, in its own way, was just as much of a temple of worship as the real churches in town. The sprawling red brick complex even looked like a church from the front, with two-story columns and a peaked roofline. The building had been added onto so many times since Mason’s great granddaddy founded the company in the 1920s, it now took up an entire block, fronting on Church Street and backing up to the railroad tracks.

Annajane skirted the front of the building, where a perky red-and-green-striped awning shaded a set of big plate-glass entry doors to the reception area. Instead, she walked around to the east side of the building, to the loading dock. A pair of boxy Quixie delivery trucks were parked at the dock, nose out, and she could hear the rattle of hand trucks and the soft murmur of voices as she climbed the worn wooden steps up to the dock.

“Hey, Annajane,” called out a husky middle-aged man in a Quixie driver’s uniform. He had a hand cart loaded with cases of Quixie poised at the open doors at the back of one of the trucks. “Thought you’d done moved off to Atlanta. What are you doin’ round here on a Sunday?”

She’d known Troy Meeks since she and Pokey were kids playing hide-and-go-seek around the plant. He’d given them rides on his hand truck, bought their Girl Scout cookies, and turned a blind eye when they pilfered dented cans of Quixie to sell for a quarter apiece at school.

“Hey Troy,” she said, giving the older man a hug. She reached out and gave his stubbly gray crew cut an affectionate rub. “I’m not gone just yet. I’ve still got a bunch of stuff to tie up in the office. That’s why I came in this morning. I can never get anything done with Davis popping in and out all day long, giving me orders and trying to boss me around. I just need a few hours of peace and quiet.”

“It’s a sure bet you won’t catch Davis Bayless in here on a Sunday morning,” Troy agreed. “Especially not the day after his brother got married.” He gave her a knowing wink. “That musta been some party.”

“Well, that’s a funny story,” Annajane said. “The wedding didn’t exactly go off as planned.”

His mouth gaped. “You’re kidding me. What’d you do—trip the bride as she went up the aisle?”

She shook a mock finger at him. “Careful. Celia’s management now, you know.”

He grinned. “Are you serious? The wedding really didn’t happen?”

“Nope,” she said. “Sophie got sick—right as Celia was walking up the aisle. They had to call the wedding off and rush her to the hospital. She had an emergency appendectomy.”

He shook his head. “Appendectomy! Poor little thing. Bet old Mason was fit to be tied.”

“He was. We were all pretty worried about Sophie. But Dr. Kaufman says she’ll be right as rain. I talked to the nurse at the hospital this morning, and she’s awake and demanding ice cream, so that’s a good sign.”

“Called off the wedding,” Troy repeated under his breath. “Ain’t that something.” He gave Annajane a cockeyed smile. “Maybe there’s still time for you to snag the boss. Again.”

Annajane blushed. “Sorry, Troy. That ship has sailed.” She held up her left hand so he could see her ring. “Anyway, I’m engaged.”

“Damn shame, too,” he muttered.

*   *   *

The thick, sweet smell of cherry syrup hung heavy in the air of the quiet plant. Annajane passed only two more workers, which was worrisome. At one time not so long ago, the plant would have been humming, even on a springlike Sunday morning.

But times had changed. The economy had soured. People were fickle. Their tastes and preferences in soft drinks and soft drink flavorings had changed. Quixie had lost market share to the spate of “energy drinks” flooding the market. Even their demographic had changed, from young and upbeat to, well … not.

When she’d been in college, Quixie had been the mixer of choice at parties. She and her friends had drunk Quixie and Captain Morgan rum, Quixie and vodka, Quixie and Southern Comfort, even—she shuddered to think of it now—Quixie and natty lite.

Somehow, though, the Quixie brand had gotten stodgy. Davis had commissioned market studies and focus groups to seek the root of the problem, but the answers hadn’t been encouraging. Quixie just wasn’t cool. Not that they hadn’t tried.

The company had spent millions on surveys and focus groups and ill-fated ad campaigns. They’d overhauled everything, from the original flavoring formula to the size, shape, and color of the bottles, cans, and packaging, to the look of the brand itself. But nothing worked.

Annajane pushed open the heavy metal double doors leading from the plant into the office building. She followed a narrow corridor past a slew of closed office doors before pausing in front of her own. ANNAJANE HUDGENS, ASST. V.P. MARKETING, said the plaque on her door. She slid the plaque out of the slot and dropped it an empty trash basket. By the end of the week, it would be Tracey’s office, not hers.

She drew a spare key to her office from her pocket and unlocked the door. She flipped on the light and sighed at what she saw.

More cardboard boxes were scattered around the office. Stacks of books were piled on top of her desk, and even more stacks—of boxes, files, and miscellaneous papers—stood piled at precarious angles. There was a coatrack in the corner, and from it hung a couple of her old, threadbare sweaters, a Quixie Beverage Company red-and-green-striped driver’s uniform shirt with her name embroidered on the breast pocket, and, yes, shrouded in an age-clouded plastic dry cleaners bag hung the dreaded Dixie the Pixie costume.

Annajane lifted a corner of the plastic bag and inspected the green felt tunic and red tights. Somebody—her mother, maybe?—had done a neat job of mending the rips from her Fourth of July fall all those years ago. She had a corresponding scar on her knee. You couldn’t even tell—unless you looked really closely.

She smiled wryly and let the plastic drop. Old wounds. They faded, but they never really went away, did they?

No good worrying about that now, she decided, clearing a path to her desk. She sat down in front of her computer and plunged herself into her work.

Two hours later, she sat back in her chair and paused for a moment. The end-of-quarter sales figures she’d been scanning were depressing. Fountain sales, canned sales, liter bottle sales—all were down.

Her department was gearing up to work with supermarket chains around the region for an important summer promotion. The ad agency’s art department had worked up sketches for the supermarket displays, but to Annajane they were uninspired and, worse, downright ugly.

She sighed and kneaded her forehead with her fingertips. Davis had already approved the sketches with an enthusiastic “looks great” scrawled in the margins. Annajane was only the second in command in marketing. The final okay was up to Davis—and Mason, to some extent. She had one foot out the door, so why should this matter to her?

It just did. She hated the idea of stores all over the region flooded with the tacky cardboard displays featuring a likeness of Quixie’s new spokesman—a second-rate Nascar driver—holding the Quixie bottle. The colors were garish, the production quality mediocre, and the driver, Donnell Boggs, whom Annajane had met on his one and only stop in Passcoe for promotional purposes, was a skeezy drunk who’d instantly become Davis’s new best friend.

She jotted some quick notes on a Post-it and attached it to the sketches before returning her attention to her e-mail.

A woman’s voice echoed down the hallway, and Annajane looked up, startled.

Celia Wakefield’s slightly nasal Midwestern accent was impossible to miss.

“No,” she was saying to somebody. “No, we haven’t discussed a new date yet. It just happened last night, for heaven’s sake!”

Annajane felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle. Her office door was closed, but she found herself slumping down in her chair, just in case.

Celia’s heels clicked on the linoleum hallway floor. She was coming closer, and apparently she was having a discussion on her cell phone. “No, Jerry,” she said sharply. “You don’t understand how things are done down here. It’s not just a business to these people. We have to finesse this. It’s a courtship, you know?”

“These people?” Was she referring to the Baylesses? And was Quixie the business under discussion?

Celia started to say something, but then she was quiet, probably listening to the unseen Jerry on the other end of the line.

“Mmm, actually, I think the younger brother is amenable. He’s the middle child, and you know how they are. Starved for approval. I get the feeling he’s interested in exploring his options.”

Annajane sat up straight now. Davis? Exploring his options? What the hell was going on here?

Celia had passed Annajane’s door now, and her voice was starting to fade. Annajane got up and pressed her ear to the door, feeling guilty even as she did so.

“Well, the sister is definitely not president of my fan club,” Celia was saying.

You got that right, Annajane thought.

“Mmm-hmm, no, she doesn’t participate directly, kids and all that. But yes, I think it’s likely she does have a stake in the business. No, unfortunately, that’s a bit tricky since she’s best friends with Mason’s ex.”

Annajane bristled.

Celia laughed at something her caller said. “You don’t even know the half of it,” she drawled.

The footsteps receded, as did Celia’s voice.

What the hell is she up to? Annajane wondered again.

She went back to her computer and tried to concentrate on the memo she was writing for Tracey, but her mind kept drifting back to the conversation she’d just overheard.

*   *   *

Ten months. That’s how long it had taken Celia Wakefield to get her claws into first Quixie and then Mason Bayless. Knowing Celia as she did now, Annajane was only surprised that she hadn’t managed it any faster.