Spring Fever

by Mary Kay Andrews

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Annajane? Is that a yes?”

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

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

  “Why not?”

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

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

  She raised one eyebrow. “Really?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She should burn the jersey.

  Yeah. Right.

  Mason obviously sensed her indecision.

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

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

  * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “That sounds nice,” she said.

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

  “Mötley Crüe?” Annajane rolled her eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Where is she now?”

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

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

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

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

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

  Wow, Annajane wondered. Where was this coming from?

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

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

  “Does Celia think Sophie’s spoiled?”

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

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

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

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

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

  Hope not, Annajane thought.

  18

  When they got to the turnoff for the farm, Mason swung the car easily into the graveled drive. Lights glowed from within the old white-painted farmhouse, and a battered pickup was parked in the shade of the tin-roofed shed that had once sheltered tractors.

  “Somebody’s living here?” Annajane asked.

  “You remember Grady Witherspoon? Maybe not. He was a little older than me. Went in the navy right out of high school, and I guess they’ve lived all over the world. He and his wife moved back last year. They’re renting the place. He’s planted one of the old cornfields, gonna be selling organic vegetables to some of the fancy restaurants over at Pinehurst. At least that’s the plan.”

  The Chevelle bumped along over the rutted dirt road that skirted an old pasture gone to weeds. Waist-high pine-tree saplings lined the rusty barbed wire fence. More than once, the high-beam headlights caught a deer bounding gracefully across the path, and junebugs and moths seemed to float in the still, cool air. Finally, Mason pulled the car alongside a weathered outbuilding.

  “What is this place?” Annajane asked, half-rising from the seat to get a better look. It had been years and years since she’d visited the farm.

  “It’s the old corncrib,” Mason said. “It’s about to fall in, along with the rest of the buildings out here. Davis and I used to bring sleeping bags and camp out here back in the days when we deer hunted together. We thought we were Daniel Boone and Davy Crockett.”

  He cut the engine and they let the quiet settle over them. It was a country kind of quiet, lush and deep and green, Annajane thought, with cicadas sawing away and the hooting of an owl echoing from a nearby treetop.

  “Do you and Davis still hunt together?” Annajane asked, shivering involuntarily at the sound of the owl.

  “No,” he said, and she thought she detected a note of regret in his voice. “The only deer he’s chasing these days are the kind spelled d-e-a-r. We actually don’t do much of anything together anymore, except bicker.”

  “About the company?”

  “That, and other stuff,” Mason said. “Lately, I look at him and have to wonder how we could be so completely different and yet come from the same set of parents.”

  “Davis definitely marches to his own tune,” Annajane said, trying to be diplomatic.

  “That’s part of the problem,” Mason said darkly. “We’re supposed to be running a family business. I keep trying to remind him of that, but it doesn’t do much good. If he had his way, Quixie would be a division of some giant chemical company, and he’d be sitting in a penthouse office in Manhattan. But that wasn’t my grandfather’s vision for the company, and it sure wasn’t Dad’s. Nor mine. Jax Snax, my ass.”

  “Jax Snax?” she asked. “The potato chip company?”

  “You won’t say anything to anybody, right?”

  “Of course not.”

  He cleared his throat. “They’re making noises about buying a controlling interest in Quixie. Nothing formal yet, just talk. But some numbers have been floated. The people I’ve talked to say it’s a decent offer. Not great, but decent, considering our recent sales slide.”

  She wondered if she should disclose the conversation she’d overheard Celia having earlier at the plant. Did Mason know his bride to be was in cahoots with his baby brother?

  “Would you sell?” Annajane asked.

  “It’s kind of a moot point right now,” Mason said. “You know Dad’s biggest fear was that after his death the company might get broken up or sold off. He’d seen it happen to other family-owned companies, seen the kinds of feuds that erupted between siblings, and he was bound and determined it wouldn’t happen to Quixie. Or to us. Which is why he put the company ownership in an irrevocable trust that would prohibit any discussion of a sale until after he’d been gone for five years.”

  Annajane raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know that.”

  “The rest of the estate was settled after Dad died,” Mason said. “That part was pretty cut and dried. He left Cherry Hill to Mama, and Davis and Pokey and I got what we got. But none of us realized, until we met with Norris Thomas, Dad’s lawyer, that he’d left it so that Quixie couldn’t be sold. Not only that, he instructed Norris that the exact details of the trust couldn’t be disclosed for five years.”

  “It’s been more than five years now,” Annajane pointed out.

  “The clock on the trust didn’t start ticking until April fift
eenth, which was when the will was probated,” Mason said.

  “What’s that mean for Quixie?” Annajane asked.

  “In the short term, it means no sale,” Mason said. “After that, we don’t really know. Norris told me himself that Davis has been pestering him about the trust for a couple months now—probably ever since the Jax Snax people started talking about a deal. Davis even threatened to sue to get the trust arrangement revealed early, but Norris is a stubborn old bastard. He’s sitting tight. He says he’ll meet with all of us next week—on the fifteenth, and not a day before.”

  “Why all the secrecy?” Annajane asked, studying Mason’s face for any clues. “I mean, your dad always said he was leaving the company to you kids, right? So I don’t understand why he’d make y’all wait five years to find out exactly how everything would play out.”

  “You knew Dad. He was a poker player his entire life. He always liked to play his cards close to his chest. And to tell you the truth, I think he probably liked the idea of controlling us from beyond the grave.”

  “And your mama doesn’t know what’s in the trust agreement either?” Annajane asked.

  “Nope. She swears she can’t get Norris to tell her a thing. And believe me, she’s tried everything up to and including bribery and death threats.”

  Annajane grinned. “How’s that sitting with Sallie?”

  “She’s been pissed about it for five years,” Mason admitted. “But there’s not a damned thing any of us can do about it.”

  “I guess selling the company would mean a lot of money,” Annajane said.

  “That’s why Davis is so fired up. A sale would make us all rich.”

  She coughed politely. “Pardon me for stating the obvious, but you’re already rich.”

  “Moderately wealthy,” Mason corrected her, laughing at himself. “On paper, anyway. Don’t forget, Dad took on a lot of debt when he bought that land in Fayetteville. That’s what Mama would prefer we be called. But Davis definitely would prefer to be rich. Filthy, stinking rich.”

  “What does Sallie think of all this?” Annajane asked.