Spring Fever

by Mary Kay Andrews

“And this is the woman who’s going to raise his child,” Pokey said, making a gagging motion. “And Sophie. Perfect.”

  A pained expression crossed Annajane’s face. “I can’t bear thinking about that. You’re just gonna have to shield Sophie from Celia, as much as you can.”

  “If she’ll let me,” Pokey said. “Remember, Celia hates me even worse than she hates you.”

  “You gotta give Celia credit for smarts,” Annajane said. “Once she’d started up her own company, she immediately started looking for a way to trade up. She stalked the president of that other company, and then showed up in the hotel bar where he was staying during a trade show.”

  “Isn’t that how she met Davis in the first place? In a lobby bar?”

  “Sort of. According to Davis, Sallie actually tracked Celia down after buying a couple of dresses for Sophie. And then they just happened to be at the same conference in the same hotel at the same time.” Annajane lifted a skeptical eyebrow.

  “Yeah, I don’t think there are a lot of coincidences where Celia is concerned,” Pokey said.

  The waitress came by and dropped off their chocolate silk pie, but Annajane shook her head when Pokey offered her a slice.

  “Could you bring me a glass of Chablis instead?” Annajane asked the waitress.

  “Hey, what goes?” Pokey asked. “You never drink on a workday.”

  “Extreme duress calls for extreme measures,” Annajane said glumly. “Anyway, I doubt that anybody at Quixie is going to notice if I come back to work a little later than usual today.”

  A moment later the waitress was back with her wine. Pokey took the glass from her, waved the glass under her nose and sniffed appreciatively. “This is the thing I miss most when I’m pregnant. A nice little midday buzz. That, and seeing my own ankles.”

  “A midday buzz is just what the doctor ordered for me,” Annajane declared, taking a sip of the wine. She looked over at her best friend. “As soon as I get the summer campaign lined up, probably next week, I’m gone.”

  Pokey started to protest, then changed her mind. “Where will you go?”

  “Not sure yet,” Annajane admitted. “I’ve got a little bit of a financial cushion, with the money from selling the loft. Maybe I’ll travel for a while.”

  “You better come back here in time for my little girl to be born,” Pokey threatened, blinking back tears. “Or I’ll send the boys to live with you, wherever you are.”

  Annajane handed Pokey her napkin. “Don’t be such a crybaby. Of course I’ll come back.”

  37

  Sallie Bayless beamed at her future daughter-in-law as Celia walked into the den on Friday night. They’d had an early dinner together at the country club, just a salad and some broiled flounder, although Celia had only picked at her food, pleading the case for morning sickness.

  On their return to Cherry Hill, Celia had excused herself, saying that she needed to make a few quick phone calls. Now she had changed into form-fitting black slacks and a low-necked silver-gray halter top that showed off her tanned shoulders and slim, muscular arms.

  “You look lovely, dear,” Sallie said. “But won’t you be chilly in that top?”

  “Not at all,” Celia said. “It’s eighty degrees out.”

  “It’s a shame Mason isn’t here tonight to see you all dressed up. Have you talked to him this evening?” Sallie asked.

  “Several times,” Celia lied. The prick was deliberately avoiding her, barricading himself in his office for the past few days, ignoring her e-mails, texts, and phone calls. He had Voncile aiding and abetting him in this subterfuge, and Celia was damned if she’d just break into her own fiancé’s office. “He asked me to send his regrets. He’s got so much going on at the office, he didn’t think he’d get away for dinner tonight.”

  She’d tried once more to lure Mason into having sex, showing up at his house, their house, at dawn just that day, dressed only in a raincoat, a black garter belt, and her highest spike heels. It had been one of the more humiliating and ultimately futile encounters she’d ever had with a man. He’d laughed and slammed the door in her face.

  Time was running out. She’d quit taking her birth control pills as soon as she’d hatched her plan and now felt sure she was about to ovulate. And if Mason wasn’t going to cooperate, she was going to have to put plan B into action.

  Celia picked up her car keys and slung her tote bag over her shoulder.

  “Going out so late?” Sallie asked, with a slight frown.

  Jesus, the old lady watched her every move. It was like she thought she was Celia’s chaperone.

  “Bonnie Kelsey and a couple of the girls from the tennis team are having a little get-together in my honor,” Celia said. “Sort of a bachelorette thing. But don’t worry. I warned them, absolutely no male strippers!” Her giddy laugh echoed in the high-ceilinged room.

  “I should hope not,” Sallie said, looking horrified. She went back to reading her magazine. “If Mason calls, I’ll tell him where he can find you.”

  Like that’s going to happen, Celia thought. But what if, by some chance, he did call his mother, and went looking for her? That could prove to be extremely embarrassing.

  “Now don’t you go spoiling my fun by telling your son where he can find me tonight,” Celia said gaily. She patted her tote bag. “This is strictly just us girls. Since it’s probably going to be a late night, I’m planning to spend the night with Bonnie.”

  “Really?” Sallie shot her a disapproving look. “Aren’t you a little old for that type of thing? I realize we’re only having a small ceremony, but you do want to look your best on your wedding day, Celia. The photographer I hired is going to shoot a wedding portrait of you and Mason, and I know you don’t want any dark circles or unfortunate puffy eyelids.”

  “The ceremony isn’t until four o’clock,” Celia said. “Don’t worry, I swear, I’ll get my full eight hours of sleep, and I’ll be fresh as a daisy for the ceremony.”

  She kissed Sallie warmly on the cheek. “Tomorrow’s the day!”

  She waited until she was almost to the gates of Cherry Hill before taking the phone out again.

  “Heey,” she said softly. “Are you busy tonight?”

  “Not really. What did you have in mind?” he asked.

  She was fairly sure he knew exactly what she had in mind, but if he wanted to play games, so could she.

  “I was hoping we could get together to talk strategy. About the deal.”

  “Fine with me,” he said. “Where and when?”

  “Hmm,” Celia said, playing along. “Someplace private?”

  “I know just the place,” he said.

  38

  Friday night. Annajane had listened to the tapes of the tinny recordings of the old Quixie radio ads a couple dozen times, trying for inspiration for a new jingle. Despite her gloomy mood, the vocals, done by what sounded like a group of midgets huffing helium, gave her an unstoppable case of the giggles.

  Ask for Quixie in your glass

  for a summer filled with sass!

  It’s the quicker fun-time drink

  it’s cool, it’s cold, it’s pi—iiinnk!

  She glanced over at the tableau she’d set up on the desk opposite her bed at the Pinecone Motor Lodge.

  She’d had one of the vintage magazine ads with the new “Taste of Dixie” sell-line on it blown up to poster size and dry mounted on a foam-core board with an easel backing. In front of the board she’d arranged smaller similarly mounted mock-ups of the summer fun ads from the ’50s and ’60s. And as a finishing touch, she’d filled one of the old green throwback Quixie bottles with a can of the cherry soda she’d picked up on the way out of the plant.

  Shaded by the vivid vintage fringed barkcloth lampshade on the desktop, the green bottle gave off an eerie glow. The old jingles were funny and catchy, Annajane decided, but definitely stretched the truth. Quixie was not pink at all. It was definitely, decidedly red. Unless you added a scoop of vanilla ice cream, in wh
ich case it would lighten to an obliging pink.

  She reached for the martini glass on her bedside table, took a long drink, and smacked her lips. She’d worked late, only stopping in the early evening to eat a bag of chips from the break room vending machine, and had been the last one to leave the plant at 9:00 P.M.

  When she pulled into the parking lot at the motel, she’d been surprised to see that every slot in the parking lot was full, and most of the vehicles were vans or box trucks. Lights shone from all the units, and smoke curled from a barbecue grill that had been set up in the courtyard. Music drifted out from several of the units, and casually dressed men sat in front of several cottages, chatting and sipping from Styrofoam cups. The place was hopping. She followed the blacktop around to the back of the units and finally found an empty space behind the office.

  Annajane was trudging back toward her own unit when the door of the office opened and Thomas, one of the owners, beckoned her inside.

  “You’re just in time for happy hour,” Thomas informed her. He pointed to an overstuffed green chintz armchair. “Sit. I’ll get you a drink. You can have anything you want as long as you want a martini.”

  “A martini would be fabulous,” Annajane said. “But what’s going on around here? Did you book a convention?”

  “Kind of,” Harold said with a grin. He was wearing a different Hawaiian shirt, and neatly starched beige linen pleated-front slacks. “There’s a big florists’ trade show that starts in Southern Pines tomorrow. One of Thomas’s old boyfriends saw our Pinecone Motor Lodge ad in the North Carolina Pink Pages, and he sent out a few e-mails and voilà! We’re nearly sold out with a full house of florists.”

  “He is not an old boyfriend!” Thomas protested with a blush. He handed Annajane an oversized glass and poured her drink from a bullet-shaped glass and chrome cocktail shaker. “He’s just a kid. It was years ago. We had maybe one date before I realized he was too immature for me.”

  “Immature?” Harold said with a hoot. “They went out to dinner and Harold had to order him a Happy Meal.”

  “Would you stop?” Thomas said. “Annajane doesn’t want to hear about my old flames.” He went into the kitchen and came back with a dish of cheese straws.

  “Yum,” Annajane said gratefully. “I didn’t have any dinner tonight.”

  “Were you at work all this time?” Harold asked. “We were beginning to wonder if you’d changed your mind about staying.”

  “I’ve got a big project I’m trying to wrap up,” Annajane said quietly. “I’ve resigned effective next week.”

  “Oh, no,” the men said in unison. “Does that mean you’re leaving Passcoe, too?” Harold asked.

  “For now,” Annajane said. She stared into her cocktail glass. “I need a change of scenery.”

  Thomas exchanged a meaningful look with his partner. “Man troubles?”

  She nodded. “You could say that.”

  Harold patted her on the shoulder. “Whoever he is, he’s an idiot.”

  “Thanks,” she said. She stood to leave and held out her half-empty glass. “He’s getting married tomorrow. Would you mind pouring this into a go-cup for me? After the day I’ve had, I think I need a nightcap.”

  “Here,” Thomas said, handing her the cocktail shaker. “Just take the whole thing with you.”

  * * *

  The bad thing about staying in a genuine retro ’50s motel room, Annajane decided, was that all that authenticity meant that she didn’t have a television. She’d finally given up on her jingle project after an hour of staring at the old ads and listening to the old commercials.

  Instead, she reached into the box of old Quixie recipe booklets she’d rescued from one of the boxes that had been headed for the Dumpster. She decided to look for anything approaching a muffin recipe that Thomas could use.

  The booklets had apparently been produced in-house and given away at grocery store displays or as mail-in premiums. She was leafing through a booklet called “Quixie Entertaining Tips” when she came to a page featuring recipes for “Summer Quix-E-Que.” Among the dishes was a Quixie-marinated barbecued chicken, the baked beans recipe Annajane had seen in an earlier advertisement, and a chocolate sheet cake recipe with “Choco-Quixie frosting.”

  On the page facing the recipes was a full-page black-and-white photo of teenagers enjoying a summer cookout. As she was marveling at the teenager’s clean-cut outfits, she realized, with a start, that the perky brunette who was holding an upraised bottle of Quixie in her hand was none other than a teenaged Ruth Hudgens.

  “Oh my gosh, Mama,” she said softly. Her mother’s dreamy-eyed smile was directed at a trim lad dressed in a madras short-sleeved shirt and sharply pressed khakis. He looked enough like Mason to take her breath away, but as she looked closer, she realized she was staring at a teenage Glenn Bayless, who had his arm around the very young, and very adorable, Ruth.

  Annajane knew the photo had been staged, but as she studied the faces of the other teens, she realized that Sallie Bayless was not among the partygoers.

  “Mama and Glenn?” she murmured. Had the two of them ever dated? Emboldened by the martinis she’d been sipping, she picked up the phone and called her mother.

  “Hey, Mama,” she said softly. After a few minutes of chatting about her job prospects and some sharp questions about why she didn’t come to her senses and make up with Shane again, she finally managed to get to the point.

  “Listen, Mama,” she said, staring down at the recipe booklet spread out on her bed, “I was going through some old Quixie ads, and I found one with a photo of a barbecue layout that you were in. Do you remember that?”

  “That old thing?” her mother chuckled. “Good Lord, honey, I haven’t thought of that in years.”

  “You were wearing a little cotton shift dress and had your hair in a flip; you looked so cute, a little bit like Jackie Kennedy back in the day,” Annajane said.

  “People did used to tell me that,” Ruth admitted. “I bet I wasn’t but eighteen when they took that picture. I made that dress myself. It was my favorite.”

  “It’d be right in style today,” Annajane said. “Mama, in the picture, Glenn Bayless has his arm around you. And the two of you look pretty lovey-dovey.”

  “What?” Ruth sounded startled. “Annajane, the photographer posed all of us like that.”

  “You’re looking at him like he hung the moon,” Annajane said. “And he’s looking at you the same way. Mama, did the two of you have a thing, back then?”

  She heard Ruth sigh. “We went out a few times that summer, yes. I wouldn’t call it a thing.”

  “Was this before or after Glenn started going with Sallie?”

  “Now, why are you digging up all this ancient history? You are good and done with that family, I hope.”

  “Humor me, Mama, please?”

  “I can’t remember back that far,” Ruth groused. “I think that was the summer after our senior year. Glenn and Sallie dated all through school, but then I seem to recall that they broke up right before the prom. And I ended up going with Glenn, and then we went out a few times that summer. But then your daddy came home from overseas, and I never gave Glenn another look. He and Sallie got back together right before he went off to college. And I ended up marrying your daddy. Now, can I please go on to bed?”

  Annajane ran her finger over the old photograph. “Why didn’t you ever tell me you’d gone out with Glenn?”

  “It was years and years ago,” Ruth said. “Way before you were born. What difference does it make?”

  “I thought you hated all the Baylesses,” Annajane said.

  “I never said I hated them,” Ruth corrected. “I just said I didn’t care for the family. Especially the mother.”

  “All these years, I’ve wondered why Sallie didn’t like me; this explains everything.”

  “Sallie Bayless didn’t like you because she thought she was better than you and me and everybody else in this town,” Ruth said.

&
nbsp; “But she hated you, probably because she had some idea that you stole Glenn from her,” Annajane said.

  “Stole him! I did no such thing. Glenn was a nice enough boy, but even back then he had a wandering eye. I wasn’t the only girl he was seeing that summer.”

  “But I bet he only went running back to Sallie after you threw him over for my daddy,” Annajane guessed. “And to somebody like Sallie, that would be unforgivable. And unforgettable.”

  “That woman is bad news,” Ruth said flatly. “How we were ever friends is beyond me.”

  “You were friends?”

  “Best friends. In grade school,” Ruth said. “Like you and Pokey always were. Although I will say that Pokey is nothing like her mother, thank the Lord.”

  “And then what happened to break up the friendship?” Annajane asked, fascinated.

  “Boys!” Ruth said. “Sallie Woodrow was boy crazy. She didn’t have any time for girlfriends once she discovered boys.”

  “Wow,” Annajane said. “Just … wow.”

  “If that’s all you wanted to know, I’ll say good night,” Ruth said. “It’s too late for an old lady like me to be up this time of night. But honey?”

  “Yes, Mama?”

  “Send me a copy of that picture, would you?”

  After talking to her mother, Annajane couldn’t settle down. She’d tried reading, but couldn’t concentrate. And her iPod was packed away in boxes with all the rest of her belongings. She could hear voices outside from the courtyard. People having a good time. It made her deepening depression even worse. Everybody in the world, it seemed, had a man. Except her.

  The room did have an old hi-fi, though. Annajane lifted the console lid and picked up a half-dozen old record albums. Most of the artists were ones she recognized only because her step-father had inherited his father’s old record collection. She wrinkled her nose in distaste at the selection: the Ray Conniff Singers, Perry Como, Brenda Lee. Pat Boone? Harold and Thomas were dears, but their musical taste definitely ran to midcentury cheese. She considered the last album in the stack, Johnny’s Greatest Hits, by Johnny Mathis.