Spring Fever

by Mary Kay Andrews

  What the hell, she decided. She had to study the console switches and knobs for a few minutes to figure it out, but then she put the record onto the turntable, turned up the volume, and dropped the needle on the record.

  Lush strings and background singers filled the room. Annajane stretched out on the bed, propped her head up on the pillows, and poured herself another martini.

  “You ask how much I love you,” Johnny crooned in his velvet voice, “Until the twelfth of never.” She managed to make it through two more syrupy ballads, “Chances Are” and “Wonderful Wonderful,” before she broke down in great, sorrowful sobs.

  “That’s it,” Annajane cried, lunging for the hi-fi’s on-off dial. Much better. Thank God the proprietors of the Pinecone Motor Lodge’s tastes didn’t include vintage Journey, or she would have slit her own wrists with a dull nail file. She poured herself a little more martini and decided that was better yet.

  The twelfth of never, she reflected, sipping her drink, could have been the theme song for her relationship with Mason, with never the operative phrase. They’d been so close this last time to finding their way back to each other. But close, her mother had always warned, only counted in horseshoes and hand grenades.

  She found the old snapshot in her purse, where she’d stashed it while packing for her move, and studied it again, hoping to find a clue to that happy place they’d inhabited so long ago. Mason’s eyes were shadowed by his sunglasses, but his lips curled in a carefree, unaffected grin that was nothing like the guarded, hesitant half-smile he’d affected these last few years.

  And what about her own face? The Annajane of the photo gazed up at Mason in unabashed adoration that made her cringe today. Back then, she’d hidden nothing, held back nothing. Stupid, vulnerable girl. Couldn’t know then what she wished she didn’t know now. How she missed that girl.

  Annajane heard a small ding come from the direction of her cell phone. It was a text. From Mason.

  I need 2 see U.

  She glanced at the photograph again, looked at the happy face of that stupid, unguarded, vulnerable nineteen-year-old version of herself. One more time, she decided. One more chance. And the hell with the consequences.

  Annajane grabbed her purse and her car keys. She opened the door. Mason stood on the threshold.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, but he never got to finish his sentence, because Annajane was kissing him.

  * * *

  “Don’t say anything,” she cautioned, when he managed to pull back from her. “Don’t tell me you’re sorry again.”

  “I won’t,” he promised, taking her face between his hands. “I tried to stay away tonight. But I couldn’t. I had to see you.”

  “I know,” Annajane said. “I’ve been sitting around here moping and crying all night long.” She managed a laugh. “I was listening to an old Johnny Mathis album, for God’s sake.”

  “I’ve been standing here for ten minutes, listening,” Mason admitted. “Trying to get up the nerve to knock.”

  “I couldn’t take any more,” Annajane said. “He was killin’ me. My tear ducts are totally dry.”

  “I don’t want you to cry,” Mason said. He pointed toward the door. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. I brought the fun car. For old time’s sake. I’m selling it after tomorrow.”

  Annajane gasped. “You’re gonna let her make you sell it? But you love that car.”

  “Not anymore,” Mason said. “What’s the point of keeping it? I think I’m done with fun.”

  “Sophie loves that car, too,” Annajane pointed out. “And you promised to take her for a ride in it. All the way to the coast.”

  “She’ll forget,” Mason said with a shrug. “She’s just a kid.”

  “Stop that!” Annajane said. “I can’t stand being with you like this.”

  “I’m…” he started to say. And then he caught himself. “One more ride.”

  Annajane pulled away. “I don’t think so,” she said slowly.

  His eyes widened. “Look, it’s my last night. I’ve told her I love you. But after tomorrow, I can’t come to you like this. I won’t cheat. Not even with you.”

  “I know that,” Annajane said. She turned her back to him and lifted her hair to expose the nape of her neck. “I think we should stay in tonight. Could you please help me with my zipper?”

  He held her hair up with one hand and kissed her neck. He inched the zipper down slowly, following its track with his lips.

  Mason turned her around. He kissed her lightly at first, his lips brushing hers, almost a brotherly kiss, she thought, somehow dismayed at the casual nature of his embrace. But then he bent, and his lips strayed to her bare collarbone and the warm hollow of her neck. He pulled her closer, and Annajane’s arms twined around his neck. Finally, his lips found their way back to hers. He kissed her slowly, gently, deeply, his tongue teasing as she opened her lips to him.

  I remember this, Annajane thought, as she melted into Mason. She inhaled the scent of him, his soap, his aftershave. She was intoxicated with the scent of him, his nearness, dizzy with wanting him. With her fingertips, she traced the smooth skin of his jawline.

  “I’ve missed you,” Annajane started to say, but he kissed away whatever else she might have said. His hands cupped her butt, and then they finger-walked their way up her spine, and the shiver that worked its way up her body made him chuckle, as it always used to.

  He eased his thumbs under the band of her bra, pushing her breasts upward, until they spilled out of the gaping neckline of her dress, and then he bent his head, raining feathery kisses at first, and then, nipping and kissing and caressing her exposed nipples, until her knees buckled and her brain idly telegraphed, I remember this. Oh. My …

  Somehow, her dress slipped to the floor. She pushed Mason’s polo shirt up, and then over his head, and tossed it aside. A moment later, her lacy coral bra joined his shirt, and she pressed herself against him, wanting the sensastion of his nipples pressed against hers. She hooked her fingers briefly inside the waist of his jeans, and then ran them up his belly, laughing to herself as she felt his sharp inhale of arousal, and pleasing herself, running her fingers through his chest hair, over his now-taut nipples.

  He buried his hands in her hair, kissing her so deeply, with such passion, he literally lifted her out of her heels. Then he set her gently back down, pressing her with his hips, until her back was to the cabin wall. Without her heels, she was four inches shorter than Mason. He braced one hand on the cabin wall, looking down at her with such ineffable tenderness it took her breath away. He bent, kissed her forehead, nuzzled her ear, traced the nape of her neck with his tongue, murmuring under his breath. “So sweet, so sweet…”

  All the while, he worked his knee between hers, his hands roaming over her bare torso. He bunched the fabric of her lace panties with one hand, and then the other, effortlessly sliding them from her hips. She gasped as he slid his fingers into her, and ripples of pleasure flooded her body. I remember this. Oh. My. God. I want this.

  She slid her hand down his chest again, feeling the hard strain of him against the fabric of the worn jeans. She let her hand linger there for a moment, before unfastening the metal button. She inched the zipper down slowly with her thumb, letting the palm of her hand rest against the hardness for another long moment.

  Mason’s breath caught as she langorously unzipped his fly. She tugged at his waistband, and then, lifting one leg and wrapping it halfway around him, she pulled at the jeans until they puddled around his ankles, and he was forced to pull away, kick off his shoes and step out of the jeans.

  She gave him a lazy appraisal. “Still a boxer man, I see.”

  “I’m the same as I always was,” he said, taking her by the hand and leading her to the bed.

  She pulled the covers down and slipped beneath them, and a minute later, he was beside her. He propped himself up on one elbow, and gazed at her so intently, she found herself blushing.

  “What?” she said nervous
ly.

  He kissed her. “I’ve been waiting for this a long time. Five years. I tried to make myself forget you, but it didn’t work. Nothing else worked. Nobody else was you.”

  Annajane kissed him back. She laid her cheek on his chest. “I know. Some nights, I’d leave work, and driving home, if I had the radio on, and a certain song came on, I’d completely lose it. I’d go to meetings at work so I could be near you, but then you seemed so cold and distant; I knew you hated me. It was all I could do to stay in the same room.”

  Mason ran his hands down the length of her body, and she shivered in delight, curling toward him as he stroked and caressed her, and she did the same, reacquainting herself with the contours of his body, the flat plane of his belly, his muscled thighs, even the smallpox vaccine on his upper left arm.

  His voice was husky. “I never hated you. I couldn’t. It was just … a defense mechanism, trying to keep you at a distance because I knew I’d blown my one chance with you. I never thought I’d get you back again.”

  “Tonight’s the twelfth of never,” she laughed, with a catch in her voice, as he rolled on top of her. And it was that easy, as they moved together, the dark, empty years receded, the cold place in her heart melted, and all was light and joy and pleasure, as their rhythms matched and their bodies coupled so easily, so naturally.

  “Annajane,” he said it over and over again, as though he’d just discovered the name of his long-lost love. “Annajane.” His voice faltered, as they climaxed, in unison, waves of ecstasy washing over her as she arched her body to meet his. I remember this. This is mine. For one last time.

  * * *

  The soft buzz of Mason’s snore awoke her. He was curled on his side, one hand cupped over her breast, the way he’d slept so many nights of their marriage. She smiled sleepily to herself and glanced at the clock radio on the nightstand. One o’clock.

  “Mason!” His snores drowned out her whisper. She’d forgotten what a heavy sleeper he was. “Mason.” She turned and shook his shoulder. “Mason, wake up.”

  “Why?” he said groggily, rolling over onto his other side, facing away from her.

  “It’s after one. You have to go home.” She shook his shoulder again. “Come on. Get up, now.”

  “Sleepy. Stayin’ here.”

  “No, you’re not staying here.” She hopped out of bed and rummaged in her suitcase for her robe. Knotting the belt around her waist, she gathered up the clothes he’d dropped on the floor earlier in the evening and took them around to the other side of the bed.

  He was snoring again. “Mason!” Her voice took on a new urgency. “Look, you can’t stay here. You need to go home.”

  “Celia’s at Mama’s house,” Mason said.

  “You need to go home to Sophie,” Annajane insisted.

  “Letha’s there,” he mumbled.

  “I don’t care. Sophie will wonder where you’ve been. I don’t want her to think you’re playing spend the night with me, when you’re marrying Celia this afternoon. It’s…” She searched for the right word. “Trashy.”

  He tugged at the shoulder of her robe. “Not trashy. It’s romantic. Now come back to bed.”

  “Absolutely not,” she said, yanking the covers off him. “You’re going home.” She shoved the bundle of clothes at him. “Here. Get dressed.”

  39

  She followed him out of the cabin, missing him already, wanting him to stay, knowing she couldn’t ask him to.

  “Where’s the Chevelle?” she asked, looking out at the quiet parking lot, half-empty now.

  “I had to park clear out in back, right near your car,” he said. “Just as well. Everybody in town knows the fun car by now.”

  “Are you worried about the gossip? About what Celia will think?” Annajane asked.

  His jaw muscle twitched. “I don’t give a damn what Celia thinks. But I’d rather not have another lecture from Sallie.”

  She nodded. “I’m not going to kiss you good-bye.”

  “Better not to,” he agreed.

  “I’m almost done with the promotion,” Annajane said. “By midweek, I’ll have it wrapped up. By the time you get back from your honeymoon, I’ll be gone.”

  “Honeymoon?” He nearly spat the word. “I said I’d marry her, but there’s just so far I’ll go with this farce. I never said anything about a honeymoon. If she wants to take one, she’s going solo.”

  There was so much she wanted to ask him, but the time had slipped away. They’d only had a few hours. She was glad they’d spent them loving each other. One last time.

  “Have you told Soph you’re leaving after all?” he asked, stuffing his hands in the pocket of his jeans to keep from touching her again.

  “Not yet,” Annajane said. “I’ll figure something out. One good-bye at a time is all I can manage right now.” She swallowed hard. Her tear ducts apparently hadn’t dried up after all.

  It was chilly out, and she was barefooted. She hugged herself and hopped up and down to keep warm. “Okay. I’m going in now.”

  “See ya,” Mason said. Then he turned and walked right out of her life.

  * * *

  Sunshine flooded in through the slats of the wooden window blinds. She heard the slam of a car door and the murmur of voices from outside.

  Annajane sat up in bed and peered groggily at the alarm clock. It was only seven o’clock. Her head throbbed dully, leading her to wish, too late, that she hadn’t finished off the shaker of martinis after Mason’s early-morning departure.

  She showered and dressed in a pair of jeans and a pale blue Dandelion Wine T-shirt. Her mouth felt dry and cottony. Coffee, she thought, heading toward the motel’s office, might be her only hope of salvation.

  “Good morning,” Thomas called, as she pushed into the little lounge area. He held up the coffee pot, and she nodded gratefully.

  “You’re an early bird this Saturday,” Harold said, looking up from the computer screen behind the check-in desk.

  “Too early,” Annajane said, taking the mug of coffee Thomas offered. She looked out the window at the quiet courtyard and half-empty parking lot. “What happened to all your florists?”

  “The Stallion Club happened,” Harold said.

  “It’s an after-hours gay bar they discovered in Pinehurst,” Thomas explained.

  “They have gay bars in Pinehurst?”

  “Bar. Singular,” Thomas corrected. “Apparently it’s quite the scene. A couple of the boys came knocking on our door at two, asking if we wanted to go along.”

  “Honey, we are too old for that kind of nonsense,” Harold said.

  “Now,” Thomas added. He raised an eyebow. “But there was a time…”

  “Annajane is a nice girl,” Harold told his partner. “She doesn’t want to hear about the scandalous behavior of our youth.”

  “You mean your youth,” Thomas shot back. “I’m not the one who traveled with a Village People tribute band the summer I turned twenty-four.”

  “Were you the Indian chief or the construction worker?” Annajane asked.

  “Both!” Harold said. He smoothed his hands over his nearly bald head. “But that was back in my drinking days. The strongest thing I drink now is your delicious Quixie.”

  “That reminds me,” Thomas said. “We’ve got another guest staying here who works at Quixie.”

  “Really?” Annajane took another sip of her coffee. “I wonder who it is?”

  Harold looked down at the old-fashioned ledger book on the reception desk. “Hmm.” He laughed. “It says here his name is Harry Dix. And he paid cash for the room. Whoever he really is, he has a delightful sense of whimsy.”

  “Harry … oh, I get it,” Annajane said, blushing slightly. “He used a pseudonym. But how do you know he works at Quixie?”

  “He asked for the corporate rate,” Thomas said. “Seemed like a nice guy. Dark hair, late thirties, getting a little bit of a paunch, drives a Porsche Boxster. There can’t be that many of those around here.”
<
br />   “A dark-haired guy driving a Boxster?” Annajane said, her eyes widening.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t run into him when you came over here this morning,” Harold chimed in. “He’s staying in unit twelve, on the end. It was the only room we had when he checked in last night.”

  Annajane felt the blood drain from her face. Davis Bayless drove the only Boxster in Passcoe that she knew of. And of course, according to Pokey, he’d been using the Pinecone Motor Lodge to shack up with his girlfriends for years. She’d totally forgotten he had a history with this place.

  What if Davis had seen Mason’s car here last night? Was he aware that Annajane was staying at his favorite motel?

  Her head pounded. She took another gulp of coffee, and tried to reassure herself. Mason had parked on the other side of the complex, in the unlit back parking lot. And he’d left in the middle of the night. He’d been gone for hours now. Where was Davis’s car?

  She stood and gazed out the window, and, as she did, the door to unit 12 opened. Annajane’s head was muddled, but her reflexes were fine. She hit the floor.

  “Do I sense some drama?” Harold asked.

  “Don’t worry, hon, she’s not even looking this way,” Thomas said.

  “She?” Annajane pulled up to her knees, crawled over to the window, and peeked out.

  A petite woman in tight black slacks, a slightly askew silver halter top, and high-heeled silver mules peeked out the door of unit 12. She had short, white-blond hair and a large overnight bag slung over her shoulder.

  Annajane gasped and ducked again.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Is she looking this way?”

  Harold walked over to the window and looked out. “Not really. She’s talking on her cell phone. Do you know her?”

  “Afraid so,” Annajane said. “Her name’s Celia. She’s the one who’s marrying my ex-husband today.”

  Now Thomas was standing at the window, too. “Hmm. She’s certainly blessed. Do you think those are real?”