“Who knows?” Celia said. “She’s in her nineties. I don’t know why she insisted on coming down here all alone for the wedding if her health is this precarious. I could just strangle my cousin Mallery for putting her on the plane.”

Mason reached for his car keys. “Come on. I’ll drive you over to Cherry Hill. We can call Max Kaufman, and if need be, he can come over and check out the old girl.”

“I don’t want to bother you,” Celia said. She had her pocketbook over her shoulder and her car keys in hand. “It’s probably nothing. I’ll call you if I need you.”

“What about your dinner?” Mason asked. “Can I just put it in foil or something for later?”

She glanced in the direction of the kitchen, her lips pursed. “I’m sorry, darling. Just pitch it out.”

16

Mason exhaled slowly. Was Celia upset with him? She was usually so sweet and accommodating. What had gotten into her lately? She’d left in a huff. If she’d stayed, he would have had it out with her over this Jax Snax thing. She knew more about the subject than she’d told him. This was no casual bit of gossip. Celia didn’t do casual. Maybe she just thought it best to alert him to the fact that they were being checked out by another company. No harm, no foul, right?

He should feel bad about their dinner, he knew. After all, her wedding had been spoiled, and her prospective stepdaughter was being a little bit of a pill, and now her great-aunt might be sick. Really sick.

Upon reflection, he realized he didn’t actually feel bad at all. Probably this made him a terrible person, certainly a terrible husband-to-be. He should call and apologize, at least drive over to his mother’s house and insist on helping her take care of her aunt, or something. But right now he really just wanted to do what he wanted to do. And hadn’t she just called him spineless and his daughter spoiled, in a roundabout kind of way?

So he strolled out to the garage, found his golf clubs and some whiffle balls, and went out to the side yard, to that scruffy future garden plot. For an hour or so, he practiced putting because his short game sucked. He didn’t think about postponed weddings, or pissed-off brides, or why he seemed to take such perverted pleasure in pissing off his bride to be. But he did feel something, unease, maybe, about the fact that he was actually feeling relieved that Celia’s big night with him was probably not going to happen. He was a totally shitty husband-to-be, for sure.

After he’d worked on his putting, it was still daylight, and there was still at least another hour of warm, buttery sunshine left. Without giving it much thought, he got in his car and drove over to the bottling plant. He let himself into the garage, found a clean rag, and dusted a film of thick yellow pollen off the red Chevelle. Had it been that long since he’d driven the fun car? He got in and fired her up, doing a silent fist-pump when the engine throbbed to life. He put the top down and carefully backed it out of the garage.

Ten minutes later, he was tooling around Passcoe, seeing the sights, tooting his horn at anybody and everybody he recognized. He felt really, really good. But, and this surprised him, maybe a little lonely.

What he needed was a passenger. Somebody who could share his appreciation for just how cool it was to drive around on a beautiful spring evening with the top down. He reached for his phone, and without giving it much thought, tapped the icon for Annajane’s cell.

Wrong. He disconnected before her phone could even ring. He drove another block and reconsidered. Why the hell not? It was just a car ride, for God’s sake. He tapped the icon again, and at the next block, swung the Chevelle back in the direction of her loft. All she could say was no, right?

*   *   *

Annajane’s cellphone rang once. The screen lit up, and she saw that it was Mason calling, but he’d disconnected before she answered.

She held the phone in her hand and stared at it. Should she call him back? Act as though she didn’t know he’d called? She felt like a stupid teenager. She started remembering all the Friday nights she’d spent, staring at the phone, fantasizing about picking up the phone and hearing Mason’s voice on the other end of the line. She remembered the sleepovers at Pokey’s house and how she’d sneak into his empty room when the rest of the household was asleep, studying his books, his bed, the football and baseball trophies casually lined up on the shelves. She remembered the notebooks she’d filled in high school, practicing her signature: Mrs. Mason Bayless, written in stupid, girly flourishes. While she was remembering all the things she missed about being a stupid teenager, the phone rang. Mason, again. She let it ring three times and then answered.

“Hey, Annajane,” he said.

“Hey, Mason.” She felt herself blushing with pleasure. “How’s Sophie?”

“She’s good. Sleeping. So, there’s something I was wondering about. We’re okay, right?”

“Okay?”

“You know. As friends. We’ve been through some stuff together. Good and bad.”

Annajane laughed ruefully. “That’s the understatement of the year. But yeah. I’d say we’re okay now. Mind if I ask why you’re asking?”

There was a long pause at the other end of the line. “I don’t know. This is just so weird. I guess I’m sad that you’re leaving town. Leaving the company.”

“That’s sweet. But you’ve known for months that I was leaving the company and moving to Atlanta. And getting remarried,” she reminded him.

“Yeah, but none of that seemed real until today. I went by your office at the plant, and I saw all the moving boxes and stuff.”

“It’s real. I’ve sold the loft. I’m finishing up packing right now,” she lied. “Friday’s my last day.”

“I wish you’d stay,” he blurted out.

Annajane held up the phone and stared at it. Who was this guy? Were they really having this conversation? Mason had never once expressed any regrets about her leaving—not him, and not the company. No regrets, that’s what he’d always told her in the past.

“Staying is not a good idea,” Annajane said. “Not for me. It probably wasn’t a good idea for me to stay in town after we split.”

“I don’t know why you say that. I mean, yeah, it was a little awkward at times, but I think we managed to keep things on a pretty professional level. You don’t think we could keep that going?”

No, she wanted to scream. We cannot keep things going while you’re married to Celia, because I want to throw up whenever I see you two together. We cannot keep things professional because I cannot keep telling myself I’m over you when I’m pretty sure I’m not over you.

“This isn’t about any of that,” she said finally. “It’s not about you and me, Mason. That’s over. This is about me getting a great job offer and really challenging myself. It’s about me starting a new life with Shane. Maybe even starting a family. I think it’s time, and I think I deserve some happiness. You should be happy for me. I’m happy for you.”

Liar, liar, pants on fire.

She heard him inhale and then exhale. “Hey,” Mason said. “You’re not doing this because you’re pregnant, right?”

That’s when she disconnected the phone and tossed it onto the sofa. Annajane stomped into the sleek galley kitchen and, spying the bottle of Maker’s Mark she’d left on the counter Saturday morning, poured herself two fingers of bourbon, which she drank, straight up. She heard her phone buzzing from its resting place among the sofa cushions. It stopped buzzing. She poured a little more bourbon in the glass and, not wanting to become a sloppy drunk, thoughtfully added some ice cubes to the glass, forcing herself to sip slowly while the phone buzzed softly in the other room.

17

Mason banged his head on the Chevelle’s steering wheel. Once, twice, three times. He needed to knock some sense into his own skull. What the hell was wrong with him? Had he really just suggested that Annajane was only getting married because she was knocked up? He massaged his forehead and tried to call her again. Of course she wasn’t answering. He looked up at the second floor of her building. The lights were on. He redialed. Nothing.