“Riiiight,” Annajane said. “We’re on the same page so far.”

They heard a tap on the door, and the sound of a throat clearing.

Davis leaned into the office, glancing from his brother to Annajane. “You wanted to see me?”

Mason stood up and walked around his desk, clasping his brother’s hand. “Come on in.”

“I’ll talk to you later,” Annajane said, making for the door.

“No, stay,” Mason said. “But close the door behind you, please.”

*   *   *

Davis, Annajane thought, was clearly uncomfortable being in a room with her. He tugged at the too-tight starched collar of his pale blue button-down shirt and made a point of taking a chair as far from hers as possible.

His face was jowly and sunburned, and his dark hair, already starting to recede, still bore damp comb marks. Unlike Mason, who usually wore khaki slacks and a Quixie logo shirt to work, Davis was, as always, impeccably turned out in an expensively tailored dark suit, a red silk tie with repp stripes, and black wingtip shoes polished to a low luster. A pair of flashy gold cuff links twinkled from the French cuffs of his shirt. He looked like a refugee from Madison Avenue.

When the three of them were seated, Mason solemnly handed cold cans of Quixie to his guests.

“Is this a stunt?” Davis asked, putting the can, untouched, on the edge of the desktop.

“Not at all,” Mason said, edging the can back toward his brother. “Come on, Davis, at least take a sip. It won’t kill you. You’ve been drinking it your whole life, for Chrissakes.”

Davis rolled his eyes, sipped, and put the can back on the desk. “Happy now? Actually, I never liked the stuff. I’ll take a Sprite or ginger ale any day.”

Mason leaned back in his chair. “Well, that’s one of the roots of our problem, right there.”

“I resent that,” Davis snapped.

“It’s not meant as a personal criticism. I just don’t see how you can sell what you don’t like and don’t believe in,” Mason said, his voice mild.

“I believe in the company,” Davis said. “I believe in profits. And I don’t need a marketing lesson from you, thanks just the same.”

Mason leaned across the desk, raising his hands, palm out, in a gesture of surrender. “Can we just have a friendly, nonconfrontational business discussion here?”

“You’re the boss,” Davis said. “What’s on your mind?”

“Our marketing plan,” Mason said. “Or the lack of.”

Davis’s face reddened. “Look, if you want to second-guess me and rehire Farnham-Capheart, I guess you can do that, since you’re the CEO. But I don’t see the point in doing an end run…”

“I’m not second-guessing you,” Mason said crisply. “And I have no intention of making an end run around you, which is why I asked you to meet with Annajane and me this morning. But I would like to point out that it would have been good if you, as a courtesy, had informed me that you intended to fire the ad agency we’ve been working with for more than thirty years.”

“As vice president of marketing, that was entirely my decision to make,” Davis said, glancing nervously over at Annajane. “If this Jax Snax deal happens, we’ll be working with their agency, which happens to be the largest in the country, and anyway, Annajane, you said yourself you didn’t like the tone of the new campaign…”

It was Annajane’s turn to clear her throat. Her stomach roiled with nervousness, but something else was boiling up inside her. Anger.

“You deliberately sabotaged me,” Annajane said quietly. “You and Celia suggested to Joe Farnham that he should hire me, because you were sure I would be ‘uncomfortable’ working with Celia after she and Mason got engaged. And then, as soon as I’d quit my job here, and days before I was to start there, you made sure I wouldn’t have a job in Atlanta. That was petty, Davis. It was mean and it was low-down, and I really can’t believe I’ve ever done anything to you to deserve that kind of treatment.”

“Hey!” Davis said sharply. “This was nothing personal. It was business.”

Mason looked stunned. “Is this true?” he asked Davis. “You angled Joe to give her a job—to get rid of her, because Celia didn’t want her around?”

“I assumed you wouldn’t want your ex-wife around,” Davis said easily. “Because your fiancée sure as hell didn’t. I just did what I thought you would have done—if you had any balls, which you apparently don’t.”

Mason’s face darkened. “Annajane and I had managed to get along quite nicely for the past five years, without any help from you. She’s been an important part of our team…”

“Oh please!” Davis broke in. “She came to work here because Dad thought she was a cute kid and she was married to you, and she stayed on after the divorce because you somehow felt guilty about the breakup. Well, that’s on you, brother.” He gave Annajane a pitying glance. “She hasn’t had an original idea in years. Once Celia came on board, it was clear—to everybody but you—that we needed a new direction. I did what needed to be done. And I’d do it again.”

Annajane felt her hands clench and unclench with barely suppressed rage. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she blinked them back helplessly.

“That’s enough,” Mason roared. He pointed at his computer screen. “If you’re such a marketing genius, explain to me why our sales have been sliding every quarter for the past two years. Also, explain why we’re paying a six-figure promotional fee to a scumbucket Nascar driver like Donnell Boggs, who not only hasn’t placed in a race since we hired him, he’s had two DUI arrests in the past six weeks.” Mason flung a stack of autographed glossy photos of Boggs, wearing a cap emblazoned with the Quixie logo, across the desk at his brother.

The photos fluttered to the floor. “That’s the face you hired to be the face of Quixie?” Mason thundered. “Check the front page of today’s Charlotte Observer. Or you can find the story online. It’s on all the wire services. The Mecklenburg County Police arrested Boggs at a motel in Concord last night, where he’d checked in with a sixteen-year-old high school dropout, a quart of Tecate, and eleven hundred dollars’ worth of Ecstasy.”

Davis’s ruddy face paled. “What? No. That’s not possible. I talked to Donnell last night. He was heading to Spartanburg for the opening of a new Piggly Wiggly; then he was throwing out the first pitch at a minor league game in Greenville. It was Quixie night.”

“He never made it to Spartanburg, or Greenville, thank God,” Mason said. “He was too busy hooking up with a teenager he met online. I want him fired. Today.”

“I can’t fire him. He’s got a contract,” Davis said. “We’ve got all the summer promotional materials set. Cardboard cutouts of Donnell for all the displays, models of the number eight Quixie car. Supermarket openings, theme park promos. His picture is gonna be on the twelve-pack cartons. They go to the printers tomorrow. It’s all set.”

“Unset it,” Mason said bluntly. “Do whatever it takes. Call our attorney and have him start the paperwork. I want that contract canceled based on the morals clause. I want the sponsorship deal ended, and I want our name painted over on his cars, even if you have to do it yourself. I don’t want that degenerate turd’s name mentioned in the same breath as Quixie.”

“God,” Davis said, burying his head in his hands. “We’ve spent thousands on this campaign. Hundreds of thousands. We’ll have to do new ad buys, shoot new commercials … There’s no time to create a new campaign from scratch.”

“I can help with that,” Annajane said.

Davis gave her a sour look.

“It’s what Mason was just talking about. Returning to our roots. Retro. I’ve got all the old mechanicals and illustrations for the Quixie ads from the forties through the sixties,” she said. “And I bet if I call Farnham-Capheart they’ve still got footage of the old commercials. We just clean up the graphics for the print ads, maybe reshoot some of the commercials, cut out the footage of Donnell and the Quixie car, maybe substitute with novelty bits from the old commercials. Make the new ones look like those old Dr Pepper ads everybody used to love. We can do Facebook pages, the works. If we get started right away, we should be able to pull it off.”