He caught the waiter’s attention and asked for the check. In the car, he looked at her expectantly. “Where to? Pokey’s?”

“No,” Annajane said. “I don’t think so. I’ll just get a room at the Pinecone Motor Lodge.”

He frowned. “A motel? Come on, that’s crazy. I’ll take you back to my place; you can have the guest room. It’ll all be very circumspect. And if you’re worrying about Celia, don’t. She’s been staying over at Cherry Hill.”

“The Pinecone will be just fine for now,” Annajane said. “It’s under new management. It’s clean and it’s cheap, and that’s really all I require for right now.”

He gave it some thought. “That place is in the middle of nowhere. I don’t like the idea of you driving out there at night like this. At least let me follow you there.”

“Mason,” she said calmly. “You forget I’ve been single for five years. I’m used to traveling alone, driving places by myself, checking into motels by myself. I appreciate your concern, but this really is no big deal.”

“I don’t like the idea of you staying in a motel. It’s … seedy.”

“This isn’t really up to you,” Annajane pointed out.

“I’m following you out there,” he said, and the stubborn set of his jaw told her it was no use arguing.

*   *   *

The Pinecone Motor Lodge had been the only motel in Passcoe for as long as anybody could remember. Consisting of semicircle of a dozen small whitewashed frame cottages, it was set amid a thick grove of its namesake pine trees, and reached by a winding driveway leading off what had formerly been the main route into town.

Built in the postwar years as a tourist court, the Pinecone did a respectable business up until the 1980s, when the state built a bypass around it, traffic dwindled, and the Pinecone lost some of its luster. It changed hands a couple of times, then languished in foreclosure for two years, until a semiretired couple from Florida bought it to run as a hobby.

Mason had driven past the motel often in the past, duly noticing its slow deterioration. Now, though, he was relieved when his headlights revealed the changes brought about by two gay men and what must have cost several hundred thousand dollars.

The little cabins were gleaming white, with freshly painted dark green shutters with pine-tree-shaped cutouts. A neatly clipped boxwood hedge lined the front of each unit, and window boxes with perky red geraniums and trailing ivy flanked the doorways. Lanterns shone above every door, and on each miniature porch stood a pair of red-painted spring-back motel chairs.

She parked in front of a white bungalow with a small neon OFFICE sign. Mason pulled his car alongside hers. “Okay,” Annajane said, when he rolled down his window. “See? It’s perfectly respectable. You can go now.”

“Nuh-uh,” Mason said stubbornly. “Not til I see you safely inside.”

The look she gave him was bleak and full of despair. “Just go,” she said quietly. “Please?”

A small brass plaque on the office door requested that visitors RING BELL AFTER 10 PM. It was five past, so she hesitated, but then pushed the doorbell. A moment later, a lean man with a deep mahogany tan and a shiny bald head opened the door.

“Come on in,” he said, before she could ask about a room.

She found herself in a small entry hall. Her host, who was barefoot and dressed in a wildly flowered Hawaiian shirt and baggy white shorts, stepped behind a tall antique oak reception desk.

“I’d like a room, if you’ve got one,” Annajane said.

“One? I’ve got eight or nine,” he said. “You can have your pick.”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry. Is business that slow?”

“Don’t mind me,” he said. “Thomas—that’s my partner—he says I’m a chronic complainer. Actually, business is a little better than we’d expected. We’ve been full every weekend this spring, and word is starting to get around about our little restoration project and the new management.”

“I’ve been hearing good things,” Annajane said.

“Just a single tonight?” he asked, peering over her shoulder out the window, where Mason sat patiently in his car.

She blushed. “Yes. My, uh, friend just wants to make sure I get checked in all right.”

“Ain’t none of my business,” he said airily. “We’re strictly don’t ask, don’t tell around here. Now. We’re an entirely smoke-free facility, but from the looks of you, I’d say you’re not a smoker anyway. Also, all the cottages have kitchenettes, with refrigerators and microwaves, a coffeepot, and toaster. But we also have a coffee hour here in the office-slash-reception area, from seven to nine every morning. We do fruit, and whatever kind of muffins Thomas feels like baking that day. And coffee and tea, of course.”

“How nice,” Annajane said.

He pushed the registration book toward her and turned to get a key. “Here you are,” he said, pushing an old-fashioned brass skeleton key with a silken red tassel hanging from it across the desktop. “You’ll be in unit six. It’s my favorite—so quiet, and there’s a pink rosebush just blooming its head off right outside your window. If you do decide to have company, there’s a new pullout sofa and a spare set of sheets and pillows in the top of your closet.”

“Fine,” Annajane said absentmindedly as she tried to remember her car’s license number. She handed him back the registration book, and he glanced down at it.

“Oh. You’re from Passcoe?” He peered at the book through the wire-frame glasses perched at the end of a long, bony nose.

“Yes,” she said. “I just sold my loft, downtown, and we had to close much quicker than I’d anticipated, so I’m sort of homeless for the moment.”

He nodded. “I can offer you our weekly rate, if you like. It’ll save you about twenty-five dollars a night.”

“All right,” she agreed. “I’m sort of in transition right now. I’m not really certain whether I’ll even decide to stay in town, or for how long.”

She opened her billfold, took out her credit card, and handed it to him.

“Annajane Hudgens,” he said, reading the charge plate aloud. He stuck out his hand, and she shook it. “Welcome home, Annajane. I’m Harold, and I run the place. Have you always lived in Passcoe?”

“Just about,” she said. “I’m a native.”

“You’re lucky to be from such a beautiful place. Thomas and I just love it here,” he confided. “As far as we’re concerned, you can have Miami.”

Annajane put the credit card away. “You might change your mind come February, when it’s fifteen degrees here, and in the eighties in Florida.”

“Never,” he declared. “Now, don’t be a stranger. We’ll expect to see you in the morning for coffee.”

“Maybe,” she said. “I leave for work pretty early.”

“Where do you work?”

“Quixie. The soft drink company?”

“Quixie, we adore it! We’ve even been talking about buying cases of it, so we can put a bottle in every room. Guests love that kind of local stuff.”

“Let me know if you want to pursue that,” she said, ever the marketing professional. “I can get one of our sales reps to talk to you about adding the Pinecone to one of the regular routes.”

“Perfect!”

She picked up her key. “Good night, Harold.”

“Good night, Annajane.”

32

Mason kept watch until he felt certain Annajane was safely inside her unit at the Pinecone Motor Lodge. Finally, when he saw lights blink on inside the cabin, he reluctantly drove home.

Letha had left the porch light burning for him. He didn’t bother to drive around to the garage, instead parking by the front door and leaving his car there.

He went into the kitchen and saw that she’d left him a paper plate of food neatly covered with aluminum foil, which he dumped into the trash.

Stepping softly, he climbed the stairs to the second floor. He opened Sophie’s bedroom door and peeked inside. A pink-shaded nightlight shone from an outlet beside her bed, and he could see her blond curls spilling out on her pillow. Mason sat lightly on the edge of the bed and looked down at her. Five years ago, he’d been terrified at the idea of raising a baby. She’d been so tiny, so sickly, so helpless.