“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 which 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.”