“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.”

“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.