“I didn’t swallow any,” Sophie said. “I only take pills Letha or Daddy gives me.”

“Thank God,” Mason said. “What are they, anyway? I wonder where Sophie got ’em?”

“They appear to be birth control pills,” Pokey said, holding up the back of the packet so Mason could see. “And according to the prescription label, they belong to Celia Wakefield.”

“What?” Mason said, taking the packet from his sister. “These must be an old prescription. Celia told me she was on the patch. That’s how she got, er,” he looked over at Sophie, who was listening attentively. “You know.”

Pokey took the package back. “They’re not that old,” she told her brother. “According to the label, these were dispensed from the CVS Drugs out on the bypass, to Celia Wakefield, on April 1. That’s two weeks ago. She picked them up a week before your wedding. And look,” she said, pointing to the empty perforations in the foil. “There are ten pills gone. Seems to me Celia was on the pill, right up until three days ago.”

She gave her brother a piercing look. “Isn’t that when she told you she was pregnant?”

They heard the sound of the lock turning in the front door, and the sound of it opening and closing, and then the tap of high heels on the wooden floor.

Celia stood in the doorway of the den, with a plastic dry-cleaner’s bag across her arm. “Mase? I picked up your suit from the cleaners. I knew you’d…” She saw Pokey sitting on the sofa beside Mason, and saw Sophie, seated on the floor, refilling her pocketbook with her treasures.

“What’s going on?” she asked, sensing the hostility radiating from every pore of Pokey’s body.

“Just a family conference,” Pokey said.

“Giving it one last try, to convince your brother not to marry me, are we?” Celia asked, trying to sound lighthearted. “Mason’s a better man than you give him credit for, Pokey.”

Pokey held up the silver package of birth control pills. “And he’s a smarter man than you give him credit for.”

Celia snatched the pills from Pokey’s fingertips. “Where did you get these?”

Pokey pointed to Sophie’s pocketbook, which was once more slung across the child’s chest. “Sophie has apparently been helping herself to some of your most secret treasures. We found these in her pocketbook, along with one of your lipsticks and some other things she picked up around the house.”

“That’s absurd,” Celia said, but her laugh was hollow. She turned the package over. “I don’t know where she found these, but I haven’t been on the pill in months and months.”

Mason stood up and took the package from Celia. “According to the label, you had this prescription filled two weeks ago.” He pointed at the perforations from the missing pills. “What does this mean, Celia?”

Celia pulled herself up to her full five feet one inches of height. “It means I don’t appreciate being interrogated like a common criminal.” She shot Pokey a glance of unmitigated venom. “For your information, I was on the pill, months and months ago, but I switched to the patch right after Christmas. Anybody could have called the CVS and had this prescription refilled, and then planted it with Sophie to make me look bad. Darling, this is obviously some farce your sister has cooked up, to keep you from marrying me. But it won’t work.”

She turned on Pokey. “I just bet Annajane Hudgens is in on this nasty little plot of yours, isn’t she? She’d do anything to try and get Mason back.”

Mason glanced down at Sophie, who was watching the brewing storm with interest.

“Pokey,” he said, keeping his voice pleasant. “Maybe you and Sophie should get started on that girl’s night out.”

“I don’t wanna,” Sophie protested, even while Pokey was taking her by the hand and attempting to lead her out of the room. “I wanna go to the wedding.”

“Come on, Sophie,” Pokey coaxed. “I don’t think there’s gonna be a wedding today.”

“Over my dead body,” Celia called.

Pokey turned and gave her a dazzling smile. “Oh, trust me, that can be arranged.”

42

Celia stood by the fireplace, still clutching the plastic bag of dry-cleaning. But Mason had retreated to his desk. He had the package of birth control pills, and he kept turning it over and over. “Mason,” she said, pleadingly. “You can’t believe I would lie about the baby. Pokey did this. And Annajane. I swear, they refilled that prescription just to make me look bad, and then planted them with Sophie, so that you would find them. They’d do anything to keep us apart.”

“Enough,” Mason said. “You lied. Please don’t make it worse by blaming my sister.”

“You don’t know them,” Celia said, flinging the suit onto the back of a leather wing chair and marching over to the desk. “You think your baby sister is so perfect. And Annajane! You have no idea what that woman is capable of.”

Mason kept staring down at the birth control pills.

“There never was any baby, was there?” he asked, when he finally looked up at her.

“Of course there was!” Celia cried. “Would I make up something like that?”

The muscle in Mason’s jaw twitched. “I think you did,” he said, in disbelief. “I don’t know why, but I do believe you cooked up a phony pregnancy because you knew that was the one way in the world I would go ahead with marrying you.”

“No,” Celia insisted. And then, her voice fainter. “No. This is Pokey and Annajane. They’re out to get me. They refilled those pills…”

He sighed. “What would you say if I asked you to take a pregnancy test? Right now?”

“I’d say that proves you don’t trust me,” Celia said, her face growing pale. “That you’d take the word of your sister and ex-wife over mine.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t think I can trust you,” Mason said. “I just can’t understand why you would do something like this. You know I’m in love with another woman, but you’d go to this kind of lengths to trap me into a loveless marriage?”

“It wouldn’t be loveless,” Celia said. “Once we’re married, and you see how good we are together, how happy I’ll make you, you’ll forget about Annajane. We’ll sell Quixie, start a new business, have a family. I’m perfect for you. Everybody says so.”

“No,” Mason said. “Enough lies, Celia.” He picked up the telephone.

“Who are you calling?” Celia asked, her voice panicky.

“I’m calling Sallie,” Mason said. “To tell her the wedding’s off.” He held up the receiver to her. “Unless you want to call her yourself?”

43

Mason Bayless was a man who lived up to his obligations. And the one he dreaded nearly as much as he’d dreaded going through with his wedding was telling his mother that he hadn’t.

By four that afternoon, he’d arrived at Cherry Hill, removed the festive wreath of orange blossoms and hydrangeas from the front door, and poured his mother a stiff scotch and water and briefed her on the most salient details of the breakup.

“I don’t understand,” Sallie repeated, for the fifth or sixth time. “How could this happen? Are you sure this wasn’t just some misunderstanding between the two of you?” She took a deep drag on her cigarette, tamped the ashes into the kitchen sink, then turned on the tap to wash them down the drain.

“No misunderstanding,” Mason said drily. “There was never any pregnancy. Celia made it up, because she knew that was the only way I would marry her.”

“That’s just not like Celia,” Sallie protested. “Such a lovely girl. With a wonderful head on her shoulders. I’m heartbroken. Really devastated.” She studied her oldest son’s lack of expression.

“Aren’t you the least bit upset? About the baby, at least?”

“Relieved is the word I would use,” Mason said. “Relieved and grateful.”

Sallie sighed deeply. “And I was so looking forward to a Bayless grandchild.”

“You have four grandchildren,” Mason said sharply. “Remember?”

“Of course,” she said quickly. “But Pokey’s boys aren’t Baylesses. They’re Riggses. And Sophie, well, you know what I meant.”