“Good-bye, Davis. It’s been fun.”

“Well, hey,” he said, confused. “It doesn’t have to be good-bye, now, does it? I mean, I’ve got the evening free, and there’s always the Pinecone Motor Lodge.”

“That’s so sweet,” she said. “But I’ve had a really long day. I think I’ll just drive over to Pinehurst and get myself a motel room and try to figure out my future.”

“You do that,” Davis said, beaming. “And give me a call when you get your new number.”

“Don’t worry,” Celia promised. “You’ll be hearing from me.”

45

The florists were having themselves a high old time at the Pinecone Motor Lodge. A long banquet-sized table had been set up in the grassy courtyard and draped with a gauzy white cloth. A series of elaborate silver candelabras marched down the middle of the table, punctuated by raised epergnes of gorgeous centerpieces spilling lilies, hydrangeas, roses, tulips, and flowers whose names Annajane didn’t know. The men, and a few women, were dressed in spring finery, milling about the tables, sampling from dozens of platters of appetizers and sipping wine from plastic champagne flutes.

She’d been holed up in her motel room most of the day, her phone turned off, all her focus turned toward the Quixie summer ad campaign, until, finally, Harold and Thomas had coaxed her out for a glass of wine shortly before dusk.

“I’m not really dressed for a cocktail party,” she’d said, trying to beg off, but the men had insisted, so she’d changed out of her yoga pants and T-shirt into a somewhat respectable flowered, cotton ankle-length sundress and a pair of teal ballet flats. The dress dipped deeply in the front and criss-crossed with buttons at the shoulders. She pinned her hair up in a modified french twist and, in lieu of any real makeup, applied a quick bit of peach lip gloss.

“You look adorable,” Thomas had assured her, handing her a glass of rosé and a stuffed mushroom cap. After polishing off the appetizer in two bites, she realized she hadn’t eaten all day and gratefully accepted the plate full of food Harold fetched for her. “Much lovelier than that hussy who spent the night with your friend Harry Dix last night,” Harold said. “You’re like something out of The Great Gatsby.”

“Thank you,” Annajane said, squeezing his arm affectionately. “Is flattery part of the package deal at the Pinecone Motor Lodge? If so, I might have to rethink my checkout date.”

“We wish you would,” Thomas said. “You’re the first real friend we’ve made in Passcoe. People are curious about what we’ve done with the motel, but they seem a little standoffish. I mean, where’s all that famous southern hospitality we’ve always heard about?”

“We’ve got to do a little marketing and networking for you,” Annajane said. “Get you out and about and meeting people in town. Seriously. If you haven’t done it already, you should join the Chamber of Commerce. And either the Kiwanis or Rotary. And have you thought about hosting an open house here? People need to see what you’ve done with the Pinecone. Most of them probably still think it’s this slightly sleazy no-tell motel it was for years and years.”

“We should do that,” Thomas said.

“This would be the perfect place to have out-of-town guests for weddings or the holidays,” Annajane enthused. “It would be a great function space, too, especially if you built some kind of covered gazebo or pavilion. Passcoe doesn’t really have that many places to hold gatherings, outside of the country club and the church social halls. You’d probably want to get a pouring license, too.”

She gestured toward the elegant cocktail party spread out before them on the grassy courtyard. “You should take some photos tonight and put them up on your Web site and use them in all your marketing materials. The gorgeous flowers and food, and the light is so beautiful right now.”

“Web site?” Harold said.

“Marketing materials?” Thomas said. “Annajane, we don’t know anything about that kind of stuff. It’s all we can do to keep this place up and running.”

“If only we knew a good marketing person!” Harold said, shooting a sideways glance at Annajane.

“Somebody with taste and talent and energy,” Thomas said, looking squarely at Annajane. “You know anybody like that?”

“Sorry,” she said. “I’d like nothing better than to work for you two. But I’m moving away after this week. Remember?”

“You said you were quitting your job,” Harold said. “You’ll need a new one, right? That doesn’t mean you have to move away, does it?”

“I’m afraid so,” Annajane said. “I’ve already given notice…”

“Ooh,” Thomas said, interrupting. “Look at this cute car!” As he spoke, a flashy vintage red Chevelle convertible came cruising toward them. The top was down, and the driver’s dark blond hair glinted in the late-day sun.

Harold turned toward Annajane, who had the oddest look on her face. “Somebody you know?” he asked.

“Used to know,” she corrected him, watching as Mason parked the convertible in front of her unit. He spotted her in the courtyard, waved, and began to walk over.

“Excuse me, fellas,” Annajane murmured.

*   *   *

Mason glanced around the courtyard at the men who were strolling the grounds, laughing and chatting and sipping wine. “What’s all this?” he asked.

“It’s a florists’ convention of sorts,” Annajane said. “Mason, what are you doing here? I thought we agreed not to see each other alone again.”

“Don’t you ever answer your phone?” he asked, sounding irritable. “I must have left you half a dozen messages this afternoon. And I’m pretty sure Pokey left a bunch. The wedding got called off.”

She dimly heard her own breath catch. “Is that so?” She was trying for nonchalant, but her voice was shaky. She sucked at nonchalant.

Mason didn’t look like much of a bridegroom. He wore a faded and rumpled pink oxford-cloth button-down shirt tucked into a pair of threadbare old jeans that rode down on his hips and sagged in the seat. His sockless feet were jammed into a pair of beat-up Top-Siders that she was sure he’d owned since his high school days. He was paler than she could ever remember seeing him before. Celia seemed to have sucked all the life out of him.

He nodded. “We need to talk. Will you go for a ride with me?”

Annajane looked dubious.

“Not to the farm this time, I swear,” Mason said. “Please?”

Her heart was thudding in her chest. She wanted to go, wanted to ride off into the sunset with him, but what happened after sunset? She’d been Mason’s second choice, after Celia. What made this time any different?

He must have guessed what was on her mind.

Mason took her hand and swung her around to face him. His mouth softened, and his eyes took in the flowered dress that swirled around her ankles in the late-day breeze and the graceful arch of her bare neck and slim arms. Annajane wasn’t model-thin. She had curves, real hips and thighs that he could see silhouetted through the thin cotton of her dress, and breasts that were round and promising. Her full lips were slightly parted, her large green eyes serious and sad. He’d hurt her badly, and had no right to ask for another chance. But how could he not?

He looked puzzled. “Have you always been this beautiful?”

Annajane cocked her head. “Mason? You’ve seen me five days a week every week for the past five years. I look like I’ve always looked. Except maybe a few pounds heavier and a few more wrinkles,” she said ruefully.

“No,” he insisted. “You’re different. I can’t describe it. Like a peach, perfectly ripe. Wait, that’s no good. You were always pretty before. But now, it’s like, you’ve grown into who you were supposed to be. Luscious. Yeah, that’s it.”

She blushed and looked away. “What am I supposed to say to that?”

“Say you’ll come with me,” he said. “One more time.”