What, Annjane wondered idly, was sex like between the two of them? She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to dislodge the image of Mason and Celia, naked. After all, she was in church, not exactly the same church where she and Mason had been married, but it was still church, and the eyes of God and all of Passcoe were watching. Must stop thinking about sex in church, Annajane vowed.

Strings and woodwinds warbled, a lovely classical piece that seemed hauntingly familiar. “What’s that song?” Annajane asked, craning her neck to get a better look at the bride.

Must not think of sex in church. Must not think of sex in church. Must not think of Mason naked.

Instead, she tried to think of Shane, naked. Her fiancé had a perfectly nice body, tall and rangy, and he had long, artistic fingers, but he was just the slightest bit self-conscious, even in bed, which she thought must be unusual. Weren’t musicians supposed to be wildly uninhibited? Oh, but Mason, naked! Annajane felt herself shiver at the memory.

Fortunately, her best friend didn’t notice. She was humming the processional under her breath. Pokey had taken piano for years at Sallie’s insistence, and was actually a credible musician, when she cared to be. She gave a sniff of disapproval. “Handel. Arrival of the Queen of Sheba. As if.”

The bride took her first step down the aisle.

Celia was tiny, dainty, exquisite, a queen of Sheba in miniature, Annajane thought. Her gown, another of her own designs, was a severe architectural strapless column of lustrous ivory satin, its only ornament a series of stiff fabric folds forming an accordion-pleat fan at the alarmingly low-cut bodice.

Seeing the regal bride, Annajane felt instantly five sizes larger, dowdy in her fussy vintage dress with its prissy row of buttons and old-fashioned buckle. She’d dressed with such care only a few hours earlier, and dulled her inhibitions with bourbon, but now, she decided, she’d seriously overdressed and undermedicated herself. What the hell had she been thinking?

“Geezus H!” Pokey chortled, elbowing Annajane in the ribs again. “That’s some dress. I think I can actually see her nipples.”

“Hush,” Annajane said halfheartedly, looking around in panic for an escape route. But her pew was packed butt to butt. It was standing room only in the church, with latecomers lolling against the walls on the side aisles, and the bride about to process down the center aisle. No, not even Houdini could have extricated himself from such a tight prison. She would have to stay and see the cure all the way through to the bitter end.

The bride paused for a moment, basking in this, her moment of glory. She adjusted her train, raised her chin, and began to glide down the white-carpeted aisle. Celia’s ensemble was simplicity itself. She wore no jewelry other than her engagement ring, except a pair of shoulder-brushing diamond drop earrings, and in the now-darkened church, the diamonds spun kaleidoscopic reflections on the ceiling. She clutched a single immense calla lily—the size of a majorette’s baton—in her elbow-length gloved hands.

Halfway up the aisle, Celia’s cloak of poise slipped, just a bit. She frowned and slowed her gait.

The music was still playing. Annajane turned toward the altar, to see what was holding things up. Father Jolly, Pete, and Davis stood expectantly, watching the proceedings with detached solemnity.

Mason’s back was ramrod straight. His lips were curved in a slight, frozen smile, but the rest of his face seemed a mask, his eyes flickering rapidly, side to side.

Sophie had stopped again, this time only a few yards from the altar. She was looking around, studying the flowers, her grandmother and cousins in the front pew, waving shyly at her adored nanny, Letha, in the row directly behind Sallie Bayless and family.

Letha leaned out into the aisle. “Go on, baby,” she whispered. “You’re doing great.”

So what if the groom was nervous? Annajane thought. This meant nothing. It was perfectly natural. Mason had been single for five years. Since their divorce, he’d certainly played the field, dated his share of women, most of them wildly inappropriate, and one of those flings had resulted in Sophie, whose appearance, literally on the Bayless family doorstep, had at first been a shock and then what they’d all come to unanimously regard as a blessing.

She had to give Mason credit. Faced with a six-month-old baby and apparently irrefutable proof of the child’s paternity, he had done the right thing. The Baylesses did not shirk responsibility. He had been forced to, as Davis so cynically put it, “man up.” Letha had been hired as a nanny, and a nursery was established in Mason’s house, just down the street from the Bayless compound.

Sophie, who’d been a spindly, colicky infant when she came to them, had slowly begun to blossom. Mason’s responsibilities for Quixie had formerly kept him on the road four days out of every week, but after Sophie arrived, he’d reshuffled his responsibilities to allow him to spend most evenings with her. And he had fallen head over heels in love with his little girl.

Mason had a lot on his plate, Annajane thought. He had a first wife who still worked for the company, right under his nose, at least for the time being; a faltering business to run; and a crazy family to try to ride herd over. And any moment now, she thought, he would be adding a second wife and stepmother to that mix.

He seemed to be holding up reasonably well under the pressure, Annajane decided, studying him again. He rocked back slightly on his heels, and his lips tried, but failed, to form a smile as Celia began moving closer.

Annajane stared, her face growing hot again. A muscle twitched in Mason’s jaw. He worked to erase it with his right index finger, but it twitched again. For a second, only a second, she felt Mason’s eyes meet her own. And then his jaw muscle twitched six times in rapid succession, and he looked away.

Not soon enough. Annajane’s pulse quickened and her throat caught. She felt dizzy and grabbed Pokey’s arm for support.

It was a tell! How many times had she seen that involuntary signal? Across the room at a boring dinner party, in the middle of a contentious meeting with his mother or his brother? And yes, during the worst moments of their doomed marriage. When Mason was feeling trapped, desperate to flee, he would rock back on his heels, and his jaw muscle would twitch like a frightened rabbit’s ears.

He wants out, Annajane thought. He does not want to marry this woman.

As she watched, she felt the past come rushing back with a ferocity that nearly knocked her down. And it struck her, this was not just a flare-up she was experiencing, not just a bout of spring fever. This was full-blown passion.

This can’t happen. She can’t have him. I want him back.

Her fingers gripped Pokey’s arm in a death lock.

“Heey,” Pokey whispered, giving her a worried look. “What’s up? Are you okay?”

Annajane couldn’t speak.

The music kept playing. Celia floated past them in a cloud of perfume. Annajane took a half step to the left, sending Pokey half-sprawling into the aisle, but Celia never noticed.

Stop that woman! Annajane wanted to scream. But the words wouldn’t come out. And Celia was nearly at the altar. Father Jolly was beaming. Mason’s jaw was twitching so violently now, even Davis was looking at him oddly.

No, no, no! Annajane cleared her throat. She was going to do it. She had to do it.

But suddenly, a forlorn, high-pitched wail rose above the violins and the piccolos.

It was Sophie. Just a few feet from the altar, she crumpled to the carpet in a pink tulle heap. She was writhing and clutching her tummy. She howled. “It hurts! Daddy, it hurts!”

5

For a moment, nobody moved. An instant later, Mason was kneeling at Sophie’s side. He gently scooped her into his arms, and she twisted like a caged animal. Worse than screaming, she was only whimpering now, words Annajane couldn’t quite make out.