Annajane and Mason exchanged worried looks, but Sophie, who knew the book by heart, was already onto her next illustration, drawing a fish, swimming in a stream. “Read some more, please,” she told Annajane.

So Annajane read, “‘If you become a fish in a trout stream,’ said his mother, ‘I will become a fisherman and I will fish for you.’”

Sophie gave the fish a green body and a yellow tail and a red dorsal fin. She drew wavy blue lines to represent the blue trout stream, and beside the stream she drew a stick figure with long brown hair, wearing a dress and red high heels, holding a fishing pole.

“Who is that?” Mason asked, tapping the figure in the picture.

“That’s the mama,” Sophie said, rolling her eyes at her father’s ignorance. “Duh.”

“But she doesn’t look like a bunny fisherman,” Mason said.

“This mama is a real lady. Like Annajane,” Sophie said. “See, she has brown hair like Annajane.”

“And red shoes,” Annajane added. “I have a pair of red shoes that look like that.”

Mason wrapped his arms around Sophie. “We were thinking, Annajane and me, that when we get married, Annajane will be my wife. And she’ll be your mama. Your only mama. What do you think of that idea, Soph?”

“We’re not gonna marry Celia, right?” Sophie asked, adding a pink bow to her fisherwoman’s hair.

“Nope. Celia and I decided that wouldn’t be a good idea, because I love Annajane best,” Mason said.

“Letha said Celia is gone for good this time,” Sophie said.

“That’s probably true,” Mason conceded.

“We should marry Annajane,” Sophie said, without hesitation.

Mason left one arm around Sophie, and put the other around Annajane’s shoulder. “I think so, too. Definitely.”

“See?” Sophie said, as if that settled it. She put the fish drawing aside and started on another one. “Keep reading, please.”

Annajane read the next few pages, and Sophie’s crayon flew over her paper. At one point, she looked up at Annajane. “What’s a crocus? And why do they have a hidden garden?”

“I guess they have a hidden garden because the little bunny and the mother bunny are playing hide-and-go-seek,” Annajane said, leafing ahead in the book. “And a crocus is a little flower that comes up from the ground in very early spring,” Annajane said. “We can look online and find a picture of one, if you want.”

“No, that’s okay,” Sophie said, reaching for another sheet of paper and drawing a daisy. “Keep going.”

So Annajane read on, about the baby bunny morphing into a rock, then a bird, and a sailboat, and even a trapeze artist.

Mason hovered over his stove, adjusting the heat under the skillet and putting a pot of peeled potatoes on to boil. He poured a glass of wine for himself and one for Annajane, who nodded her thanks and kept reading aloud.

Near the end of the book, Sophie put her crayon down and sighed dramatically. “I hate this part,” she announced.

“Why?” Annajane asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

Did Sophie resent the fact that she didn’t have a real mother like the bunny in the book? Or had she been dwelling on the fact that her own mother had, in a way, run away from her? Maybe they should think about having Sophie see a child psychologist. Especially since at some point, before Sophie got too much older, they would need to explain the complicated story behind her real father as well as her real mother.

“Yeah, Soph,” Mason said, placing his hands protectively on the little girl’s shoulders. “Do you hate this part of the story because you’re sad about the runaway bunny and his mama?”

“No,” Sophie said, frowning down at her picture. “I hate this part because I can’t draw a tightrope walker, like the one in the book.” She looked up at Mason. “You draw it.”

“Hmm.” Mason picked up a crayon and sketched a brown rope, and then added an extremely detailed sketch of a little girl with eyeglasses and blond curls, wearing a pink tutu with a pink pocketbook slung over her arm and one dainty foot placed on the rope, the other poised above it. “How’s that?”

“It’s me!” Sophie breathed. “You drew me!”

“Not bad,” Annajane said, regarding Mason with new respect. “I didn’t know you could draw that well.”

“I am a man of many talents,” Mason said, bowing first to Sophie and then to Annnajane.

“Draw the next one,” Sophie ordered. “The one with the bunny turning into a little boy and running inside the house.”

Mason glanced over at the stove. “Can’t,” he said. “My dinner is just about ready. I’ve got to get my potatoes mashed. Are you two almost finished reading your book?”

“Almost,” Sophie said, glancing over at the book. “Read the end, Annajane. That’s my favorite part.”

Annajane liked the ending, too. “‘If you become a little boy and run into a house … I will become a mother and catch you in my arms and hug you.’”

She stood and folded Sophie into her arms. Sophie wriggled contentedly and picked up her cue like a seasoned pro, reading in an uncannily baby-bunny-sounding voice.

“‘Shucks,’ said the bunny. ‘I might just as well stay where I am and be your little bunny.’”

“Come on, you two,” Mason called, dumping his mashed potatoes into a serving bowl. “My dinner is getting cold. Annajane, you need to finish making that salad.”

“In a minute,” Annajane said. She knew the last two lines of the book by heart. As did Sophie.

“‘And so he did,’” Sophie said.

Annajane reached into the salad bowl and snagged one of the vegetables she’d been cutting up.

“‘“Have a carrot,” said the mother bunny.’”

Sophie took the proffered carrot and munched happily. “The end,” she announced.

*   *   *

Annajane’s cell phone rang just as she was wiping the skillet clean with a paper towel. Sophie had gone to bed, and they’d been discussing whether or not to watch a movie. She looked down at the caller ID. “It’s your mother,” she told Mason. “I didn’t even know she knew I had a cell phone.”

“This can’t be good,” he said. “Don’t answer.”

“I can’t not answer when Sallie calls me,” Annajane said. She punched the Connect button.

“Hi, Sallie,” she said brightly. “This is a surprise.”

“I’m sure it is,” Sallie drawled. “Annajane dear, I was wondering if you could come over to Cherry Hill tomorrow morning for a little chat.”

Annajane put her hand over the phone and lip-synched to Mason, “She wants to see me.”

Mason shook his head vigorously. “Tell her no. Tell her hell no.”

“Well, um, let me think what my morning is like,” Annajane said, stalling for time, fishing for an excuse.

“I won’t take up much of your time,” Sallie said. “Just a quick little visit.”

Put like that, she couldn’t very well decline, Annajane thought.

“What time?” she asked.

“Ten would be perfect,” Sallie said.

“Perfect,” Annajane said gloomily.

53

They discussed the visit to Cherry Hill until midnight, right up until the moment Annajane reluctantly got in her car to drive “home” to the Pinecone Lodge.

“You do not have to go over there tomorrow,” Mason said, his lips lingering at her collarbone. “She can’t just call you up and issue a command performance.”

“I’m going,” Annajane murmured, her arms wrapped around his waist.

“She’s still mightily pissed about me breaking up with Celia,” Mason said. “Even after I told her about the fake pregnancy.”

“And she’s just as mightily pissed at me for marrying you years ago—and agreeing to marry you again,” Annajane said.

“Which is why you should politely decline,” Mason said.

“Nope,” Annajane kissed him one last time. “I’m not running away from your mother anymore. I’m here to stay, and she can just like it or lump it.”

*   *   *

In the bright light of Saturday morning, Annajane began to doubt the wisdom of a visit to the lioness in her own den. But it was too late to back out now. She played various scenarios over and over again in her head, planning a strong, assertive, take-no-crap offensive against Sallie Bayless.