Mason shrugged. “I guess some guys might find her sexy. You know, high heels, expensive business suits. She’s pretty buttoned-up.”
“Not your type?”
Mason laughed and reached around and began to tug at the zipper on Annajane’s dress. “Nah, I’m more a zipper man my ownself.”
And then Christmas rolled around.
Annjane had volunteered to plan the company Christmas party. She’d wangled a sizable budget out of Davis and spent weeks planning every detail, from hiring the perfect Santa Claus for the visit with the employees’ children in the afternoon, down to the oyster appetizers and prime rib at the seated dinner at the country club. For the after-dinner, she’d rented a full-scale disc-jockey setup, with Mason spinning records for the first hour of dancing.
Mason and Glenn were scheduled to drive back from a four-day business trip to Atlanta that Friday, the day of the party.
With Mason out of town so much lately, their love life had definitely taken a backseat to business. But not that night, Annajane decided. She had a postparty seduction carefully planned out for her husband. She’d splurged on a new dress, a short, tight-fitting emerald green velvet sheath with a plunging neckline—cut as low as she dared to go in conservative Passcoe—to be worn with a pair of wickedly sexy five-inch-high stiletto heels. And underneath? She had a black-lace push-up bra and the merest suggestion of filmy black-lace panties. It was going to be, she vowed, an evening Mason would not soon forget.
At six o’clock that night, when she’d run home to change after the children’s party, Annajane was chagrined by the fact that Mason’s car was missing from the driveway. He’d promised to be back from Atlanta by 5:00 P.M., in time to shower and dress for the party. As she zipped herself into the green dress, she tried to ignore the fact that Mason’s tux was still laid out on the bed, where she’d placed it earlier that morning.
She’d called his cell phone twice as she drove back to the country club, but both times her message went directly to voice mail.
By seven, when she stood at the door to the ballroom welcoming their guests, cell phone clutched in one hand in case he called, she was doing a slow burn.
Sallie, of course, noticed everything.
“What a lovely dress,” she’d said, her eyes flickering on Annajane’s daring décolletage. “But won’t you be cold without a jacket or something?” Later, during dinner, Sallie walked past and noticed her constantly checking the phone and texting Mason. “Annajane, dear,” she whispered, gently closing her hand over the phone. “This is business. Glenn and Mason are closing a deal. Sometimes things get complicated.”
“But he promised to get here for the party!” Annajane whispered back. “And he hasn’t called. Maybe something has happened.”
Sallie had given her a tight, knowing smile. “It’s just business, Annajane. Get used to it. I have.”
All that night, she’d endured the embarrassment of having her husband a no-show. She sweet-talked Pokey’s husband, Pete, into stepping in as deejay; table-hopped and chatted with every employee in the room; and, in between, picked at her dinner and glowered at the empty chair beside hers. All that night, her phone did not ring. Finally, at nine o’clock, she tucked her phone into her evening bag, resigned to the fact that it probably wasn’t going to ring.
At eleven, she said her good-byes and drove home alone. The temperature had begun to drop at sundown, and now snowflakes were softly falling. White Christmases were a rarity in North Carolina. Any other night, she might have stood at the bay window, watching with wide-eyed glee at the snow sifting onto the lake and accumulating on the shaggy green evergreens ringing the little cottage. But on that night, she shut off the twinkling white lights on the Christmas tree she’d decorated by herself. In the bedroom, she hung up the party dress and changed out of the black lingerie and into a frowsy flannel nightie.
Their room was freezing, and the window panes rattled as the wind howled outside. Part of her worried about Mason driving home on treacherously icy roads; another part of her burned with anger and disappointment.
Finally, she drifted off to sleep, only to awaken at the sound of a car driving up to the house. She checked the clock on the nightstand. It was nearly two. She heard the front door open, heard heavy footsteps on the floors, heard their bedroom door open.
In the half-light from the hallway, she saw Mason drop his suitcase. He walked over to their bed, leaned down, and kissed her cheek.
Annajane pretended to be asleep. She made a show of yawning and half-opening her eyes.
“Sorry to miss the party, babe,” Mason whispered.
She wanted to sit up in bed and throw something at him. She wanted to scream her rage about broken promises and ruined evenings. Instead, she rolled over and faced the wall closest to her side of the bed, her body rigid with suppressed fury.
Mason sat on the edge of the bed and took off his shoes. She heard water running in the bathroom, and a moment later he slid into bed beside her. Surely, she thought, now he will apologize. Now he will explain why he didn’t call, why he came home so late. Surely, now, he will make it all right.
Her husband curled up beside her in the bed. He yawned and coughed.
Despite herself, Annajane whispered. “Everything all right?”
“Great,” Mason said wearily. “We closed the deal! Three hundred new stores. But I’m beat.”
Instead of an apology, he draped a proprietary arm over her shoulder, cupping one hand under her flannel-clad breast. A moment later, she heard his slow, deep, even breathing. And then, soft snoring.
8
Mason was still asleep. Annajane stared down at him, sprawled facedown across their bed. The covers had slipped, exposing his bare back and the waist of his pajama bottoms. It was nearly nine, and she had to go back to the country club to supervise cleanup after the party and to pack up the disc-jockey equipment for return to the rental company.
She’d halfway expected Mason to awaken early, maybe fix their coffee and bring it back to bed for her, the way he’d done the first few months of their marriage. Saturday mornings then were their sacred time. Mason liked—no, loved—sex in the morning. Later, he’d fix her cinnamon toast, and they’d lounge around the house for hours, laughing and talking and making plans for the weekend, eventually tumbling back into bed for another round of lovemaking.
Two years later, she couldn’t remember the last time they’d had Saturday morning sex.
Her face hardened as she remembered the previous evening. If Mason didn’t wake up soon and start apologizing, she told herself, they might never have sex again! Not that she meant it. She loved her husband, and loved their lovemaking. But, really, something had to change. They could not go on this way.
With a sigh, she headed for the front door, vowing to have this conversation when she got back home from the country club.
She sighed again, noticing, with annoyance, that Mason’s company car, a big white Yukon with the Quixie logo on the door, had her own Acura blocked into the driveway. For a second, she entertained malicious thoughts of waking him up and making him move the car. But she could just as easily take the SUV. It was a bitterly cold morning, with at least an inch of snow on the ground. Mason wouldn’t be going anywhere this morning, and if he did have plans, he could just take the Acura.
Annajane eased herself into the Yukon. She fumbled with the control buttons and adjusted the seat for her own frame, which was four inches shorter than Mason’s. She backed the big car carefully down the driveway and was soon driving past the ornate wrought-iron Cherry Hill gates.
As she went through her mental checklist of everything she needed to accomplish at the club, Annajane absentmindedly punched the radio button on the Yukon’s console. She wanted to hear the day’s weather report, and then maybe some Christmas music might put her back into the holiday spirit.
Instead of the weather, though, she heard a sultry woman’s voice singing “At Last.” Etta James? Since when did Mason
listen to the likes of Etta James? She’d have bet money Mason had never heard of the woman. With one gloved finger, she tapped the tracking button. The next song was even odder: “Let’s Get It On,” by Marvin Gaye. She punched the eject button and grabbed the CD as it slid out of the player.
It was a homemade mix, and written on the silvery disc in purple Sharpie, in a woman’s handwriting, was, “Merry Christmas, baby. Think of me, cuz I’m thinking of you.”
Annajane felt the blood drain from her face. Her hands were shaking so hard she had to pull the SUV onto the shoulder of the road. She sat there for five minutes, staring at the CD, considering the implications.
Think of me? Who was the me? The owner of the purple Sharpie? Eva? The Maxi-Mart exec? Was it Eva who’d made the mix of love songs? She bit her lip so hard it drew blood. Was this inevitable? After all, Mason was a competitor. He had to win, at any cost. And if it took sleeping with a sexy woman like Eva in order to close the deal, would he say no?
Would he?
Somehow, she pulled herself together and drove on to the country club. She managed to direct the workers who were loading up the sound equipment onto a truck for return to the rental company. She stayed until she was satisfied that the club’s ballroom had been restored to its formerly pristine condition. Annajane was walking out the front door of the club when her mother-in-law arrived with her two best friends, Martha and Corinne.
“Oh good, Annajane dear,” Sallie exclaimed, clutching her arm. “You’re just the girl we need. We can have a nice lunch, and then, since Gaynelle has a cold, you can make up our fourth for bridge.”
Annajane couldn’t remember Sallie ever inviting her to join her foursome before, and she could not think of anything she’d rather do less. “I can’t,” she blurted. “I’m awful at bridge. And … Mason is expecting me back at the house.”
But Sallie had insisted she stay for lunch with her friends, refusing to take no for an answer. Annajane managed to choke down just enough of the green salad and crab bisque to persuade her mother-in-law that she was all right. Finally, after an agonizing hour, she’d begged to be excused.
When she got back to the cottage, her Acura was parked in the same spot it had been that morning. Mason was sitting in the living room, dressed in faded jeans and his favorite raggedy Penn sweatshirt, watching a football game.
Without a word, she tossed the CD at him, bouncing it off his chest.
“Ow,” he’d said, more surprised than angry. “What the hell is this?”
“You tell me,” Annajane said, planting herself directly in front of the television. “It was in your car this morning. Interesting song selection.”
Mason turned the CD from one side to the other. “It’s not mine,” he said. He tossed it aside. “Do you mind? Carolina is driving the ball.”
Annajane picked the CD up and held it up. “Oh really? Not yours? But it looks like it’s got a message for you. ‘Merry Christmas, Baby. Think of me, cuz I’m thinking of you?’ In a woman’s handwriting? Purple Sharpie? Sound familiar?”
Mason shook his head. “Still not mine. Have we got anything to eat?”
“So you’re telling me an alien broke into your car and planted a CD of love songs there?” Annajane repeated.
Finally, she had his attention. He looked up at her, his blue eyes narrowed. “What I am telling you is I’m hungry. Also, that is not my CD.”
She thrust the CD into his hands. “Whose handwriting is this? Are you telling me it’s not that Eva woman’s?”
He took the CD and examined it. “I suppose it could be hers. I don’t really know. Or care. And I don’t get why you’re getting so worked up about this.”
“I’m worked up because you came home nine hours late last night,” Annajane said. “And when I got in your car this morning, I found this CD. Are you trying to tell me you weren’t with that woman?”
“Hell, yeah, I was with her,” Mason said, standing now. “I told you, we finalized the Maxi-Mart deal last night. Dad and I took Eva and the others to dinner at the Ritz-Carlton around eight to celebrate. It was business, Annajane. That’s what I do. I sell cherry soda. We ran into some people she knew at the restaurant, and we had to invite them to join us at the table, and by the time we got the check and got out of there, it was after ten, and there was a truck overturned on I-85. You know what the weather was like last night. We’re lucky we got home when we did.”
“It was two in the morning! Are you sure you and Eva didn’t slip upstairs to her room while you were at the Ritz?” She hurled the words at him, blind with anger.
He stared. “Did you really just say that? Did you accuse me of having an affair?”
“Aren’t you?’
“Have I ever lied to you, Annajane?” Mason’s voice was level, which was infuriating. “Have I ever given you a reason to doubt me?”
“What about last night?” she ignored his first question. “It was the company Christmas party. You were supposed to be there! Everybody was expecting you. I was expecting you. Do you know how humiliated I was? I worked my ass off putting that party together. For you. And your family and the company. But you didn’t even call. If you went to dinner at eight, you knew there was no way you’d be back in Passcoe. But you didn’t even call to let me know?”
He shrugged. “Okay, my bad. I should have called. But Dad was with me. And we had Eva and the Maxi-Mart folks with us, and everybody wanted to head out and celebrate. I would have looked like a wuss if I’d begged off. What was I gonna say? ‘Hey y’all, I can’t go to dinner. I gotta call my wife.’”
“And that’s worse?” Annajane asked. “Than letting me down? Breaking a promise to your wife?”
Mason was still holding the remote control. He tossed it onto the chair where he’d been sitting. “Okay. This is ridiculous. I was late last night. I missed the Christmas party. I should have called. For that, I am guilty, and I apologize.” He turned and stomped toward the front door.
“Wait a minute,” Annajane cried. “We’re not through here.” She shook the CD. “Just tell me how this got in your car.”
Mason had his hand on the doorknob. “ “I’m through. I am not talking about this anymore. Either you believe me or you don’t.”
“Where are you going?”
The door was open and he didn’t look back. “I’m going over to Mama’s. She’s always got something to eat. Unlike here.” He didn’t slam the door. In fact, he didn’t even bother to close it all the way.
Half an hour later, Annajane did slam the door. And she didn’t bother to lock it as she left. Nobody locked doors in Passcoe, especially at Cherry Hill. She tossed a hastily packed overnight bag in the backseat of her Acura, backed out of the driveway, and headed for the main gate. The snow had already begun to melt, and the ancient oak trees lining both sides of the drive looked menacing, with their twisted gray limbs blocking out the weak winter sunlight. A carpet of acorns crunched beneath her tires. A rusted-out pickup truck with an enormous Fraser fir poking out of the bed rolled past her, headed toward the big house. She gave a dispirited wave to Nate, the Bayless’s yard man. At the end of the drive, she picked up the remote from the passenger seat, mashed the button, and waited impatiently while the wrought-iron gates slowly creaked open.
Ten minutes later, she was on the bypass. At some point, she realized she didn’t really have a destination in mind. All she knew was that she had to get out of Passcoe and away from the Bayless compound.
An hour later, her cell phone rang. She picked it up, and, seeing the screen, tossed it back onto the passenger seat without answering. Mason. She blinked back tears, and a moment later heard the phone buzz, letting her know he’d left a voice mail.
Five minutes later, it rang again. Annajane’s hand hovered over the phone. She even picked it up, but then changed her mind. Let him call.
Two hours later, when she pulled into the driveway of the modest little frame house at Holden Beach, she paused before turning off the ignition. Had s
he really just done this? Picked a fight with Mason? Accused him of cheating, and then run home to Mama? This was crazy. She should turn around, go home, and talk things out calmly with Mason. Make him understand how badly he’d hurt her.
It was full dark. Multicolored lights were strung all across the eaves of her parents’ house. A silly plastic light-up snowman was posed on the front steps. Annajane and her mother hated that snowman and tried to persuade Leonard how tacky it was, but her stepfather delighted in hauling it out of storage every Christmas. She could see the glow of the artificial tree through the drapes. Somehow, she felt reassured. Maybe things weren’t as bad as they seemed.
Before she could change her mind and turn around to head home, Ruth was opening the aluminum storm door, but instead of surprise or pleasure at seeing her only daughter, Annajane recognized something else in her mother’s face.
She jumped out of the car and ran to the door. “Mom? What is it? Is it Leonard? Is he okay?”
Ruth’s face was pale. “Leonard’s fine. Have you talked to Mason?”
“No,” Annajane said bitterly. “Don’t tell me he called you.”
Ruth held out her own phone. “Here. You need to call him.”
Annajane shook her head stubbornly. “Let him stew. Did he tell you what he did to me? He missed the Christmas party? Stood me up? Mama, I think maybe…”
Ruth shook the phone in her daughter’s face. “You are not listening. Honey, you need to call Mason right this minute. It’s Glenn. He’s … Just call Mason. All right?”
Her mind was a blank. Her hands were trembling. Ruth dialed and handed her the phone.
“Mason? I just got to Mama’s. She said…”
“It’s Dad,” Mason said. He sounded calm, detached even. “It’s bad. They think he’s had a heart attack. We’re at Passcoe Memorial.”
“Oh my God,” Annajane breathed. “When? How long ago?”
“We’re not sure. Mom found him on the floor of the bedroom when she got home this afternoon. They’re working on him, but … we just don’t know anything. Dr. Kaufman is in with him.”
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