He had a glass of white wine in his hand. “The bartender thought this was what you’re drinking,” he said.
She took the wine and asked him to sit down, and the smile that spread across his face was liquid and sweet, and his dimples deepened. And for a moment, the insane thought occurred to her—Wouldn’t this man make beautiful babies?
He glanced toward the bar, where his bandmates were engaged in slamming back shooters and flirting with the women flocked around them. She looked, too, and saw a couple of the women staring daggers at her. He started to say something, stopped, started again, and then just grinned.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I can’t think of a single thing to say to you that doesn’t sound like a pickup line.”
“Oh.” She thought about it.
“You’ve probably heard every pickup line in the book, I bet,” he said.
“Not really.” She wasn’t being coy. She’d never been much for the bar scene, even in college. And she honestly couldn’t ever remember anybody even approaching her with a pickup line in a bar. She was pretty enough, she thought, but she just didn’t attract that kind of attention.
“I find that hard to believe,” he said. “My name’s Shane, by the way.”
“So I gathered, from your fan club,” she said with a laugh. “I’m Annajane.”
“That’s a pretty name, Annajane,” he said. “Kind of quaint, a little old-fashioned. Are you an old-fashioned girl?”
“I was named for my grandmothers,” she said. “But no, I’m probably not all that old-fashioned.”
“Are you a bluegrass fan?”
“Not really,” she said. “But I like your music. You’ve got a beautiful voice.”
“Thanks.” When he smiled, the dimples were so deep she was tempted to see if she could poke a finger in one.
“I really do like your name,” he said thoughtfully. “I guess I’m a sucker for double names. Good for songwriting.”
“Do you write music?”
He shrugged. “I tinker with it. Bars like this, though, the audience wants the familiar. You know, ‘Rocky Top’ and crap like that. How about you, what do you do for a living?”
She sipped her wine. “I work in marketing for a soft drink company.”
“Coke?”
She laughed. “I wish. Nope. Quixie—you know it?”
“The quicker quencher, sure, practically mother’s milk,” he said. “Don’t they make that somewhere around here?”
“Our headquarters are in Passcoe,” she said. “So … if you know Quixie, you must be from the Carolinas, right?
“Gastonia,” he said. “Went to Middle Tennessee, got an English degree, but decided I liked music better.”
They heard chords of music coming from the stage, and when they looked up, saw that the band was getting ready to start playing again.
“Gotta go,” he said, pushing his chair back. “Any chance you might stay for the next set?”
She looked at her watch, but it was a pretense. She knew she intended to stay.
Shane kept his eyes riveted to hers throughout the night. After the last song, as the last stragglers drifted out of the lounge, he came bounding up to her table, his Dobro case in hand, clearly delighted to still find her sitting there.
“How ’bout I buy us something to eat?” he asked.
They took her car and found a Waffle House out by the interchange, and Shane wolfed down a steak and eggs, with hashbrowns, covered and smothered. She nibbled at a grilled cheese sandwich. At three o’clock, they were the only customers in the place. He’d told her his story; she’d given him a brief version of hers.
Annajane drove him back to the Holiday Inn. She parked by the door of the lounge. He made small talk, clearly not wanting to get out of the car. “It’s late,” she said finally. “If my mama wakes up, she’ll think I’ve been kidnapped by aliens.”
“I know.” He had the Dobro case across his knees. He leaned in and brushed his lips across hers. “Will it sound like the worst pickup line in the world if I tell you I don’t want you to go?”
“Try it,” she suggested.
He took her face in his hands and kissed her, this time, a long, slow, deep kiss. He rested his forehead against hers. “I don’t want you to go.”
She felt her toes curl. “Hmm. Maybe try it again?”
He kissed her again. Even better. She gave into temptation and lightly touched one of the dimples with her fingertip. He caught it and kissed her hand, and drew him to her.
The next time she looked up, she giggled.
“What?” Shane was distracted.
She gestured at the Acura’s windows. “We’ve fogged ’em up,” she said happily. She hadn’t been with a man since her divorce. She hadn’t realized how long it had been until just that moment. And she hadn’t realized how much she missed being touched, either.
He pulled her toward him again. “You know, we don’t have to stay down here in this car. I’ve got a room here. Deluxe king, nonsmoking. Free Internet. Free cable. Free coffee. And there are a lot of windows there that we could be fogging up…”
Annajane sighed. “That sounds … nice. But remember how you asked me if I were an old-fashioned girl?”
“Yeah?”
“I guess I kinda am. I guess I’m not the kind of girl who picks up a musician at the Holiday Inn lounge and then goes to bed with him later that same night.”
“Oh.” He didn’t bother to hide the disappointment in his voice. “You probably think I do this all the time. I swear, I don’t. Maybe I did the first year the band was out on the road … but not anymore.”
“I believe you,” she said. She let her fingertips trail down her arm. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. Well, okay, I guess today is Saturday. I go home to Passcoe on Sunday.”
“We’re only here one more night before we head up to Roanoke for a gig,” Shane said. “Can you come back tomorrow, I mean, tonight?”
“Probably,” she said lightly. “Maybe I could bring a toothbrush.”
He grinned, and his dimples were deep enough to dive into. “I’ll buy you one my ownself.”
The weekend after that, she’d driven up to Roanoke, and two weeks after that, they’d met in Nashville, and then, when the band had a week off right after Christmas, she met him down in Jupiter Beach at his cousin’s condo. At some point, she was startled to realize how different he was from any other man she’d known. Being with him was so easy, so effortless. He was the exact opposite of the driven, intense Mason Bayless. And that was a good thing, she was sure. On their last morning at the beach condo, she woke up and found Shane, his head propped on an elbow, gazing down at her.
“What’s up?” she asked sleepily.
“I’m just thinking about how cool it’s gonna be years and years from now when we tell our kids the story of how we met when I picked you up in a bar and I spent the next night at the Holden Beach Holiday Inn rollin’ in my sweet baby’s arms.”
Kids? She’d deliberately told herself she was not getting that serious about Shane, that they were just two adults enjoying getting to know each other. But all along she knew she was falling for him.
“When and if we have kids, as far as they will be concerned, we met at a church picnic,” she informed him.
Two weeks later, the band was playing at a tiny club in Durham. She was sitting in the audience, sipping the glass of wine he’d sent over to her table, when the band swung into “Could I Have This Dance?” She’d been a little surprised, because it wasn’t on their usual set list, but mild surprise had turned to shock and numbness when Shane stepped off the bandstand, made his way to her table, and slipped the sterling silver band on her left ring finger.
“Okay?” he’d whispered in her ear, with everybody in the whole club watching. She’d started to cry, and eventually, she’d nodded her head yes. And so they were engaged. Just like that.
It wasn’t until she’d gotten back to Passcoe and unpacked her suitcase tha
t Sunday night that the enormity of the situation struck her. She’d just agreed to spend the rest of her life with a man she’d only met three months earlier.
Every time she started to have reservations about the engagement, though, Shane managed to persuade her that she was doing the right thing. Even when she called him at three in the morning and woke him out of a sound sleep, he was ready to whisper sweet nothings.
“Why don’t you come on down here and let me show you how much I’m missing you?” His laugh was low and provocative.
“Can’t,” she said, hoping she sounded regret she didn’t quite feel. “I’ve got a million things to get wrapped up here. I’m not even packed yet.”
“I could come up there and help,” he offered. “You really don’t have to do this all by yourself, you know.”
He was amazing. So thoughtful. He loved her. She loved him, too. Didn’t she?
“No way,” she said quickly. “If you got a good look at how disorganized my life really is, you’d run the other way.”
“Never,” Shane said. “I’ll take you any way I can get you, not that I believe there’s anything disorganized about you. You’re the most together person I’ve ever met.”
“Not lately,” Annajane said, rifling through the pages of the book she’d put on her nightstand. “Lately, I feel like my life is all falling apart at the seams. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to hold it together.”
There was a silence at the other end of the line.
“Okay, I’m coming up there,” Shane said. “So don’t tell me not to. I can tell you’re upset. You’re stressed about the move and the new job, and you’re not sleeping. You’re not yourself.”
She found the photo again. As she stared at it, the image blurred through her tears.
Who was that girl?
“I’m fine,” she told Shane. “Really, I am. Guess I was just feeling overwhelmed. I packed a bunch of boxes tonight, before I called you. The kitchen’s almost done, and I’ve started on the bedroom and my clothes. I’m warning you Shane, we might have to add on to the cabin before the wedding, just to make room for all my shoes.”
“Done,” he said. “I’ve already moved all my stuff into the closet in the guest bedroom.”
“Shane! You know I’ve rented my own place. I’ve got a six-month lease.”
“I still think it’s ridiculous,” he groused. “A waste of good money, when you could just as easily move in here right away.”
Why didn’t she just move in with Shane? Why was it so important to have her own place? Didn’t she want to live with the man she loved?
“It’s only six months,” she said softly. “Just til the wedding.”
“And that’s another thing. I don’t get why we can’t just get married as soon as you get down here. Yeah, I’ll be on the road some this summer, but so what? You can come with me. It’ll be fun. An adventure.”
She laughed. “I’m starting a new job! Anyway, you forget I’ve seen how you live on the road. It’s fine for you guys; you’re used to piling four to a room, or sleeping in the van and living on warm beer and stale pretzels. But that’s not me, Shane.”
“We’ll get our own hotel room,” Shane said. “Like at Holden Beach. I don’t care. Let’s just get married. Right now. That’s all I’m saying.”
“We’ve already talked about this,” she reminded him. “Remember? I want to be with you, I really do. But I need a little time, and a little space. Just six months. To transition. That’s not so long, is it?”
“It’s forever,” he groused.
“How did the gig go?” she asked, wanting to change the subject. Shane loved to talk about his work. It was one of the things she admired about him, his unstinting enthusiasm for whatever went on in his life.
“It was awesome,” he said. “This club has only been open a couple months. It was packed tonight, babe. They had to quit letting people in the door at ten, an hour before we went on! The energy was amazing. They want us to come back in June, and we’ll be the headline act!”
“That’s great,” Annajane said.
“I’ve got an idea for a new song, too,” Shane said. “About a girl with green eyes. And long legs.”
“Anybody I know?”
“Only you,” Shane said. “All my songs are about you now. Why can’t you get down here tomorrow?”
“Hush,” she said. “Go back to sleep.”
He let out a long, extended yawn. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you.”
“Love you too,” Annajane said.
Liar. Liar. Liar.
13
On Sunday morning, Annajane walked briskly down Main Street, turning three blocks down from her loft, onto Church Street. She passed Passcoe First United Methodist, Passcoe First Presbyterian, and the biggest church in town, First Baptist of Passcoe, with its imposing white columns and three-story marble-lined sanctuary.
It was early yet, not even eight o’clock, so the town’s worshipers were still presumably at home, polishing off their bacon, grits, and eggs; pressing their dress shirts; or dabbing on a final bit of makeup. Because that’s the kind of town Passcoe was, a nice southern town where nice southern men and women still wore suits and dresses to church on Sundays.
Two blocks past First Baptist, she finally came to the Quixie Beverage Company, which, in its own way, was just as much of a temple of worship as the real churches in town. The sprawling red brick complex even looked like a church from the front, with two-story columns and a peaked roofline. The building had been added onto so many times since Mason’s great granddaddy founded the company in the 1920s, it now took up an entire block, fronting on Church Street and backing up to the railroad tracks.
Annajane skirted the front of the building, where a perky red-and-green-striped awning shaded a set of big plate-glass entry doors to the reception area. Instead, she walked around to the east side of the building, to the loading dock. A pair of boxy Quixie delivery trucks were parked at the dock, nose out, and she could hear the rattle of hand trucks and the soft murmur of voices as she climbed the worn wooden steps up to the dock.
“Hey, Annajane,” called out a husky middle-aged man in a Quixie driver’s uniform. He had a hand cart loaded with cases of Quixie poised at the open doors at the back of one of the trucks. “Thought you’d done moved off to Atlanta. What are you doin’ round here on a Sunday?”
She’d known Troy Meeks since she and Pokey were kids playing hide-and-go-seek around the plant. He’d given them rides on his hand truck, bought their Girl Scout cookies, and turned a blind eye when they pilfered dented cans of Quixie to sell for a quarter apiece at school.
“Hey Troy,” she said, giving the older man a hug. She reached out and gave his stubbly gray crew cut an affectionate rub. “I’m not gone just yet. I’ve still got a bunch of stuff to tie up in the office. That’s why I came in this morning. I can never get anything done with Davis popping in and out all day long, giving me orders and trying to boss me around. I just need a few hours of peace and quiet.”
“It’s a sure bet you won’t catch Davis Bayless in here on a Sunday morning,” Troy agreed. “Especially not the day after his brother got married.” He gave her a knowing wink. “That musta been some party.”
“Well, that’s a funny story,” Annajane said. “The wedding didn’t exactly go off as planned.”
His mouth gaped. “You’re kidding me. What’d you do—trip the bride as she went up the aisle?”
She shook a mock finger at him. “Careful. Celia’s management now, you know.”
He grinned. “Are you serious? The wedding really didn’t happen?”
“Nope,” she said. “Sophie got sick—right as Celia was walking up the aisle. They had to call the wedding off and rush her to the hospital. She had an emergency appendectomy.”
He shook his head. “Appendectomy! Poor little thing. Bet old Mason was fit to be tied.”
“He was. We were all pretty worried about Sophie. But Dr. Kaufman
says she’ll be right as rain. I talked to the nurse at the hospital this morning, and she’s awake and demanding ice cream, so that’s a good sign.”
“Called off the wedding,” Troy repeated under his breath. “Ain’t that something.” He gave Annajane a cockeyed smile. “Maybe there’s still time for you to snag the boss. Again.”
Annajane blushed. “Sorry, Troy. That ship has sailed.” She held up her left hand so he could see her ring. “Anyway, I’m engaged.”
“Damn shame, too,” he muttered.
* * *
The thick, sweet smell of cherry syrup hung heavy in the air of the quiet plant. Annajane passed only two more workers, which was worrisome. At one time not so long ago, the plant would have been humming, even on a springlike Sunday morning.
But times had changed. The economy had soured. People were fickle. Their tastes and preferences in soft drinks and soft drink flavorings had changed. Quixie had lost market share to the spate of “energy drinks” flooding the market. Even their demographic had changed, from young and upbeat to, well … not.
When she’d been in college, Quixie had been the mixer of choice at parties. She and her friends had drunk Quixie and Captain Morgan rum, Quixie and vodka, Quixie and Southern Comfort, even—she shuddered to think of it now—Quixie and natty lite.
Somehow, though, the Quixie brand had gotten stodgy. Davis had commissioned market studies and focus groups to seek the root of the problem, but the answers hadn’t been encouraging. Quixie just wasn’t cool. Not that they hadn’t tried.
The company had spent millions on surveys and focus groups and ill-fated ad campaigns. They’d overhauled everything, from the original flavoring formula to the size, shape, and color of the bottles, cans, and packaging, to the look of the brand itself. But nothing worked.
Annajane pushed open the heavy metal double doors leading from the plant into the office building. She followed a narrow corridor past a slew of closed office doors before pausing in front of her own. ANNAJANE HUDGENS, ASST. V.P. MARKETING, said the plaque on her door. She slid the plaque out of the slot and dropped it an empty trash basket. By the end of the week, it would be Tracey’s office, not hers.
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