Spring Fever (50 page)

Annajane reached over and picked up the well-loved picture book. By her own estimation she had read
The Runaway Bunny
to Sophie at least a couple hundred times. The edges of the board book were dog-eared, and the cover bore a couple of purple crayon doodles, but nothing had ever diminished Sophie’s love for her favorite book.

Sophie picked up her crayons now and began to draw on the sheaf of printer paper she’d borrowed from Mason’s office.

“Whatcha drawing?” Annajane asked, looking over.

“I’m ill-luss-stra-ting,” Sophie said proudly, drawing out the word. “Miss Ramona lets us make new illustrations for books in school. This is my homework. I’m illustrating
The Runaway Bunny
.”

The child’s pink glasses slipped down her nose as she bent over her picture, painstakingly drawing a very small bunny. She glanced over at Annajane. “In school, Miss Ramona reads the stories to us while we draw.”

“Then allow me,” Annajane said, putting her paring knife down, pushing away the salad bowl and the wooden cutting board, and picking up the book.

“Once there was a little bunny who wanted to run away,” Annajane read. “So he said to his mother, ‘I am running away.’”

Mason flipped the pieces of chicken over in the pan and covered it loosely with the lid. He stepped behind Annajane and, looking over her shoulder, read, “‘If you run away,’ said his mother, ‘I will run after you. For you are my little bunny.’”

Sophie poked out the tip of her tongue as she concentrated on drawing the rabbit’s ears. “I would never run away from my mama, if I was the little bunny,” she commented, filling in the middle of the rabbit’s orange ears with a brown crayon.

“Even if it was just a game, like hide-and-seek, like we play sometimes?” Mason asked.

“No,” Sophie said solemnly. “If I had a mama, I would never, ever run away.”

Annajane glanced over at Mason, who looked stricken. “Sophie,” he said gently. “Remember, you do actually have a mama. I told you that, remember?”

Sophie continued coloring, using a gray crayon to draw a lumpy version of the rabbit’s body. “My real mama’s name is Kristy. She lives in Florida now, and she loved me a lot, but she couldn’t take care of me, so she asked my daddy to take care of me.” Her voice was singsongy, but matter-of-fact.

“You’re killin’ me here,” Mason muttered. “You know, Sophie, when you came here to live with me, I decided I would be your daddy
and
your mama for a while. Then I asked Letha if she would come and help take care of you while I’m working. And your aunt Pokey helped out, too, and also Annajane. So you’re a lucky girl, because you have lots of people to love and help take care of you, instead of just one mama.”

Sophie looked up at him thoughtfully. “The runaway bunny only needed one mama. The kids in school all have one mama. Except Lucy. She has two mamas. And Clayton and Denning and Petey all have one mama—Aunt Pokey. That’s all I need, too.”

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.

She dressed carefully for the occasion, but not in the clothes she might formerly have worn for an audience with her mother-in-law. This time, she wore what she’d wear any other Saturday morning around town: a pair of red cotton capris, a red and white striped oxford-cloth shirt, an off-white cable-knit sweater, and a pair of navy-blue skimmers.

After she rang the doorbell at Cherry Hill, she repeated her mantra under her breath, as she’d done countless times on the drive over. “She is not the boss of me.”

Annajane heard footsteps approaching from the other side of the heavy carved door. It swung open, and Sallie offered her a chilly smile. “Right on time. How nice.”

Sallie was dressed in what passed for casual wear for her: black slacks, a peach silk blouse, and a black cashmere sweater that was looped across her shoulders. “It’s such a beautiful morning; I thought we’d sit out in the sunroom.”

Annajane followed her down the wide, marble-tiled central hall and out through a set of tall french doors onto the sunporch. She hadn’t been out here since the divorce, but she doubted that anything had changed in five years. The room stretched the length of the back of the old house, with large, arched windows that gave a stunning view of the back garden and pool area. The floors were made of muted pink and gray brick pavers that had come out of the old smokehouse on the property, and the ceiling was high, with thick cypress beams. Fringy potted palms and ferns filled the corners of the room, which was furnished with comfortably battered white-painted wicker with flowered cushions. A ceiling fan whirred lazily overhead.

Sallie seated herself on a high-backed wicker armchair and gestured for Annajane to sit on a matching armchair opposite hers. A silver tray on the wicker coffee table held a pitcher of iced tea.

“Tea?” Sallie asked, pouring a glass. “Or I could open a bottle of Quixie. Glenn always thought it was so cute how much you enjoyed the stuff.”

“Nothing for me, thanks,” Annajane said. “I do still love the taste of Quixie, but I try to limit myself to one a day, and I had one for breakfast already.”

“Oh,” Sallie said, looking faintly nauseated at the idea. “How sweet.”

Annajane looked uneasily at her surroundings, wondering how long it would take for Sallie to get down to brass tacks.

“The garden looks beautiful,” she said, looking out at the sweep of emerald lawn and the blooming flowerbeds. The turquoise of the swimming pool dazzled in the sunshine. It was a storybook setting, Annajane thought, as she had so many other times in the past.

Sallie waved away the compliment. “This is not our best spring. My tulips were anemic-looking, and, I swear, Nate’s gotten so old and blind I believe he mistook most of my perennials for weeds and dug them up back in the fall. But that’s not what I wanted to discuss with you today.”

Annajane steeled herself. “What did you want to discuss?”

“Family,” Sallie said, without hesitation. “I want to talk about my family. You know I love my children, unconditionally.”

“Of course,” Annajane murmured. Although she might have argued about the unconditional part. She’d seen how stingy Sallie could be with her affection if one of her children—especially Pokey—didn’t measure up to her impossible standards.