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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 A
A
“Damn shame, too,” he muttered.
* * *
The thick, sweet smell of cherry syrup hung heavy in the air of the quiet plant. A
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.
A
She drew a spare key to her office from her pocket and unlocked the door. She flipped on the light and sighed at what she saw.
More cardboard boxes were scattered around the office. Stacks of books were piled on top of her desk, and even more stacks—of boxes, files, and miscellaneous papers—stood piled at precarious angles. There was a coatrack in the corner, and from it hung a couple of her old, threadbare sweaters, a Quixie Beverage Company red-and-green-striped driver’s uniform shirt with her name embroidered on the breast pocket, and, yes, shrouded in an age-clouded plastic dry cleaners bag hung the dreaded Dixie the Pixie costume.
A
She smiled wryly and let the plastic drop. Old wounds. They faded, but they never really went away, did they?
No good worrying about that now, she decided, clearing a path to her desk. She sat down in front of her computer and plunged herself into her work.
Two hours later, she sat back in her chair and paused for a moment. The end-of-quarter sales figures she’d been sca
Her department was gearing up to work with supermarket chains around the region for an important summer promotion. The ad agency’s art department had worked up sketches for the supermarket displays, but to A
She sighed and kneaded her forehead with her fingertips. Davis had already approved the sketches with an enthusiastic “looks great” scrawled in the margins. A
It just did. She hated the idea of stores all over the region flooded with the tacky cardboard displays featuring a likeness of Quixie’s new spokesman—a second-rate Nascar driver—holding the Quixie bottle. The colors were garish, the production quality mediocre, and the driver, Do
She jotted some quick notes on a Post-it and attached it to the sketches before returning her attention to her e-mail.
A woman’s voice echoed down the hallway, and A
Celia Wakefield’s slightly nasal Midwestern accent was impossible to miss.
“No,” she was saying to somebody. “No, we haven’t discussed a new date yet. It just happened last night, for heaven’s sake!”
A
Celia’s heels clicked on the linoleum hallway floor. She was coming closer, and apparently she was having a discussion on her cell phone. “No, Jerry,” she said sharply. “You don’t understand how things are done down here. It’s not just a business to these people. We have to finesse this. It’s a courtship, you know?”
“These people?” Was she referring to the Baylesses? And was Quixie the business under discussion?
Celia started to say something, but then she was quiet, probably listening to the unseen Jerry on the other end of the line.
“Mmm, actually, I think the younger brother is amenable. He’s the middle child, and you know how they are. Starved for approval. I get the feeling he’s interested in exploring his options.”
A
Celia had passed A
“Well, the sister is definitely not president of my fan club,” Celia was saying.
You got that right, A
“Mmm-hmm, no, she doesn’t participate directly, kids and all that. But yes, I think it’s likely she does have a stake in the business. No, unfortunately, that’s a bit tricky since she’s best friends with Mason’s ex.”
A
Celia laughed at something her caller said. “You don’t even know the half of it,” she drawled.
The footsteps receded, as did Celia’s voice.
What the hell is she up to? A
She went back to her computer and tried to concentrate on the memo she was writing for Tracey, but her mind kept drifting back to the conversation she’d just overheard.
* * *
Ten months. That’s how long it had taken Celia Wakefield to get her claws into first Quixie and then Mason Bayless. Knowing Celia as she did now, A
Like everybody else in Passcoe, as well as at the company, A
Davis had been singing the praises of the hotshot management consultant he’d met on a business trip to Chicago for months.
“Mama actually met her first, if you can believe it,” he’d told A
Sallie often tagged along with both her sons on business trips after Gle