Spring Fever

Celia Wakefield was not a woman to be trusted.

*   *   *

A

“Hello,” she whispered.

“Hey, A

“Hi,” she said, already feeling guilty about eavesdropping on Celia.

“I’m over at the hospital, and Sophie’s awake, and asking for you,” Mason said. “I told her you’re pretty busy what with the move and all, but…”

“I was just wrapping up some work, and then I’ll be over,” A

“She’s kinda pitiful,” Mason admitted. “She’s trying to be brave, poor kid, but she can’t understand why it still hurts. I thought maybe you could take her mind off it.”

“I’ll stop on the way over and pick up a video we can watch together,” A

“Great idea,” Mason said, sounding relieved. “Should have thought of that myself.”

Yes, A

A

She grabbed the hand truck she’d borrowed from the plant and stacked three of the boxes on it. The cartons were unexpectedly heavy. A plume of dust arose as she lifted the lid of the carton on top, and she sneezed repeatedly. Inside the carton were stacks of age-browned file folders with fading but neatly typed labels. The top file was labeled CORRESPONDENCE, 1972. Clearly, the boxes contained nothing anybody had needed or wanted in the past forty or so years.

A

“Dammit,” she muttered, scooping up a load of papers.

Her mood changed when she saw the contents of the box. They were slick, full-color mechanicals of vintage Quixie advertisements.

The top ad had a vividly rendered illustration of Dixie, the Quixie Pixie, perched on the top of a Christmas tree, winking impishly and offering a bottle of Quixie to two pajama-clad children peeking around the corner of a living room that could have come straight out of a 1950s movie.

GO AHEAD, the ad’s headline urged. SANTA WON’T MIND.

C ELEBRATE C HRISTMAS WITH Q UIXIE C HERRY C OLA!

“Oh, wow,” she breathed, looking closer. A notation on the bottom of the mechanical indicated that the ad had run in the December 1957 issue of Look magazine. The illustration was signed, in the corner, with familiar block lettering. She blinked and looked again, but the signature was still there. Norman Rockwell.

She had no idea the company had once hired the country’s most famous illustrator for its ad campaigns.

A

THE WATER’S FINE, the ad’s headline said. BUT QUIXIE IS EVEN BETTER.

She fa

One of the promotional pieces was a recipe booklet titled Entertaining Ideas with Delicious and Nutritious Quixie.

Delicious, yes, A

And yet, the booklet, which A

The recipe for Quixie baked beans was illustrated with a color photo of an immaculately coiffed housewife offering the gooey-looking brown concoction to a trio of eager children. The woman in the photo was definitely a dewy-eyed, probably not more than nineteen-year-old Sallie Bayless, although the children were young models, since Sallie’s own children weren’t even born yet.

“Mrs. Glende

That one gave A

Still, the box was a miniature treasure trove of the company’s marketing history. She shuddered now to think how close she’d come to trashing all of it.

A

Most of the old bottles were either clear or the same pale green tint that was used in the current Quixie bottle. But the shape and silhouette and labels varied. One in particular drew her attention. She lifted it out and held it up to the sunlight.

The bottle was short and squat, an eight-ounce size, and its base bore concentric rings. On the label, the winking face of Dixie leaned out from the Q in the company name.

“Adorable,” A

Suddenly, she heard the loading dock door open behind her and the familiar tap of heels and that overly loud voice.

“Well, hey,” she heard Celia say. “What on earth are you doing, A

Reflexively, A

“Just cleaning out my office,” she said, struggling to her feet.

“I’m so glad you’re doing that!” Celia exclaimed. “I promised Tracey we’d get the office spiffed up before she moves in, but the last time I peeked in there, I realized we’ll have a lot of work to do before the painters can come.” She favored A