Spring Fever

“Who knows?” Celia said. “She’s in her nineties. I don’t know why she insisted on coming down here all alone for the wedding if her health is this precarious. I could just strangle my cousin Mallery for putting her on the plane.”

Mason reached for his car keys. “Come on. I’ll drive you over to Cherry Hill. We can call Max Kaufman, and if need be, he can come over and check out the old girl.”

“I don’t want to bother you,” Celia said. She had her pocketbook over her shoulder and her car keys in hand. “It’s probably nothing. I’ll call you if I need you.”

“What about your di

She glanced in the direction of the kitchen, her lips pursed. “I’m sorry, darling. Just pitch it out.”

16

Mason exhaled slowly. Was Celia upset with him? She was usually so sweet and accommodating. What had gotten into her lately? She’d left in a huff. If she’d stayed, he would have had it out with her over this Jax Snax thing. She knew more about the subject than she’d told him. This was no casual bit of gossip. Celia didn’t do casual. Maybe she just thought it best to alert him to the fact that they were being checked out by another company. No harm, no foul, right?

He should feel bad about their di

Upon reflection, he realized he didn’t actually feel bad at all. Probably this made him a terrible person, certainly a terrible husband-to-be. He should call and apologize, at least drive over to his mother’s house and insist on helping her take care of her aunt, or something. But right now he really just wanted to do what he wanted to do. And hadn’t she just called him spineless and his daughter spoiled, in a roundabout kind of way?

So he strolled out to the garage, found his golf clubs and some whiffle balls, and went out to the side yard, to that scruffy future garden plot. For an hour or so, he practiced putting because his short game sucked. He didn’t think about postponed weddings, or pissed-off brides, or why he seemed to take such perverted pleasure in pissing off his bride to be. But he did feel something, unease, maybe, about the fact that he was actually feeling relieved that Celia’s big night with him was probably not going to happen. He was a totally shitty husband-to-be, for sure.

After he’d worked on his putting, it was still daylight, and there was still at least another hour of warm, buttery sunshine left. Without giving it much thought, he got in his car and drove over to the bottling plant. He let himself into the garage, found a clean rag, and dusted a film of thick yellow pollen off the red Chevelle. Had it been that long since he’d driven the fun car? He got in and fired her up, doing a silent fist-pump when the engine throbbed to life. He put the top down and carefully backed it out of the garage.

Ten minutes later, he was tooling around Passcoe, seeing the sights, tooting his horn at anybody and everybody he recognized. He felt really, really good. But, and this surprised him, maybe a little lonely.

What he needed was a passenger. Somebody who could share his appreciation for just how cool it was to drive around on a beautiful spring evening with the top down. He reached for his phone, and without giving it much thought, tapped the icon for A

Wrong. He disco

*   *   *

A

She held the phone in her hand and stared at it. Should she call him back? Act as though she didn’t know he’d called? She felt like a stupid teenager. She started remembering all the Friday nights she’d spent, staring at the phone, fantasizing about picking up the phone and hearing Mason’s voice on the other end of the line. She remembered the sleepovers at Pokey’s house and how she’d sneak into his empty room when the rest of the household was asleep, studying his books, his bed, the football and baseball trophies casually lined up on the shelves. She remembered the notebooks she’d filled in high school, practicing her signature: Mrs. Mason Bayless, written in stupid, girly flourishes. While she was remembering all the things she missed about being a stupid teenager, the phone rang. Mason, again. She let it ring three times and then answered.

“Hey, A

“Hey, Mason.” She felt herself blushing with pleasure. “How’s Sophie?”

“She’s good. Sleeping. So, there’s something I was wondering about. We’re okay, right?”

“Okay?”

“You know. As friends. We’ve been through some stuff together. Good and bad.”

A

There was a long pause at the other end of the line. “I don’t know. This is just so weird. I guess I’m sad that you’re leaving town. Leaving the company.”

“That’s sweet. But you’ve known for months that I was leaving the company and moving to Atlanta. And getting remarried,” she reminded him.

“Yeah, but none of that seemed real until today. I went by your office at the plant, and I saw all the moving boxes and stuff.”

“It’s real. I’ve sold the loft. I’m finishing up packing right now,” she lied. “Friday’s my last day.”

“I wish you’d stay,” he blurted out.

A

“Staying is not a good idea,” A

“I don’t know why you say that. I mean, yeah, it was a little awkward at times, but I think we managed to keep things on a pretty professional level. You don’t think we could keep that going?”

No, she wanted to scream. We ca