“No, Mother,” Mason said, his voice icy. “What did you mean? That Sophie isn’t a Bayless, because I never married her mother? Is that another reason you were so hot for me to marry Celia, so that you’d have a legitimate grandchild from me?”

“Stop it, Mason,” Sallie demanded. “I won’t have you speak to me like that. You know perfectly well that I’ve accepted Sophie as one of our own. I’ve always treated her exactly as I have Pokey’s children. And I wanted you to marry Celia, and for her to have your children, because I believed she would make you happy and be an asset to this family. Is that so wrong for a mother to want?”

She took another drag on her cigarette and let the smoke curl from her nostrils, waving it away, as though she could wave away anything unpleasant or displeasing in her life.

“Whatever,” Mason said. “It’s done.”

“But where will she go?” Sallie asked. “You’ll let her stay on at the company, won’t you? She has a consulting contract.”

“Celia is gone,” Mason said emphatically. “She’s moving her things out of my house as we speak. As for Quixie, no, of course I’m not going to keep her on. We’ll pay out what we owe her, but under the circumstances, it would be disruptive to business to allow her to stay on.”

Sallie’s eyes flared. “And yet you kept Annajane on. Even after the divorce.”

“Yes, and thank God I did,” Mason said. “No thanks to Davis. Or Celia.”

Realizing that she was on shaky ground, Sallie quickly changed tack. She flicked a fingertip at the tray of plastic-wrapped crab bundles, the caviar-topped deviled eggs, and the bacon-wrapped chicken livers. “All this food,” she said with a sigh. “For the second time in a week. And there are six bottles of champagne in the refrigerator and half a case of expensive-looking red wine in the dining room. And should I even mention the wedding cake? What on earth am I supposed to do with yet another wedding cake? I still have the top layer of the first one in the freezer down in the basement.”

Mason shrugged. “I don’t give a damn. I told Celia I didn’t want any of it in the first place. Feed it to your bridge club. Throw it out. Or better yet, send it over to the nursing home, why don’t you?”

Sallie winced. “I am not looking forward to explaining to the girls in bridge club about this latest debacle in your personal life. And as for sending caviar and chicken livers to a nursing home? Certainly not.” She picked up the telephone on the kitchen counter. “We’ll just have a particularly extravagant family dinner instead. Pokey and Pete and the children will come, of course, and I’ll call Davis, too. You’ll stay, of course.”

“No thanks,” Mason said. “There’s somebody I have to see tonight. If she’ll see me.”

*   *   *

When she finally stopped laughing, Pokey hung up the phone.

“Was that Sallie you were talking to?” Pete Riggs asked, looking up from the DVD player he was trying to repair on the kitchen table.

“It was,” Pokey said, still chuckling.

“What makes your mother such a laugh riot this afternoon?” Pete asked. He stabbed the Shuffle button, but the machine didn’t move.

“Poor Mama,” Pokey said, sitting down beside her husband. “I know I shouldn’t have laughed right in her face like that, but she’s really so clueless.”

“What’s she so clueless about this time?” Pete asked.

“Life. Family. All of it. She actually wanted me to call Mason and try to ‘make him see the light’ about his breakup with Celia.”

“Like that was gonna happen,” Pete said. He picked up a screwdriver and jabbed at the DVD player.

“And then when I told her I was thrilled that the bitch had been caught in her own web of deceit, she invited us all over to supper tonight—to eat the appetizers Celia ordered from the country club, for a wedding to which we were specifically uninvited.”

Pete sniffed the DVD player and wrinkled his nose. “Does this thing smell funny to you? I think it smells like something crawled up here and died.”

Pokey inhaled. “Eew. Rancid peanut butter. Probably Petey. I don’t know what it is with that kid and peanut butter.”

“So what did you tell her about dinner?” Pete asked.

“I said hell to the no,” Pokey retorted. “Then she got her panties all in a wad because I told her I didn’t think caviar and deviled eggs and chicken livers were ideal food for three little boys.”

“But I love caviar and deviled eggs and chicken livers,” Pete said plaintively.

“Pete! We are taking a stand here. We are not eating any food that has any connection to Celia Wakefield or her foiled attempt to drag my poor brother to the altar. Besides, we’re having pizza tonight. And then Sophie and I are baking cupcakes. Pink ones.”

“Okay, fine,” Pete said. “I’m good with pizza. Also cupcakes, pink or otherwise. What does Sophie think about her father’s canceled wedding?”

“Not fazed in the least.” Pokey said. “She’s really more upset about the fact that Mason made her give back that sapphire necklace of Celia’s that she had in her pocketbook.”

“Not to mention the birth control pills,” said Pete, who’d already heard his wife’s triumphant blow-by-blow account of the demise of Celia Wakefield. “Soph really saved the day, didn’t she? If the kid hadn’t found those pills and stashed them in her purse, and you guys hadn’t found them when you did, poor old Mason would be celebrating his wedding night right now.”

“Not a chance,” Pokey said, jabbing at the back of the DVD player with a butter knife. “If Mason hadn’t called off the wedding himself, I still had plan B.”

“Do I want to know what that was?” Pete asked.

“Probably not,” Pokey said. She got up, sat on her husband’s lap, and patted his cheek. “Know this, Riggs. When it comes to messing with my family, Pokey don’t play.”

44

Celia Wakefield was an unholy mess. Her eyes were red and puffy from crying, and a nasty patch of acne had spontaneously erupted on her chin and was working its way north toward both her cheeks. She was hot and sweaty from lugging all the belongings she’d packed up from Mason Bayless’s house and cramming them into the back of her Saab. She’d broken two nails and twisted her ankle.

And the very cherry on her parfait of personal misery was that she had gotten her period within the past hour. Two weeks early.

She’d been examining her options, and they didn’t add up to much. If it weren’t for the money she’d be losing out on, she’d have been positively giddy at the prospect of seeing Passcoe, North Carolina, in the rearview mirror. Where to next? Not Kansas. The lawyers from Baby Brands were making noises about a lawsuit, so she wouldn’t be launching another children’s clothing business anytime soon. Hmm. Texas? Or maybe Florida? Lots of wealthy men with lots of lovely money. It was something to ponder. Now, she was already late for her meeting. Her cell phone rang and she snatched it up and answered without checking the caller ID, an impetuous decision she immediately regretted.

“Hey, honey,” Cheryl’s voice, coming live over the phone from South Sioux City, Nebraska, sounded like she’d been gargling with broken glass and battery acid. “Vernonica tells me you’re living in North Carolina now. I hear it’s real nice down there.”

“How did you get this number?” Celia demanded.

“Veronica give it to me,” Cheryl said. “But that’s not a very nice way to talk to your mama.”

“Sorry, I’m having a really shitty day,” Celia said. “What do you want?”

“Why do you assume I want something everytime I call you?” her mother asked.

“Because you always do. What is it this time? I hope it’s not money, because I don’t have any to spare. I just lost my job.”

“Oh.” Silence. “I wasn’t calling to ask for nothing,” Cheryl said, sounding hurt. “I just wanted your new address, so I could send your birthday present. Gene’s got these real nice Louis Vuitton purses now, and I know you like that kind of stuff.”