Authors: Mary Kay Andrews
“We need to talk,” Mason said, and he felt his jaw muscle twitch. He glanced at Davis’s computer screen—and saw what looked like a page of real estate listings. Davis quickly tapped the mouse and the Quixie logo appeared on his screen saver.
“Hang on a minute, can you?” Davis said, covering the phone with his hand. He gestured toward the wingback chair in front of his desk.
“Look, I’ll get back to you on that,” he said and hung up. He swiveled his chair around and gave his brother a searching look.
“Dude,” Davis said, with a merry chortle. “I hear you had yourself quite a night last night. So. You and ole Annajane out at the farm, scaring the livestock. Congratulations, buddy. Didn’t know you had it in you.”
Mason clenched the sides of the chair with both hands. “Shut the fuck up,” he said fiercely. “I mean it, Davis.”
“Okay,” Davis said, shrugging. “Don’t get so bent out of shape. I was just messin’ with you.”
“You’ve been messing with a lot of people lately, haven’t you, Davis?” Mason said. “I just got an e-mail from Joe Farnham. He tells me you’ve terminated our account with them?”
“Well, hey-yullllll,” Davis drawled. “You know, it’s just one of those things. If we do this deal with Jax Snax, they’ve got their own in-house agency. And I know you’ve been on a cost-cutting tear, so it seemed to me that now was the time to cut Capheart loose. We’ve got the summer promotion plans, and it’s no biggie for me to cherry-pick the best parts…”
“It is not just one of those things,” Mason said. “We’ve been working with Farnham-Capheart for years. They’ve done a good job for us. More importantly, this Jax thing you keep harping about is not a done deal. You know damned well we don’t have any idea of how Dad’s trust arrangement is going to shake out. For all we know, he may have left Quixie to the Humane Society.”
Davis’s eyes shifted nervously. “The old man wouldn’t have done anything like that. Anyway, we’ll know by next week. I’m just trying to make sure we’ve got all our ducks in a row once we do know how it shakes out.”
“I am not going to let this company be sold, Davis,” Mason said quietly. “Not without a fight. I know we’ve had some philosophical differences in the past, and we’ve managed to work things out, but this time, I’m not backing down. Our great-grandfather started this business. He and Granddad and Dad managed to keep it afloat during the Depression and the war years. They fought off Coke and Pepsi and half a dozen other companies that tried to put us out of business. But if Kelso and his bunch get their hands on Quixie, you know as well as I do that they won’t leave us alone. I’ve seen how they operate. They don’t want us—not the physical us. They just want our brand and our market share. Oh yeah, they’ll make promises about keeping things just the way they are, but that’s a bunch of bullshit. They’ll write us a big check and then show us the door. They’ll shut the plant down, ship the equipment somewhere else, and throw everybody in town out of work. Everybody but the Baylesses.”
“You got something against making money?” Davis asked. “Or do you just enjoy the idea of being the last noble Bayless to run Quixie—right into the ground? Because that’s where it’s headed, big brother. Get your head out of your ass! Take a look at what’s happening in the business.”
“We can turn it around,” Mason said stubbornly. “The new flavors, the focus groups loved ’em. And we need some fresh ideas, but we’ve got a good product…”
“I’m telling you it’s too late,” Davis said, half-shouting. “The brand extensions you’re talking about will cost millions. We’d have to retool the plant, add extra capacity, and God knows what all. And I’m tired of flushing good money after bad. If you don’t believe me, talk to Celia! She’ll tell you the truth. The smart money is on Jax. We make the deal, get ’em to sign an iron-clad agreement not to move the company—at least for four or five years. Maybe milk the state for some tax incentives to stick around…”
The muscle in Mason’s jaw twitched as though it had been touched with a live wire. “We are
not
going to hold this state ransom and hang around for a government handout just to turn around and double-cross them. That’s not how Baylesses do business.”
“The hell you say.” Davis was leaning back in his leather chair. He clicked his mouse and his computer screen was again filled with color photographs of real estate listings. He swiveled the monitor so Mason could get a look.
“You see this? That’s a four-bedroom house on Figure Eight Island.” He tapped the screen with his forefinger. “The lot alone cost a million, three, and I know the owner spent another million and a half building the damned thing. Then he lost his ass in the speculative real estate market. Guy is hurtin’ big-time. Now, he’s begging me to buy it—fully furnished—including a thirty-five-foot Grady-White. I just put an option on it. Eight hundred thousand. You believe that?”
Mason felt his stomach churn. His brother relished the idea of feasting on another man’s disaster. “You could buy that house and boat right now, without taking a dime out of Quixie,” he pointed out. “You’ve got the money. Nothin’s stopping you.”
Davis leaned across his desk. Beneath the tan, a network of fine red veins threaded across his high cheekbones. “Quixie is stopping me,” he said. “Floggin’ this dead horse takes up all my time and energy. But now I’m done.”
He laid his palms flat down on the desktop. “And before you start in on lecturing me about family duty and all that bullshit, you need to know that I am not the only one in favor of this sale. I know Pokey’s dead-set against it, but hell, Pete’s got plenty of money, and anyway, our baby sister don’t know squat about cherry soda.”
He glanced over at a glamorous silver-framed photo of Sallie that rested at the edge of his desk. She’d had the portrait done only a year ago, not long after she’d made a trip to Florida that had been billed as a winter vacation, but which they all knew was for a skillfully done face-lift.
“I wasn’t gonna get into this right now, but you need to know that Mama is ready for this deal to happen. She’s not getting any younger. She wants to get out and enjoy her life while she still can. And if you let this company go to hell, out of your own stubborn pride, that’s on you, buddy.”
He pointed at the monitor with the photo of the beach house. “This summer, when you’re messin’ around out at that broken-down old boathouse and cottage out at Hideaway—that’s where I’m gonna be spending my time. Ocean views on one side, views of the sound on the other.”
Mason shook his head. “I went to see Mama this morning. You’ve been telling her all kind of lies about what’ll happen to the company if we don’t sell, haven’t you, Davis? Scaring her, making her think she’ll be a penniless widow?”
His younger brother gave a nonchalant shrug. “Mama’s a grown woman with plenty of business sense, Mason. She can see the handwriting on the wall without a flashlight.”
“I’m done here,” Mason said tersely as he stood to go. “Anyway, I didn’t come in here to debate the merits of Jax Snax. What I did come in here to talk about is Quixie. Here and now. Today. I’ve tried to stay out of your side of the business, but I can’t do it this time. I called Joe Farnham after I got his e-mail this morning. He told me losing the account meant he couldn’t hire Annajane. Was that your intention? Making sure she wouldn’t have a job? What the hell has she ever done to you?”
“Nothing,” Davis said. “I’m okay with Annajane. How was I supposed to know he’d let her go? I’m not privy to their internal workings.”
“You need to fix this, Davis,” Mason said, glaring at his younger brother. “Nobody knows the company history as well as Annajane or understands our market like she does. Rehire her, or I will. Firing Capheart is one of the stupidest damned moves you’ve ever made. And you’ve made some pretty stupid decisions in your life.”
“You’re calling me stupid?” Davis leaned forward. “Take a look at yourself, big brother. I’m not the one lettin’ my gorgeous fiancée sleep at Mama’s house while I’m out fuckin’ my ex-wife in a cornfield.”
Mason felt the blood rushing to his head. He stood very still. He jammed his hands into his pockets to keep from slugging his brother.
“I’ll call Annajane and let her know she’s been rehired,” he told Davis. “In the meantime, we need to concentrate on running Quixie, the best way we know how.” He turned and stalked out of the room.
27
N
OW ENTERING PASSCOE, N.C. HOME OF QUIXIE BEVERAGE COMPANY SINCE 1922.
Annajane slowed the car as she passed the city limits sign.
Funny, she’d never really noticed the tasteful green and red billboard before. If Jax Snax managed to gobble up Quixie in the proposed merger, would the town fathers leave the sign standing? The real question, of course, was whether there would be anything left of the town if Quixie got sold.
She’d seen too many other small towns around the state decimated after the departure of textile mills, furniture manufacturers, and yes, even the much-maligned big tobacco. The sight of those abandoned buildings, with their weed-strewn properties; ghostly, boarded-up windows; and forlorn
FOR SALE
signs never failed to send a shiver up her spine.
They didn’t cure cancer or promote world peace at Quixie. They just made fizzy soft drinks. But their product made people happy.
Mason might fret about shrinking market share, but one thing did not change. Their customers felt intense loyalty to a soft drink that had been around for more than ninety years. Quixie employed three hundred people in Passcoe, which made it the county’s biggest employer. Quixie, and by extension the Bayless family, had provided most of the funding for Memorial Park, the high school football stadium, and the obstetric wing of the hospital. Quixie and its employees were always the biggest contributors to the local United Way fund, and, of course, their taxes kept county roads paved and libraries and schools funded.
Annajane ran her tongue over her now-straight teeth. As the child of a longtime Quixie employee, the company’s health plan had paid for her orthodontia, and Leonard’s company-sponsored savings plan had sent her to college.
Quixie, she vowed, could not just up and leave. She might not have a home or a job or a future here, but she couldn’t let all of this go. Not without a fight.
Her cell phone rang and she recognized the number on the readout as her real estate agent’s.
“Annajane, hey,” Susan Peters said. “I’m so glad I caught you.”
“Please don’t tell me you have bad news,” Annajane said. “I’ve already had enough today.”
“Not exactly bad news,” Susan said. “But news. We need to move up the closing on your loft to Wednesday. So you’ll get your money two days early. Hooray, right?”
“But that’s the day after tomorrow. I’m not even done packing.”
“Sorry,” Susan said. “Your buyer has to leave the country on business Friday, and Wednesday is the only day we can get it scheduled with the lender and the closing attorneys. So it’s Wednesday or nothing.”
“I won’t have to move until Friday though, right?”
“Uh, no. You’ll need to be out of there by noon Wednesday, so she can get moved in before she leaves on Friday.”
“Susan!” Annajane said, with a moan. “You don’t know what you’re asking. I just found out today my job in Atlanta fell through. I don’t have any place to move to.”
“Can’t you just move in with your fiancé?”
“Probably not, since we’re no longer engaged,” Annajane said.
“Oh. Wow. You are having a run of crappy news,” Susan said. “Well, look on the bright side. You’re making out like a bandit on the sale of the loft. You can afford to buy something really nice now. I’ve got a darling 1940s cottage over on Mimosa Street. It’s a three-bedroom, two-bath, on a huge lot, with tons of potential. You could pick it up for a steal, and have lots of money left over for the restoration.”
“Restoration?”
“It’s what we real estate professionals call ‘a handyman’s special.’ You know, it’ll need a new roof, plumbing, electrical, heat and air, a new kitchen, like that. I can show it to you today, if you want, and if you love it, which I think you will, we can write up an offer by tonight.”
“Whoa!” Annajane said. “I’m still processing the news that I’ll be homeless in two days. Look. I can’t wrap my mind around this right now. I’ll have to call you back, okay?”
“Okay, but remember, closing is now at 9
A.M.
Wednesday. And you really do have to be out of the loft completely by noon. Call me if you want to see Mimosa Street.”
Annajane dropped her phone into her open pocketbook with a sigh. This day was one that would go down on record as one of the worst in her life. Ever.
She slowed the car at the intersection of the county road and the street that led to Mason’s house. She would deal with her broken engagement, the job situation, and the moved-up closing later. What she needed now was a little cheering up. Sophie would be home from the hospital by now. Impulsively, she made the turn, and hoped all the turmoil at the office meant she could visit the little girl without encountering Mason. Or Celia.
* * *
Sophie’s nanny, Letha, gave Annajane a quick hug. “She’s been asking about you since we got home,” Letha said. “Her daddy told her you’d gone out of town, and she sure didn’t like hearing that!”
She found Sophie propped up on the leather sofa in Mason’s study, sipping from a glass bottle of Quixie and watching
The Little Mermaid
video. The little girl’s pallor was gone, and she was giggling as Sebastian the lobster capered around on the colorful flat-screened television.
“Annajane!” Sophie cried, spotting her. “You came back.”
“I did,” Annajane agreed, sitting gingerly on the edge of the tufted ottoman that served as a coffee table. She reached over and adjusted Sophie’s sparkly pink glasses, then ruffled her hair. “Are you glad to be home?”
“Yeah. The nurses were nice, but Letha is nicer.”
“Lots nicer. And you’re feeling better, I hear?”
As an answer, Sophie pulled up her pajama top and pointed at her abdomen. A small square of gauze covered her incision. “I’m gonna have a scar,” she said proudly. “Nobody else in my whole school has a scar like me.”