Nice Girls Don't Date Dead Men (18 page)

“Easy for you to say,” I told Zeb. “It’s not your orifices at stake.”

“And on that lovely Yuletide note, I have something for you,” Gabriel said, leading me closer to the lights of the Christmas tree before handing me a small silver-wrapped package. With visions of jewelry dancing in my head, I opened it to find a little canister with a plastic trigger. “Mace?”

“Nope, silver in aerosol form,” he said proudly. “To prevent further parking-lot fights. Just don’t stand downwind when you use it.”

“Oh, how thoughtful,” I said, lifting it carefully from the box. With all the enthusiasm I could scrape together, I told him, “It’s really, really great.”

“It’s a gag gift,” he said crossly. “Zeb said you’d find this kind of thing funny. Lift up the tissue.”

“Zeb has spent most of his adult years playing GameBoy alone on Friday nights,” I said, rooting to the bottom of the box. “Don’t take relationship advice from Zeb.”

In the bottom of the box was a tissue-wrapped bundle. It was a little silver unicorn on a fine chain.

“Andrea said that paying homage to a little quirk in your personality, the closet unicorn obsession, would show that I care,” he said.

“It really does,” I told him. “Can I touch it?”

“It would be a good first step toward wearing it.”

“But it’s silver,” I said, hooking a tissue-protected finger around the clasp.

“No, it’s white gold,” he said as he looped the chain around my neck. “Perfectly safe for vampires.”

“All of the beauty of silver without the burning and itching,” I cooed, running my fingers over the curves of the unicorn’s tiny legs.

“Does that mean ‘thank you’ in your language?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Thank you, it’s very sweet,” I said, kissing him. “This is a wonderful coincidence, because I have this for you.”

Across the room, Zeb was making a sour face. Jolene jostled his arm, attempting to tease the scowl from him, but he shook her off, stalking toward the kitchen and
out of sight. She stared after him, her face twisted into confused, hurt lines. Dick saw this and asked some random question about his responsibilities as “the man of honor” and how it related to cummerbund color, teasing her into a smile.

I handed Gabriel a square package. “I was sorting through some old family photos with Aunt Jettie. We found this.”

Jettie and I spent hours looking through old boxes of River Oaks tintypes when I was a little girl. We would study the sepia-toned photos of Earlys from the 1870s and comment on the clothes, the hairstyles, who looked like toothless Uncle Vernon. (Somehow, we always voted for Grandma Ruthie.) Jettie would tell me stories about my ancestors, such as Great-great-great-grandma Lula, who set fire to the Hollow’s only cathouse after finding her husband, the Reverend James Early, “proselytizing” there. The fire took out the cathouse, a nearby saloon, and the general store, where the owner sold dirty French pictures from the back room. She did more good in forty-five minutes with an oil lamp than Reverend Early did in thirty-five years of preaching.

We’re a proud family.

On a recent trip down Disturbing Genealogical Memory Lane, Jettie and I found portraits from Clarissa and Stewart Early’s wedding in 1877. In one smaller photo, two young Early cousins, Leah and Mariah, were shown smiling up at two strapping fellows in silk coats. I had seen this photo a hundred times before I was turned. Until now, I hadn’t recognized the young men
being adored by my simpering foremothers: Dick and Gabriel, grinning like mad at the camera. They were so young. And Dick actually had his arm around Gabriel’s shoulders, laughing as if he had just told some raunchy joke.

I’d taken the photos to a camera shop to have copies of the print made. I’d framed one for Gabriel and one for Dick. It was not a manipulative
Parent Trap
ploy; I honestly couldn’t think of anything else to get them.

“I remember this day,” Gabriel said, grinning. “This was right before Dick persuaded your cousins to go skinnydip—” He caught sight of my raised eyebrows. “Um, never mind.”

Dick came to peer over Gabriel’s shoulder. “Leah and Mariah, twins in every sense of the word.”

“Did you leave any of my cousins untouched?” I cried, remembering Dick’s “fondness” for my ancestor, cousin Cessie.

Dick guffawed. “Hey, Gabriel’s the one who—” Gabriel narrowed his eyes at Dick. “Never mind.”

“Horrifying revelations and the confirmation that some of my relatives are/were publicly nude. You know, suddenly, this has become like Christmas with my family. Thanks,” I said, patting them on the back.

Gabriel’s cell phone sounded. OK, so it wasn’t the most mature thing to do, but I snuck a look at the caller ID. It read “Jeanine.” I didn’t know any Jeanine. Gabriel had never mentioned a Jeanine. Who the hell was Jeanine?

I practically chewed through my tongue to keep from
commenting. He took the call outside. And, I’m ashamed to say, I sort of lurked around the door to try to overhear. But he stepped off the porch, out of my range of hearing through the glass.

Defeated, I turned to the eating crowd. “Who’s ready for dinner?”

Jolene wasn’t the only one who could plan a tablescape. I had clear glass bowls of various sizes filled with vanilla candles and cranberries, Great-grandma Early’s wedding tablecloth, and the good china with the delicate silver ivy pattern. I was going for a
Good Housekeeping
look, which tends to be less angry than
Martha Stewart Living.
I used gloves to set out silver place settings for the humans.

“You spent six hours setting a table for food you can’t eat,” Zeb marveled. He took it upon himself to “escort” me to the table, since Gabriel was otherwise occupied.

“It’s my first vampire Christmas,” I said. “I still want to enjoy dinner.”

Gabriel appeared at my right, ready to seat me, and seemed a little put off when Zeb did not relinquish my hand or take the seat I’d assigned him across from Jolene. He seemed intent on sitting next to me, forcing Gabriel to sit next to a confused werewolf bride-to-be.

“I’m surprised you didn’t mix eggnog in your blood,” snorted Dick.

“Jane’s firmly antinog in all its forms,” Zeb told him, pulling out my chair.

Caught off-guard by Zeb’s clueless move, I made a quick comment along the lines of “Eggs, milk, and rum
should not be mixed unless it’s in cake batter,” and asked Mr. Wainwright to pour the blood.

Gabriel’s contribution turned out to be pastry shells filled with a jiggly pink mousse. I might have suffered from dessert envy, but the filling smelled vaguely of cat food. Gabriel told Jolene he’d gotten them from a bakery downtown that she was familiar with. She was clearly delighted, eating three of them before Zeb could take a tentative bite.

Zeb made a gagging sound he hadn’t uttered since his dad made him try chitterlings, then spat the pastry in his napkin.

“What exactly is this?” he asked.

“Heart mousse tarts,” Jolene said, moaning the way I used to over cheesecake.

“Beef heart, to be exact,” Gabriel said cheerfully, watching Jolene devour her fourth.

“They’re a real delicacy,” Jolene told Zeb. “We only get these at Christmas.”

Zeb wiped his tongue with his napkin and smiled wanly at Jolene. “I’ll finish mine later.”

Werewolves are also territorial about holiday time. It would be unwise for a human to underestimate her werewolf mother-in-law’s desire to see her son on Thanksgiving and Christmas Day
.

—Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were

I didn’t invite Gabriel to Christmas with my family. Because I don’t do that to people I like.

Grandma Ruthie spent every Christmas Eve neck-deep in nog, feeling at liberty to tell me exactly what she thought was wrong with my life and which of my poor choices had led me there. One particularly memorable holiday, in 2004, she offered to pay for plastic surgery, a total tune-up, including boobs, nose, teeth, and a little reconstruction to “soften my mannish features.” While generous, this offer kept me from coming to Christmas 2005.

And just as on Christmas 2005, Mama had not responded well to my skipping out on this year’s family festivities. Thanksgiving was spent with Mama’s extended family. I was allowed to skip it this year because the family preferred to eat lunch together, and an afternoon of watching
other people eat just wasn’t worth the risk of spontaneous combustion. Mama made some lame excuse to the uncles about my needing to get the bookstore ready for the Black Friday shopping rush, which seemed to satisfy everybody.

Christmas, however, belonged to Mama. There was the prolonged Christmas Eve gathering in which Mama, Daddy, myself, Jenny, and her spawn, plus Grandma and that year’s grandpa exchanged presents. We then enjoyed the traditional Jameson meal of turkey, stuffing, and a piping-hot side dish of guilt-stuffed manipulation. Unmarried and childless (read: pathetic, with no place to go), I usually slept at my parents’ house and spent Christmas morning with them. I was one step away from wearing footie pajamas.

Jenny and her boys, loaded up with sugar and obnoxiously noisy toys, usually arrived at around 6
P.M.
, and we were stuck together in family harmony until Mama decided to warm up leftovers for dinner and parole us until next year.

I had already violated the sanctity of Christmas Eve by spending it with people who actually liked me, so avoiding my family on Christmas night this year was not an option. I showed up at sundown and gave myself a forty-five-minute window to duck out before anyone arrived for the warmed-over feast. Mama got her usual bottle of Windsong, which she asked for every year. I gave Daddy a book on the haunted battlefields of Kentucky, which Mr. Wainwright recommended. I got slipper socks and a copy of
The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People
.

The house seemed even more quiet than usual, the gaps
in conversation echoing just how much my estrangement from Jenny was putting a strain on my parents’ holiday. Mama did, however, manage to mention how much everybody missed me on Christmas Eve and that it would be so much easier if I just stayed for dinner. About twenty times.

By easier, I’m pretty sure Mama meant easier for her. It was easier for her not to have to address my issues with my sister, such as the fact that Jenny had helped Missy the psychotic real estate agent by (albeit unwittingly) feeding her information about my schedule, River Oaks, and all manner of things that helped her harass me and frame me for murder. Oh, and the lawsuit she filed against me.

That sort of discussion can put a real damper on Baby Jesus’ birthday.

While Mama started preparations for re-dinner, I think I lost track of time talking to my dad about the possibility of tracing Mr. Wainwright’s family. Normally, I can sense my grandma’s approaching presence, like Bambi’s mom sensing when Man has entered the forest. I was caught off-guard in both senses, when Grandma Ruthie arrived with her newest catch, the aforementioned Wilbur.

They say the mourning period for a relationship is at least one-half of the time that was spent in the relationship. Grandma had reduced it to her shortest time ever, one-twenty-seventh of the relationship.

I smelled Wilbur long before I saw him. This went well beyond your typical old-man aroma. This was rot, decay, mold, black stinky gingivitis, and bad cheese. On top of that, he looked like a cheap Halloween mask come to life, all papery wrinkles and saggy, yellowed eyelids.

Sadly, he was still better-looking than former grandpa Tom.

“Oh, Jane, I didn’t know you were going to be here.” Grandma Ruthie sniffed as Mama took her coat, the unspoken but clear sentiment being that she wouldn’t have come if she’d known I was going to be there.

Mama hustled their coats out of the room. Daddy, obviously determined not to get caught up in whatever was about to transpire, kept his eyes glued to the television and relentlessly changed the channel. Wilbur looked from me to Grandma to me again. I crossed my arms and grinned at Grandma, happy not to be the rude, socially backward one for once.

Finally, Grandma sighed and said, “Jane, this is my fiancé, Wilbur. Wilbur, this is my, this is Jane.”

“So nice to meet you,” he said. “Your grandma has told me so much about you.”

“I doubt that very much,” I said, smiling sweetly. I didn’t flash my fangs. I’d leave it to Grandma to send senior men into mysterious cardiac-arrest episodes.

Wait, did she say fiancé? I zeroed in on Grandma’s left hand, where a tasteful diamond engagement ring twinkled.

“You’re engaged?” I gasped. “Again?”

Sensing the shift in the room, Mama poked her head into the living room. “Jane, honey, can I see you for a minute?”

Jaw unhinged, I followed Mama into the kitchen, where a wealth of Tupperware was carefully laid out in the traditional Jameson post-Christmas smorgasbord formation on the countertop. I clamped my hand over
my nose when confronted with Mama’s reheated “fancy” cheese grits, made with gouda and bacon and an obscene amount of garlic.

“Is she crazy?” I demanded around my hand. “Is
he
crazy?”