Nice Girls Don't Live Forever (21 page)

“No. Absolutely not. You all can just celebrate without me,” I told Mama. “I do not apologize to people who try to kill me. It sets a bad precedent.”

“Oh, but your grandma Ruthie will be so hurt if you don’t show up!” Mama protested.

“No, she won’t,” I told Mama. “You know she won’t. She’ll be much happier, and things will be a lot less tense without me there. In fact, that will be my gift to her this year, not showing up.”

Mama looked resigned but unhappy, which was generally how we both felt when negotiating the logistics of family gatherings. “Sometimes I just don’t understand the things that come out of your mouth, baby,” Mama said, pushing my hair back from my face.

“I hear that a lot,” I told her.

Mama chuckled, rolling her eyes. “Now that we have that out of the way, how are you doing, really?”

“Other than spending an unhealthy amount of time faking answers to magazine quizzes so I get better scores, I’m fine,” I told her. “The shop is doing well. I have sweet, patient friends with a high tolerance for whining. Zeb and Jolene keep me involved in their never-ending baby-name debate. Dick is the older brother I never really asked for. Andrea wants to start a belly-dancing class next month. My life is very full.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mama asked.

“No, I do not.”

“Honey.” She sighed, tipping my chin toward her. “I know it hurts right now, but whatever Gabriel did, I’m sure he’s sorry. And if he’s not, maybe Adam Morrow is still interested …”

“No. Mama, I love you. I love that you’re being supportive and that you want to put me back up in the saddle. But trust me, trust me, you don’t want me dating Gabriel … or Adam. I’m better off alone right now.” I kissed her cheek. “But I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she said, squeezing my cheeks. She let out a cleansing breath and returned to her normal cheerful tone. “Maybe it would help if I invited Adam’s mama to the meetings. You know, maybe if she learned to be a little more open-minded like me, it would make it easier on the two of you if you just happen to start dating.”

I thought about making a smart comment, but for the sake of this newfound bridge of mother-daughter understanding, instead I said, “Maybe we shouldn’t make
more
connections with the guy who has a fuzzy perception of personal boundaries?”

“Oh, you’re so strange sometimes,” Mama said in that tone of voice that always left me unsure of whether she was going to pay attention to what I said.

The gears in my brain whirred, searching for any activity that would keep Mama occupied and safely away from Adam Morrow’s mama. When all the machinery clicked into place, a wide smile spread over my face.

“Mama,” I said, putting my arm around her. “How would you like to throw Jolene a baby shower?”

I received a “reminder” e-mail from Head Courtney that I had yet to submit a progress report on my collections for the prize committee. She was giving me three demerits and told me to meet with Jenny to “better implement a synergistically creative approach” to my begging freebies before a progress meeting with the Courtneys. I was going to find the person who sold Head Courtney her copy of
Who Moved My Cheese?
and smack them.

With an obvious expression of disdain, Jenny strolled through the shop’s front door with her hand sanitizer at the ready. She seemed surprised by what she saw. She even smiled, just a tiny bit, at the fanciful little pottery dragon grinning at her from a table by the front window.

“How can I help you?” I asked, smiling pleasantly to the point that it was hurting my face. “We just got a shipment of self-help books. Can I interest you in a copy of
How to Stop Being a Raging Bitch in 30 Days
?”

Jenny’s lip curled back, and I could practically see the acid response forming, but she bit her lip and exhaled loudly through her nose. “This is a nice place,” she conceded. “Good light, nicely arranged. Probably not a color scheme I would have chosen.”

“I’m sure.” My teeth were grinding as I led her to the counter. I didn’t offer her coffee or a scone, despite the fact that they were arranged temptingly under a nearby glass dome. This was not a social visit. This was business. OK, fine, fine, Jenny had been making me feel unwelcome for years, and now I was having a tiny bit of revenge.

She smiled sweetly, or what passed for sweetly when you’ve had enough Botox to paralyze an elephant. “Mr. Wainwright must have been fond of you to have left you all this.”

“Here we go,” I muttered.

Jenny shrugged, her eyes wide and not-quite-convincingly guileless. “I’m just saying, it must be awfully nice—”

“You think I like the fact that Mr. Wainwright died?” I asked coldly. “Do you think I wouldn’t rather he was here right now?”

Technically, he was there at the moment, hovering over his favorite copy of
From Fangs to Fairy Folk: Unusual Creatures of Midwestern North America
. But I wasn’t about to tell Jenny that.

“I think I’ll pop out to see how your aunt Jettie’s doing,” Mr. Wainwright whispered.

“Coward,” I muttered. I turned back to my sister. “Why did you come here, Jenny?”

Jenny tried, and failed, to look surprised by my line of questioning. “Courtney told you. We have to go over our collection plan before the meeting. I wanted to talk to you about getting some of the car dealerships in town to offer some detailing packages. I think I might have an in with the owner of Nelson Ford.”

I searched Jenny’s face. I even thought about peeking into her thoughts, but past experience with Grandma Ruthie had shown me that only prolonged the argument, it didn’t help me win it. Fortunately, I’d known my sister long enough to discern the acquisitive, gleeful look in her eye when she was bordering on social triumph. And if she was really going to forge some sort of tenuous connection with the largest auto dealership in town, she would have been dancing some uptight little jig.

My eyes narrowed. “No you didn’t. We could have handled this whole thing by e-mail. That’s how we’ve done it so far, why change now?”

“Fine. I want to talk to you about the house,” Jenny said, sighing.

“No!” I threw up my hands. “My lawyer said I’m not supposed to talk to you about the house or its contents without him being present. That’s why we’ve been handling this frustrating yet not at all rewarding task over e-mail!”

“Jane, I think we can settle this without the lawyers.”

“How do you figure?”

Jenny actually had the good grace to look slightly timid, twisting her wedding band around her finger as she said, “Well, your situation has changed. You need to stay close to town now that you’re running the shop. And besides, you don’t need that big old place, all by yourself—”

“If you finish that sentence, I’m going to punch you in the head.”

“Don’t you threaten me,” she said, shoving my shoulder.

“Don’t you tell me what I need,” I said, shoving her back, sending her chair scooting across the floor.

“Jane, you have so much stuff! I don’t understand why you need
everything
the family’s handed down! You’re all alone. No one even sees all those beautiful things. They won’t be appreciated in your house like they would be in mine.”

“I’m not having this discussion with you again,” I told her, pushing back from the table. “Let’s just get through this carnival from hell, I’ll find a way to fake my death and escape from the chamber, and you can fight Head Courtney to the death for her position as queen of the evil hive. And then we never have to see each other again. You can pretend I died or something.”

“You did die,” Jenny said, rolling her eyes.

“So it should be easy for you.”

“Why can’t you just discuss this with me like a rational adult?” she demanded.

“Why? Are you going to behave like a rational adult?” I shot back.

She grunted and tossed her folder of chamber materials across the bar at me. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this, which is
all the time
. I’m going.” She huffed and puffed while she slung her purse over her shoulder. “But this isn’t over, Jane. You’re going to have to deal with this sooner or later.”

Jenny blew back out of the shop like a bitchy hurricane, leaving a trail of scattered prize committee papers in her wake. And when she’d tossed her folder at me, she’d knocked a huge stack of mail off the counter.

Perfect.

I ran around the shop, picking up sheets of paper detailing Jenny’s campaign to wheedle free floral arrangements and colonics out of the Hollow’s business community. I also cursed a rather impressive blue streak that eventually began to rhyme and was soon coming out in iambic pentameter.

Andrea had enrolled us in a poetry seminar.

And when I finally managed to assemble the papers on the bar, I was confronted with the envelope. I’d been avoiding the mail for the past couple of days. Frankly, between the creepy Jeanine letters and my Visa bill, the U.S. Postal Service wasn’t exactly bearing me good news lately. But I couldn’t ignore today’s note, the creamy linen envelope stuck between humdrum bills and catalogues.

I seriously considered tearing it up without reading it. Insight into my sire and his crazy possible ex’s relationship didn’t exactly make me happy. But the more I read, the more I wanted to know. Whoever this woman was, Jeanine knew exactly how much information to reveal, how much to play close to the vest, to keep me confused, wound up, and coming back for more. She should have been a mystery author or maybe run for Congress.

I took a deep yoga breath and prepared myself for whatever obsessive looniness the letter had in store for me. And as I scanned the page, one word jumped out at me: “whore.”

I really hated it when people called me that.

“
I saw you. I saw you with him, rutting in an alley like some common whore. I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen. What do I have to do to make you understand that you have to stay away from Gabriel? Do I have to do something drastic to get my point across? You have no one to blame but yourself now.”

“Oh.” My hands trembled, and the letter fluttered to the counter. My stomach pitched, pushing the salty-sweet remnants of synthetic blood into my throat.

The fact that someone had watched me engage in intimate acts in an alleyway seemed far more pressing than the fact that she was threatening to “do something drastic.” Personally, I thought the drive-by fruiting of my front porch was pretty drastic. But she’d
seen
us? Someone had watched Gabriel and me having sex behind the shop? She’d seen my sex faces? Heard the noises I made? Watched when Gabriel dropped me on my ass? I felt as if I’d been doused in ice water. What if she’d taken more pictures? What if she sent them to people I knew? Posted them on the Internet? What if that’s what she meant by having no one else to blame?

I tried to imagine explaining nude online pictures to my mother. If she thought me becoming a vampire was embarrassing, how would she react to “accidental amateur porn star”? I leaned my forehead against the counter. “Oh, not good.”

What do you do in a situation like this? I certainly wasn’t going to the police, who weren’t exactly helpful in cases where vampires were concerned. I’d probably pressed Andrea’s and Dick’s nerves to the limit with my “erotomania” talk and the relationship hysterics. Zeb didn’t need to be dragged into this, what with his procreative worries. That left one person, one man who would understand the situation, my feelings of paranoia and guilt and revulsion.

And I wasn’t talking to my sire at the moment.

My computerized calendar alarm sounded from the register. Andrea had set it so I wouldn’t conveniently forget my scheduled progress meeting. It was being held at Puerto Vallarta, the only restaurant in the Hollow that served Mexican food without a drive-through window. The theory was that the planning committee would build better connections and work more creatively in a social setting. Basically, it was an excuse for the Courtneys to get knee-walking drunk off half-priced margaritas on a weeknight. And because Nice Courtney wasn’t a committee head, I wouldn’t even have her as a social shield.

“Forced bonding time with inebriated Courtneys in a restaurant, where I’m going to have to hide the fact that I don’t eat,” I groaned, flopping my head onto the counter. “Peachy freakin’ keen.”

11

If you’re new to a relationship and your plans for the evening involve alcohol, consider this formula to determine your consumption: however many alcohol units it takes to get you to start complaining about your last boyfriend minus 100 percent.

—Love Bites: A Female Vampire’s Guide to Less
Destructive Relationships

I was, of course, the first person to show up at the restaurant, because, silly me, I assumed that when a meeting starts at seven, that’s when you’re supposed to show up. The rest of the Courtneys, and Jenny, showed up at 7:20, just as a table for ten became available in the crowded dining room. Apparently, I was the designated table saver.

This was going to be a fun night.

Puerto Vallarta was run by the Gonzalez family, first-generation Mexican-Americans whose parents had come to Kentucky in the 1970s to find seasonal work on the tobacco farms. The three siblings served affordable, delicious Mexican cuisine with just the right amount of “authentic” mariachi-ized ambience and a smile— even when the locals butchered Spanish while ordering “case-o-dillias.”