She could’ve gone on. After all, it’s not like she had to stop to catch her breath or anything. But that was pretty much the whole story, she supposed.
There was another loaded, long pause on the other end of the line before her mother asked, “This boyfriend of yours…he’s a nice Italian boy, yes? Catholic?”
Of all the questions she’d expected from her mother, she never could’ve guessed that one. “Um, no, Ma. He’s Native American. Pretty sure he’s not Catholic.” Deciding to go big or go home, she added, “He’s over five hundred years old.”
“But he’s good to you?”
Her stomach fluttered at the thought of how good to her he was. “Oh, yes. I love him, Ma.”
A sigh. “Fine. Then it’s settled. You’ll bring him to dinner on Friday. Seven thirty.”
Well, neither of them ate anymore, but her mother’s tone brooked no room for argument, so she kept that knowledge to herself. But, still… “That’s it? I spilled my guts and that’s all you have to say? Your only questions are about Hunter?”
Over the line, Mischa heard her mother stub out her cigarette. “Well, baby, there wasn’t much you told me that I wasn’t already aware of. I mean, hell, I may not have your genius IQ, but I’m no dummy. I knew the money came from you.”
Mischa sputtered. “How?”
“There was never a life insurance policy.” Her mother snorted. “Every penny we ever had went into your dad’s gambling. Even if there had been a policy—which there wasn’t—he wouldn’t have paid the premiums.”
“And you knew about the…”
“Yes, yes. I knew about how much he wanted to be a vampire.” Her mother tsked. “I always suspected that was how he died.”
Mischa swallowed hard. “And you don’t care that I’m a…”
“Let me tell you this, little girl,” she interrupted sternly, “no matter what you are, no matter what you’ve done, I’m always on your side. You’re my baby and I love you. End of story. And if this vampire of yours makes you happy and takes care of you, well, then I love him, too.”
Mischa was afraid she’d start to cry if she said anything, so remained silent as her mother sniffed and added, “Even though it’s a shame he’s not Italian. I’ll probably never hear the end of that from Maria Franchetti. You remember her daughter, Teresa, right? The little curly-headed girl with the impetigo? The one who used to pretend she was a dog and pee in the yard up until she was in the fourth grade? Well, she married an Italian doctor who is also Catholic. Canasta club has been unbearable since those two got engaged, let me tell you.”
Mischa felt as if thousand-pound weights had just lifted from her shoulders as she listened to her mother prattle on about canasta club, who was doing what in the old neighborhood, and other hometown gossip.
Jesus, it felt so good to hear that her mother accepted her, even if Mischa had been having trouble accepting herself. But after the gossip session was done, she couldn’t help but ask, “Ma, why didn’t you ever say anything to me? About dad? About the money?”
“I assumed you’d tell me everything when you were ready. Even as a kid you were that way. Couldn’t ever be rushed into doing anything. Had to do things in your own way, in your own time.”
Mischa closed her eyes, not wanting to ask her next question, but knowing she didn’t have a choice. “Do the boys…do they still hate me for leaving?”
“Those boys are every bit as stubborn as you are. They knew they were wrong to blame you for leaving, but do you think any one of them could admit it?” She snorted. “You don’t worry about them for a minute. I’ll talk to them. I think you’ll be surprised at how quickly they’ll welcome you back into the family with open arms.”
A joy and giddiness she hadn’t felt since, well, she couldn’t even remember when, bubbled up within her. “Ma?”
“Yes, baby?”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Mischa added, quietly, “And I’m sorry I stayed away for so long. I was wrong.”
Another pause. “Well, I’ll just bet that hurt like the devil to say, didn’t it?”
She chuckled. “You have no idea.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Hunter had absolutely no idea if he’d rigged the lighting for the final competition correctly. Harper had brought him in as a replacement for Riddick, who actually did know how to wire shit, but being able to carry the equipment and reading a book or two about stage lighting certainly didn’t make him an expert. He’d been around two-hundred-sixty years or so before Ben Franklin even discovered electricity, for shit’s sake. What did he know?
But, since a quick call to Riddick had confirmed that nothing he’d done was likely to start a fire, he decided to let it go.
“Should I not stand under the lighting, or are you nervous about something else?”
He glanced down from his perch on the lighting catwalk to see Tina, looking back up him through a pair of rose-colored glasses. And that wasn’t a metaphor. They actually had rose-colored lenses and cat-eye frames, and they matched the scarf she had tied around her cloud of blond curls.
Hunter didn’t claim to know anything about fashion, but even he knew Tina was rocking what could only be considered a vintage look.
Not bothering with the ladder, he dropped from the catwalk, landing in front of her almost silently. She shook her head. “Grace, good looks, and super powers. I’d hate you if you weren’t such a sweetheart.”
He was so thrown off by the “sweetheart” comment that he didn’t bother pointing out that she herself was blessed with an abundance of grace, good looks, and super powers.
Then he remembered she’d asked a question, so he said, “The lighting should be fine. How’s Emily doing?”
She patted her hair and smiled up at him. “Oh, she’s fine. She hit it off with my Michael, as I suspected she would. She’s with him right now backstage, rehearsing her monologue for the talent competition.”
He remembered Emily’s voice from the interview portion of the competition, and the thought of her lending her squeaky, thin vocals to some kind of insipid dramatic monologue made him cringe. “That’s…good. Any sign of her stalker?”
“Nope. Everything seems fine.” Her gaze turned speculative. “So, if you’re not worried about the lighting, I can only assume you’re worried about…our girl?”
Worried wasn’t the right word. Dreading the confrontation he knew they were going to have? That was accurate. And it would be a confrontation, of that he was sure.
He’d decided last night, while she’d slept so peacefully and trustingly in his arms, that he was done with the chase. She was either all in with him, or she was out. And if she was out…
Yeah, “worried” definitely wasn’t the right word. Fucking terrified was more like it.
If she wasn’t all in, if she didn’t want him, complete with promises to love, honor and cherish until death (the permanent kind) do they part, he’d have to leave Whispering Hope. There was no way he could remain in the same town with the lost love of his life, possibly eventually having to watch her move on with someone else.
Just the thought made him want to disembowel this fictional man who would eventually win Mischa’s heart. The smug fucker.
He shook his head. And Mischa thought she was twisted.
He’d never given her any kind of ultimatums before. He’d never demanded anything of her, knowing she’d have to make her own decisions in her own time. But now…well, he was demanding. It was time. They’d danced around each other for long enough.
Tina nodded as if she’d heard his entire inner monologue. “Resolve. I can feel it. You’re resolved to make a move. You’re planning to tell her it’s time to shit or get off the pot, yes? Help her get her shit together and force her to make a commitment?”
The unladylike turn of phrase was in direct opposition to her prim and pristine visage, and the statement was all the more powerful for it. He couldn’t help but let out a cho
ked laugh before saying, “Something like that.”
She patted his shoulder, the gesture oddly motherly considering he was about, oh, several centuries older than her. “It’s about time, dear. Don’t worry about it. She’s ready.”
He fought the urge to press her for more information about how Mischa was feeling, lest he seem like a teenage girl gossiping with friends about cute boys. Time for a subject change. “Do you know what she plans to do for the talent competition?”
A commotion at the other end of the auditorium drew their attention.
In a brown leather La-Z-Boy recliner carried by Benny, Tiny, the bartender from the Rag Tag, and Leon, sat Harper, who had a bucket of fried chicken cradled against her stomach, and a Big Gulp Slurpee in her hand. She smiled brightly when she saw them and waved with a drumstick she’d just plucked from the bucket.
Tina’s tiny hands fisted and shot to her hips. She sputtered as the men set the recliner down near the orchestra pit. “Child, what in the name of all that’s holy are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on bed rest.”
Harper looked deceptively innocent as she said, “Well, technically, ‘bed rest’ is just a figure of speech. My doctor told me I had to ‘recline’ until I went into labor.” Harper gestured to her chair. “Well, I’m reclining.”
Hunter shifted his gaze to the men who’d just carried Harper in like she was Cleopatra atop her queen’s litter. Tiny bent over at the waist, gulping for breath. Leon actually lay down on the floor at Harper’s feet, his skin dotted with sweat and sickly pale. Benny leaned heavily against the recliner and cussed under his breath. His voice was too quiet for Harper to hear, but Hunter heard he was muttering something about pregnancy hormones and recliners that weighed more than circus elephants.
While Tina continued to sputter and stew, Hunter asked, “What are you doing here, Harper? Is something wrong?”
She gnawed off a huge chunk of chicken and shook her head. “Nope. Just wanted to see what Mischa came up with for the talent competition. I have a feeling it’s going to be epic.”
She balanced the bucket of chicken on her protruding belly and dug into the cushion of the recliner to pull out a small, hand-held video camera. “And I need to make sure it’s captured for posterity.”
Tina finally found her tongue and said, “You are just plain mean, Harper Hall. You think that girl is going to embarrass herself, and you want that video footage so you can torment her.”
Harper’s grin was delightful, cheerful, and terrifying all at the same time. “Yeah. Like I said: epic.”
“I think,” Leon said, panting, “I pulled my spleen.”
“Suck it up, Buttercup,” Harper barked like a Marine drill sergeant. “You can’t pull your spleen, anyway. You’ll be fine. Walk it off.”
Tiny, Benny, and Leon excused themselves at that point, presumably to run for their lives before Harper asked to be moved elsewhere. She glanced around after they’d gone, taking in the scene, which included nervous vampire beauty pageant contestants milling around, practicing their acts for the talent competition (there seemed to be an inordinate number of vampires in the pageant with a talent for knife handling, for some reason), and chatting animatedly about the show, the previous day’s attack, and…he listened for a moment…hair and makeup.
Harper whistled. “Wow, what a freak show.”
Says the pregnant woman who was just carried in on a recliner by a halfer, a sleazy bar owner, and a computer nerd, he thought. The whole thing sounded like the setup for some kind of twisted joke.
Harper dug into the recliner’s cushions again and handed Hunter a sheet of paper with a dozen or so names and addresses on it. “That’s for Mischa,” she said. “It’s all the people in the country who are capable of cultivating and shipping Kadupul flowers.”
He folded the paper and stuck it in his shirt pocket. “I’ll make sure she gets it.”
“Thanks. Now, can you move me back stage, on the right? I want to make sure I have the best camera angle for when—”
She was interrupted when the auditorium door banged opened. Actually, it sounded more like it was kicked open, Hunter thought. He followed the source of the noise and wasn’t terribly surprised to see Riddick stalking toward Harper, murder in his eyes.
“Fuck,” Harper muttered, then turned to her mother with accusing eyes. “Did you call him?”
Tina smiled sweetly, saying nothing, and tucked her phone back into her purse.
Riddick didn’t stop until he was directly in front of Harper. She craned her neck back to smile up at him, guilelessly. “Hi, honey!” she chirped. “How are you?”
A muscle in his jaw twitched and his hands fisted at his sides. Her smile fell a bit. “I suppose you were worried when you got home and I wasn’t there, huh?”
Worried was an understatement, if his expression was any indication, Hunter thought.
“I’m really sorry, but don’t blame the guys, OK?” she said, biting her lower lip. “I made them bring me here.”
Anyone who didn’t know Harper Hall would say it was impossible that one tiny woman made those three grown men do anything. But, knowing Harper, it was a distinct possibility that they’d truly had no choice in the matter. She just had a way of making things work out to her advantage, which was kind of adorable…until it was used against you. Then it made you want to strangle her. Just a little.
Riddick opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut again. This went on two or three more times. Hunter felt for the guy. He’d certainly been reduced to mute fury a time or two when dealing with Mischa.
After another moment or two, Riddick gave up any pretense of carrying on a conversation with his wife. With a growl born of the purest frustration, he bent at the knees, picked up the recliner, turned on his heel, and stalked toward the auditorium’s exit.
Hunter wondered idly if dhampyres could get hernias. The chair looked that heavy.
“Aw, come on, Riddick,” Harper whined. “It’s going to be epic! I can’t miss this!”
When he didn’t answer, she sighed and asked, “Can we at least stop for fries on the way home?”
Riddick kicked the door open and without so much as a backward glance, carried her—and her giant recliner—out.
Tina clapped her hands together. “Well, that was exciting. I’m off to check on Michael and Emily, dear. Good luck tonight!”
Yep. He’d take all the luck he could get at this point. He just hoped that if Harper was right and the evening was epic, her definition leaned more to the epically good than to the epically bad.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Tina sprayed enough old-school Aqua Net on Mischa’s up-do to single-handedly create a hole in the ozone layer above their city. The intricate combination of braids and loose curls was most likely bullet-proof and hurricane-resistant. But, even Mischa (who barely brushed her hair most days) had to appreciate the results of Tina’s efforts.
The style was classy while still managing to be fashion-forward. And she wasn’t exactly sure how she’d done it, but Tina’s make-up job made the most of her delicate features without looking like she was wearing anything at all. It was all so…artfully artless.
And her gown for the talent competition? There weren’t enough adjectives in the English language to describe how much better she felt in it than she did in her swimsuit.
The dress was made of a rich emerald-green silk. It was low-cut in the bodice, slit on each side to mid-thigh, and it had been tailored specifically to suit her small frame. Somehow, it managed to be both elegant and erotic, revealing and classy all at the same time.
She supposed she owed Barbie an apology for assuming the woman would garb her in reams of pink taffeta and tulle.
Tina plucked a loose hair off Mischa’s shoulder and met her gaze in the mirror. (And yes, vampires can see their reflections. Vampire movies were only about half accurate half the time.) “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Yes. No. Maybe. Probably…yes. No, def
initely yes.
Tina chuckled. “Well, as long as you’re sure.”
Mischa let out a disgruntled groan. “I keep asking myself, ‘what would Harper do,’ you know? She’s always so brave and confident. But that doesn’t really help here, because Harper wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with.”
Tina put her hands on Mischa’s shoulders and turned her around so that they were eye to eye. (And for once, Mischa could actually be eye to eye with someone. They were the exact same height. It was a nice change of pace.) “Now you listen here, girlie. You need to stop doubting yourself once and for all. It’s that doubt that got you into this mess to begin with. You’re beautiful and smart and tough just like my Harper. But do you know what you have that she doesn’t?”
Crippling indecision and bouts of pathological self-doubt? “No. What?”
“Quiet strength. The emotional kind. Now, don’t get me wrong, Harper is strong. But she’s fearless, too. Acts without thinking through consequences. It’s easy to be strong when you’re fearless. But you?” She shook her head and smiled warmly at her. “You think everything through. You’re logical, methodical. So when you act? I know you do it with full knowledge of the consequences. And being brave and gutting something out when you fully understand the consequences? Well, there’s nothing more terrifying than that.”
Mischa swallowed hard against the lump that had appeared in her throat. “Harper’s way sounds a lot better to me right now.”
Tina gave her arm a sympathetic pat. “It almost always does, sweetheart. But this time, you’ve got nothing to worry about. That business about doing the opposite of what your instincts tell you?” She frowned and blew a raspberry. “I gotta tell you, no offense to your doctor friend, but that’s a bunch of hooey. If I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s that when you listen to your heart, it will never lead you astray. It’s only the mind that can get twisted up and mess with you.”
Harper Hall Investigations Complete Series Page 56