My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding

by L. A. Banks

  He had been genuinely contrite. Her vibe still wasn't up to full speed and now cut out entirely when she turned it on him, but she was sure he'd been sincere on the apology.

  Elvis got the bridesmaids lined up before the stage, requesting their help with the next number, "Rock-a-Hula Baby." Considering that none of them really had much in the way of hips for the hula, they made a game effort. He had better luck with one of the wrestlers who turned out to be Hawaiian and had remarkable muscle control, much to the delight of the ladies, especially when he took off his coat and shirt, leaving only the bow tie in place, like a Chip­pendales dancer.

  But no one came close to matching the star's moves and sheer raw sexiness.

  Frankie marveled that the leather stood up to what he put it through. Damn, but he looked fine. Hips, shoulders, long legs, all working perfectly, thank you very much. No hint of exaggeration or parody here. The man had talent.

  It was kind of sad.

  For the sake of her own sanity Frankie chose to conclude that the Elvis guy was one of those who had let the persona take over. That was it. That had to be it. She'd seen it when dating the actor. One of his friends couldn't drop character after the curtain rang down. Long after a play had closed he was still playing his part, improvising until called out on a new audition for a new play. Even the other actors gave him space and suggested therapy. She'd fervently hoped he never got cast as Jack the Ripper.

  Clearly the man onstage had the same problem.

  She felt bad for him, but it was his life, and he seemed to be en­joying it. Heck, there were worse people to be than Elvis.

  The cake serving marked the beginning of the end for her cater­ing job. Frankie saw to it that the gigantic confection's top part was boxed and saved, sent the temps around the tables to gather dishes and cutlery, and made sure the cleaning and packing up was thor­ough. They had access to the hall until 3:00 A.M. but she had no intention of hanging around that late. It had been a horrendously busy night, with or without the fainting incident, and weariness was creeping up on her.

  Sticking to her promise, she reserved more than enough leftovers for Coop's Cool-Cats. Usually those were divided among her own crew, but no one minded when they found out the band would be coming back for a meal. Her crew was apparently starstruck. Omar, who wasn't one for much talk, nodded and took over organizing the pending feast, keeping the dishes warm. There was an anticipatory smile lurking under his bush of a mustache. Gramma helped him, re­lating the story of the concert where she'd fainted. Omar good-naturedly pretended that he'd never heard it before.

  The bride disappeared to put on her traveling clothes and pack her wedding gown. Aleen had let slip that the simple white sheath had cost more than the whole reception. Good grief. All that on a dress? A one-time-only dress? That would be—in the fashion world—out of style in two days or less? Yikes.

  Elvis kept the party going until it was time for the big departure. He got a signal from the best man, then launched into the finale, "Viva Las Vegas," the couple's honeymoon destination. On what they leaked to the tabloids. Aleen had the real skinny: They were go­ing to Niagara Falls, then taking a road trip through Canada. Who'd have thought it?

  Gramma was tired but refused Frankie's suggestion to catch a ride home with one of the temps. "I want another gander at that stud," she said, and found a chair at a folding table they'd set up in the kitchen. No need to ask which stud.

  The band had their own routine to follow as they broke things down and packed them into a van parked at the loading dock. Everyone had their area of expertise, and there was little conversa­tion. They rolled up wires, shut instruments into shockproof carri­ers, and took it away. Soon all that was left was drooping tinsel and a few Mylar balloons not snagged by guests as souvenirs. The hall's resident staff would clear things for the next event, a class reunion or political rally, whatever. Frankie might even see the place again for another big wedding.

  Aleen came from somewhere or other, the purple dress on a hanger and cocooned in plastic, a big purse hanging from one slim shoulder. She'd pulled on black jeans and a tight red tank top. As al­ways, she looked like she'd not eaten since grade school, which was the result of genetics and a dedicated fitness routine.

  "Where's the dead-hound-dog party?" she asked brightly.

  Gramma must have passed the word to her. It was a miracle more people hadn't heard and lingered.

  "Kitchen." Frankie felt a reluctance to go back there and had been hanging around the main hall, putting things off. When still mad she'd wanted to get in the guy's face for that explanation; now it was no longer important. She'd figured things out on her own and further contact with him would only be uncomfortable for them both. He was welcome to his method-acting musical fantasy, and she would stick to the weirdness-free zone that was catering.

  With a slightly bruised vibe.

  Have to be more careful with that, she thought. The fainting inci­dent . . . maybe that's what hit Gramma fifty years back. The real Elvis had that raw power, and like many girls of the time, Gramma had a mad crush on him. She might have had her vibe tuned to him at the concert, he hit her with a flash of his energy, then boom, an­other fan fainting in the aisles.

  In Frankie's case it was an Elvis impers—tribute artist but no less real for the energy. He'd been pouring that out on the stage, flinging it at the audience, revving them to the max; you couldn't fake it.

  But he'd known something.

  "Yo. Zombie-girl." Aleen nudged her. "Kitchen? Par-tay?"

  "Yeah, okay-fine."

  "That was massively well done. Your first really big job. You im­pressed the hell out of Trini."

  "I just underbid the competition."

  "Actually, they overbid you. Soon as they knew it was Trinidad they doubled their prices. You charged her the same as you would a nonfamous person and that got you on her good side."

  "I'll keep it as company policy then." Frankie hadn't known about the other catering services and their price gouging. Well, good for her; playing fair had paid off.

  Her absence from the kitchen hadn't impeded the feeding of the band. They'd apparently eaten their fill and were kicked back and re­laxing with the Yummy crew. The plates were cleared, and only soda cans remained on the table. Everyone looked content.

  The Elvis guy was saying, still in his Elvis voice, "Omar, that was the best I've had in a long time. I'd be pleased to kiss the cook, but your mustache is mighty in the way."

  Laughter, everyone in a great mood. He was the star back here as much as he had been out front. Gramma had a chair right next to him and looked impossibly pleased with herself.

  Omar nodded once with much dignity "I and the mustache are very relieved to hear that, Mr. Presley." He was utterly serious, as though speaking to the real deal. Maybe they were all just being po­lite by playing into the man's fantasy . . . out of respect for his talent. That was nice of them.

  Elvis spotted Frankie and Aleen and stood up. Still the gentleman. "Ladies. It sure is pleasing to have you join us. Miss Foster, on behalf of my poor starvin' group I want to thank you for a doggone good meal."

  For a second Frankie didn't know what to say. Smiling and wav­ing like an astronaut didn't suit this one, so she cut the waving part and kept the smile. "You're welcome. Anytime." Arrgh. Why had she added that? "Everything okay, then?" she asked the others, and got approval all around. No one seemed inclined to go home just yet, which was strange. "Anybody ready to leave?"

  "They're still coming down from the show, dear," said Gramma. She looked about to say something more, then shut her mouth and smiled.

  Okay, Gramma, what's the subtext here? There was something on her mind, the whatever-it-was that had bothered her when the show first started.

  But Gramma only picked up a canned lemonade and sipped from it.

  Elvis guy hadn't resumed his seat and stepped sideways to get out from the middle of the crowd. He came up to Frankie, who was sub­jected to another nudge from
a grinning Aleen.

  "Oh—this is my best friend, Aleen Nuutzenbaum."

  "Pleased to meet you," he said, shaking her hand. "German name?"

  "Dutch. No cracks about nuts, okay?"

  "I wouldn't dream of it."

  Frankie bit her tongue, so as not to say anything about nut crack­ing. She didn't know him well enough to make that kind of joke, and—damn it!—his gentlemanly manner made her want to behave.

  "Did you get teased about your name at school?" Aleen asked.

  He flashed her that half grin and shook his head. "Not much. It was about me carrying a guitar all the time. I was kinda shy. But I don't think about that stuff anymore."

  Frankie went cold inside. Aleen had fallen for it, too?

  Okay, enough. Everyone out of the pool; it was reality check time. He was just an actor, singer, what have you, scratching a living by cashing in on another man's fame. Running around after the show was over and pretending to be that man was just an insult to his memory

  She drew a deep breath to speak, feeling the anger building up fast and furious . . . then looked up into his eyes.

  Something there stopped her. Stopped her hard. That something asked her not to shatter the moment, not to spoil the good time everyone was having.

  They were enjoying the illusion, loving every minute of it.

  She couldn't strip that from them with harsh words, especially not from Gramma. For their sakes Frankie made herself slowly deflate and pull back. She'd been damn close to the edge. Common sense and common courtesy had saved her from putting her foot into things.

  He smiled at her as though he'd been inside her head just then, as though he'd known every thought that had whipped through her brain in the last few seconds.

  She went beet red, and knowing that she had a blush on only made it worse.

  Okay, then ignore it, girl. She went to an ice chest, got a cold soda, and held it to her forehead to cool down.

  "You feeling all right, Frankie?" Gramma asked.

  "I'm gonna get some air. I've been smelling this food all day and need a break."

  They all understood that. She pushed out the back door. Her catering van was backed into the loading dock area right next to the band's vehicle. The latter bore the same retro logo as the bass drum: "Coop's Cool-Cats."

  Her car was parked farther out, as were those of her crew—and one other. She'd not expected it, but yeah, it was definitely there, a pink 1955 Cadillac Fleetwood—her eyes bugged—in cherry condi­tion. White sidewalls, white roof, chrome gleaming like new under the parking lot lights . . . good God, but the man was thorough.

  She popped the soda open and chugged, not tasting it, just relish­ing the icy, tickling fizz clearing her throat.

  "Take you for a spin, Yummy Cat?"

  She sputtered and choked. Recovered. No one else was here, so she rounded on him. "Stop that!"

  Again, no denial, no asking what she was talking about. He did look troubled and kept a respectful distance from her body space. "I am sorry, Miss Foster. I don't blame you for being creeped out. Is that what they call it? That's the last thing I want."

  She chugged more soda to give herself time to think, only she couldn't think of anything, which was annoying. She was usually faster than this, but as she had never been in such a situation before, it was hard to be brilliant. "Look, it's fun to pretend, but sometime you have to drop character."

  "I hear ya. It's just that I get wound up for a show and it takes a while to let go."

  Frankie nodded. "Okay. Just so you know, I did enjoy it; you're fabulous. It was an incredible show. At least until I hit the floor. You wanted to talk about that?"

  "And apologize again. I was all opened up, and then I looked at you and you were lookin' back an' . . . well, it was like my whole world stopped."

  World stopped? What the hey? "Opened up?"

  "Gotta do a little of that for every show, just part of the gig. It's what I do to get everyone goin'. But this one ... I could tell that couple was heading for trouble. They needed a push in the right di­rection or there'd have been all kinds of misery down the road."

  It took her a moment to digest. "You've got the vibe, too?" And he could actually influence people? Ye gods.

  "That what you call it? Never did have a name before. Never could talk to anyone about it, not 'til you came trottin' along back­stage. Soon as I laid eyes on you I saw you were different, that you had something more than those good looks you're carryin' around."

  "Whoa, you laying a line on me?"

  "No'm. Just fact. You're one cute head turner."

  Her face worked hard to project and maintain a calm facade. Now was not the time to go all girlie and break out in a big smile. "Well. . . thank you . . . but the other thing. The vibe?"

  "If that's your name for it, then that's what I got. I can tell a lot about people without ever askin'. The stuff just comes to me. Some­times too much."

  She'd never heard of a guy having the talent, but why not? It wasn't anything she or Gramma talked about much with others, so why should anyone else?

  "You know of a way of shutting it off?" he asked.

  Shutting it off? "Uh, not really. What, you get stuff twenty-four/seven?"

  "Sometimes, when I'm around too many people. I use the music. It's a buffer between me and the world. And I use the getup."

  She presumed he referred to the Elvis gear. "How?"

  The shy grin flashed. It was a nice grin. "Well, everyone loves Elvis. I get mostly positive stuff coming at me then. If I went around too much as Rick Cooper I'd be crazy. I'd be picking up all kinds of misery otherwise, and a body can only take so much."

  "So . . . you impersonate Elvis to keep from going crazy. That's. . . crazy."

  "I guess so, but it sure works."

  "Your real name's Rick Cooper?"

  "That's what's on the drivin' license." He gestured at the van. "Originator of Coop's Cool-Cats."

  "Do they know about your vibe?"

  "They're like my family; they know everything. No one seems to mind. We do good, too. Like tonight. We kept something fine from breakin'."

  "I saw that. I never knew things could be changed."

  "It takes some work, an' I don't do the changing. It's the music going out of me that does it. If I sat down in front of those two an' gave 'em a talkin' to it wouldn't have done a lick a good. But music can come out of one soul and touch another in amazin' ways. I see it all the time and it still gets to me. Pretty humblin'."

  "Look, uh, Coop?"

  "Coop's fine. Rick if you ever get the notion for it."

  "Okay, Coop, maybe you and my gramma should talk. She knows more about this stuff than I do. She's got the vibe, too."

  "Oh, I could tell that. She is one sweet little lady. I'd be pleased to call on her and you both, any day you name."

  "In what persona? I don't mean to be rude, but—"

  "I know. If it's just the two of you I can shed the getup. I can't change the face or hair, though. This is what the Good Lord gave me, so I have to live with it."

  Wow. "It's amazing."

  "Uncanny?"

  She nodded.

  "Yeah, I've heard all that. Seemed only right to just take it and run. It's worked out. I got a good life."

  "How did it start?"

  "You won't believe it."

  "Try me."

  "Well, when I was beginnin' my teens my folks took me on a tour of Graceland."

  "Me, too! Gramma took me."

  "Then you know how that place is; everything's so well cared for and clean and just plain loved. When we were going through the rooms I couldn't shake the feeling that Elvis would walk in at any moment. It is like he's still there. That's about when I first started perceivin' things. And what I perceived first was him!'

  "You saw his ghost?"

  "No, nothin' like that. It was . . . like a presence . . . only it wasn't him so much as the love everyone who'd ever crossed that threshold had for him. It was
love for him, for his gifts, for all that he gave the world. That's a mighty powerful lot of energy, and it's permeated into every square inch of the whole place. That's how he's there. I don't hold nothing about ghosts, but I do believe a place can pick up...

  "A vibe?"

  "Surely. What I think is maybe some of it got into me and found a home. And if any of that has even a single atom of himself inside me, then I'm pleased and honored to carry it."

  She liked his attitude. "And you spotted the vibe in me?"

  "Right away."

  "But I didn't see it in you. I shut down."

  "You saw the getup, is all. Give it a while. Maybe you'll get past it."

  No time like the present. She decided to risk another faint; she had to know.

  Frankie opened up . . . and . . . wow, again. Now she was able to see the guy who was Rick Cooper, and something more. The Elvis energy. Dampened down quite a lot, but it was as much a part of him as his skin and went far deeper. Very reassuringly, it wasn't the least bit scary but rather comforting, like a piece of Elvis truly did live on. This must have been what Gramma had seen, and it had thrown her, virtually two guys sharing the same space.

  She would have also figured that it was all right, though. Had it been bad, Gramma would have had nothing to do with him.

  Damn, but the universe was a strange place to hang out. Strange, but never boring.

  "You got it, didn't you?" he asked.

  "I did." She really liked what she'd seen, too. Of Rick Cooper, that is. Elvis was mighty fine, but so was Rick. He looked just as in­teresting; for one thing, he'd also made it to adulthood with an odd­ball gift and not gone raving nuts. He'd opted for a unique way of dealing with it, but hey, whatever worked. Frankie wanted to see more of him, on a lot of levels.

  "Uh, about me talkin' to your gramma?" he began.

  "Yeah?"

  "I shouldn't like to impose unless I could . . . well, I know of this diner where they do the old-fashioned burgers an' milk shakes an' have a real jukebox with forty-fives. If you think she—"

  "She'd love it. Tomorrow for lunch?"