by Marta Acosta
“Am I your true love, Milagro?”
“There is no other.”
“Milagro,” he said, “you know how we never really talk about the future?”
“Talking about the future is too complicated,” I said nervously. I was always worried that one day Oswald would decide that I wasn’t serious or sincere enough for him. “Let’s just go on the way we do now.”
“My mother,” he began. “You remember my mother?”
“Yes,” I said, wondering what awful news was coming.
“My mother called and told me they’re coming to visit. She told me that Brittany Monroe would be joining them.”
“Miss Fruity Petticoats?” I said.
“The very same. The Monroes are concerned because Brittany has been dating your friend Zave. My mother thinks Brittany is a delightful young lady. She admires her femininity, her excellent family background, and, um, fashion sense.”
Oswald let me stew in a nasty broth of suspicion and insecurity. “Well, it’s your ranch, Oswald. If you want to invite that ripe carbuncle of polyester lace and strawberry-flavored lip gloss, it’s your own decision.”
“Thank you for your support,” he said. “I told Mom that I thought Miss Assembled Trousseau might have her hopes dashed when she found out I was engaged.”
“Oh,” I said, confused.
He faced me and took my hands in his. “Milagro De Los Santos, will you please save me from this threat and all threats to come? Will you protect me and love me and humor me and marry me?”
I felt a catch in my throat. “Oswald, stop joking.”
“I’m not joking. Okay, I was a little bit, but I’m not joking about marrying you.” He looked in my eyes. “I know I’m not what you expected. Maybe I should have let you go so you would have a chance with someone without my condition…”
“Our condition, Oswald.”
“No, Milagro, so far as we know, you’re fine. You could meet some great guy and have a great life without worrying about neovampires, political extremists, and crazy relatives. If that’s what you want, I’ll let you go, babe, but I want you to know that I love you. I’ll always love you.”
“Oswald K. Grant, if you think I’ll leave you vulnerable to the predatory plottings of Miss Ruffles LaBoink, you are sadly mistaken.”
“You won’t have a normal life with me,” he warned.
“There’s no such thing as normal. I’m abandoning the entire concept of normality, normalness, whatever.”
“I was going to wait and get a ring, but I thought you’d want to choose it, and—”
“Oswald, a ring is only a ring.” I’d hidden Ian’s ring with the other gifts he’d sent me. It didn’t mean anything. “Yes, I will marry you. You’re the only one I want.” I nestled against him, still astonished that such a wonderful man loved me back. “Are you happy?” I asked him.
“I’m beyond happy,” he murmured. “I’m ecstatic.”
“Me, too,” I said.
A breeze carried the scent of renewal and life and the seasons to come.
Acknowledgments
T his book wouldn’t have been possible without the help of very special people. My wonderful editor, Maggie Crawford, encouraged me to write a second novel about the Casa Dracula crowd. Julie Castiglia, my agent, is always supportive and available to answer my many questions. Thanks, too, to Jean Anne Rose, Melissa Gramstad, and Jessica Sylvester, in the Pocket Books publicity department for helping spread the word.
My dear friends Peggy and Michael Gough invited me to their beautiful ranch to write and relax and were always happy to give advice. I’m lucky that my brother and sister-in-law, Marlo and Margie Manqueros, read my manuscripts and offer honest evaluations.
Tracy McBride brought her talents to the design of my website, and Dan Sonnier, M.D., once again, answered my nutty medical questions.
Of course, I’m eternally grateful to my fabulous husband, Miguel, who has always been there for me.