Nice Girls Don't Date Dead Men

by Молли Харпер

  He peered down at the strappy black pumps peeking out from my jeans. “You know I can’t resist you when your toes are exposed,” he grumped.

  “Good, that means wearing open-toed shoes in winter is well worth it. And since we can’t exactly swing by for a pizza on our way into town, I brought you this.” I pulled a very nice bottle of donated Type B-positive, which I knew Gabriel favored, from the picnic basket.

  “Very nice,” he commented, appraising the label. “Your palate is improving.”

  “Thank you. Now let’s go.”

  “What about drinking this?”

  “I have a whole thing planned. Just relax that ramrod spine of yours and come with me.”

  I took Gabriel to Memorial Park, a tiny patch of grass in the middle of downtown. It was home to a gazebo flanked by blackened cement statues of famous Civil War veterans from the Hollow, including Waco Marchand, who now served on the local commission for the Council for the Equal Treatment of the Undead. High-school kids posed for pictures in their prom-night finery at the gazebo each spring. But tonight it was abandoned, empty save for the fairy lights strung from the carefully preserved gingerbread eaves. I winked at Gabriel and began unpacking the picnic basket on one of the gazebo’s little wrought-iron benches.

  “It’s December,” Gabriel said, staring at me and tucking his coat tighter around his body.

  “We stay at room temperature,” I reminded him, patting the bench. “Besides, we have twinkly Christmas lights, only available at this time of year. We have a lovely bottle of oaky B-positive. We have grapes and cheese, which, I’ll admit, I bought on the way over to your house strictly because I’ve seen people pack them for fancy wine picnics in movies. We have romance and atmosphere out the ying-yang.”

  He gave me a smile that assured me that he was working hard to humor my girlie romanticism.

  “I’m wearing the date shoes,” I reminded him.

  “Curse your sassy toes,” he huffed. “Let me open that. You don’t want to cork it.”

  “Are you implying that a little old thing like me can’t operate something as complicated as a corkscrew?” He grinned at my indignant tone. “OK, you’re right. But that’s not because I’m a woman. It’s because most of the stuff I drank when I was alive involved screw tops.”

  “I’ve always enjoyed your little quirks.” He grunted at the faint pop of the cork coming loose. He carefully poured into the plastic wine glasses that came with the picnic set.

  “What do we drink to?”

  “World peace?” I suggested. He grimaced. “To doing things that normal couples do?”

  He cleared his throat and raised his glass. “To Mrs. Mavis Stubblefield, without whom we would not be here together tonight.”

  I laughed. “That’s kind of twisted.”

  He nodded while he sipped. “But true.”

  “To Mavis Stubblefield, without whom I wouldn’t have been fired, publicly drunk, mistaken for a deer, shot, and turned into a vampire by you,” I conceded, and took a deep drink. Despite my pacifist leanings, I enjoyed the sizzle of human red cells as they zipped through my system. “Maybe I should send her a thank-you note.”

  “We both know that’s not going to happen.”

  “Also true,” I admitted, snuggling my head into the crook of his neck.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Enjoying the moment.” I sighed.

  “You are, without a doubt, the most interesting girl I’ve ever shared a gazebo with,” he murmured, kissing my forehead.

  “Interesting. There’s your favorite word again.”

  “I think we’ve established how interested I am in you.” He chuckled, kissing me. He sighed when he released me. “I feel as if we haven’t been able to spend much time together lately. I’m sorry business has taken so much of my time.”

  My lips parted, and I could feel the rush of questions gathering. Why wasn’t he answering his phone? Why was he being so uncharacteristically vague about his travels? Where had he been, really? But the evening was so perfect, so relaxed. Again, passages from Sense and Sensibility popped into my head. Elinor almost loses her Edward because she doesn’t speak up and tell him how she feels. She might have ended up alone, but Lucy Steele lets Edward off the hook by eloping with his brother. Would Edward stay in love with Elinor if she pitched a tantrum when he left her at Norland without confirming his feelings? Would making demands and ultimatums confirm that Edward made the right choice in Lucy?

  I was an Elinor, not a Marianne. I didn’t want to waste precious, uninterrupted time together with outbursts or questions that might provoke an argument. So I feinted for a safer topic.

  “It has helped that I’ve been all about wedding, wedding, and more wedding lately.” I sighed. “Tell me how it’s possible that this shindig has taken complete control of my life and I’m not even the one getting married? I’m just a lowly bridesmaid, and yet I’m the one doing cocktail-napkin comparisons and in-law interventions.”

  He mulled that over for a moment. “Oh, I saw this in one of those ladies’ magazines you leave scattered around at your house. I think the term is ‘Bridezilla’?”

  “I don’t know if I would use the word ‘Bridezilla.’ It’s not that Jolene’s being all that demanding or … yeah, were-bride just about covers it,” I admitted. “I don’t know what to do. I just keep getting pulled in. Dress fittings, engagement parties from hell, favor-making parties. It’s not that I don’t have the time, I’m just getting worn out, you know? But I don’t think any of her cousins will do any of this stuff with her.”

  “And her fiancé has made vague yet disturbing advances toward you and is treating her badly, so you feel incredibly guilty.”

  “No!” I insisted. I looked down into my glass and grumbled, “Yes.”

  “You’re a very good friend.”

  I waited for the sage advice he normally dished out in these situations. And got nothing.

  “And?”

  “That’s all the platitudes I have,” he said. “Generally, people don’t invite vampires to their weddings, much less make them their undead bridal handmaidens. This is a situation I have never had to deal with.”

  “In more than a century?” He gave me an apologetic look. “Well, that’s disappointing,” I said, looking down at my watch. “We’d better get going, or we’re going to miss the previews.”

  “I thought the theater only showed movies that are at least twenty years old. That means the previews are for movies that are twenty years old.”

  I drained the last of my blood. “There’s a principle at stake here, Gabriel.”

  Since we were sticking to strict dating principles, Gabriel insisted on paying the two-dollar admission. He was a little put off when he saw our options listed on the old-fashioned marquee: Pillow Talk or the 1932 version of Dracula starring Bela Lugosi.

  “Isn’t that sort of obvious?” he asked.

  “Oh, we’ll go see Pillow Talk if you really want to. We’re talking singing, Tony Randall, lots of pastels …”

  Gabriel shuddered. “Dracula it is.”

  It was oddly fitting that our first “real date” involved Dracula, considering that our first couch date featured Francis Ford Coppola’s version, which Gabriel still insisted is a comedic spoof on the tale. We took two slightly sprung seats near the rear of the theater and settled in. Seeing the dilapidated state of the theater obviously bothered Gabriel. The gold leaf had worn away from the plaster angels guarding the screen long ago. The red velvet curtain was motheaten and dirty. The balcony railing was studded with generations of grayed chewing gum.

  I narrowed my eyes at him as he squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. “You’re going to buy this place, aren’t you?”

  “I’m thinking about it,” he confessed, wiping at a mysterious sticky substance that had transferred itself from the armrest to his hand. “This is criminal.”

  “Well, if it would keep you in town for a while, I’m all for it. How many of us ar
e in here?” I asked as he scanned the crowd. “Can you tell?”

  “A few,” he admitted. “This version of Dracula is one of the few movie adaptations that vampires find generally palatable. The main character is powerful yet somewhat sympathetic.”

  Gabriel looked nervous as he continued to scan the crowd.

  “You OK?” I asked.

  “Fine.” He smiled. “So, what is the procedure for a movie date?”

  “Well, we sit here, not touching until the lights go out. Eventually, we’ll bump knees or fight for elbow-rest dominance. If we ate popcorn, we might pay an incredibly exorbitant amount of money for a bucket to keep between us so our hands could occasionally brush against each other as we reached for bites. If you were a total pervert, you’d cut a hole in the bottom of the bucket … never mind.” He shot me a questioning glance. “There’s also the yawn maneuver, which we’ve covered in previous sessions.”

  “Excuse me for a minute.”

  Gabriel walked out of the theater, leaving me to look over the crowd. Most of them were older couples, people who might have seen the original theater run when they were children. There were a few teenagers in goth regalia, some of whom I recognized as skateboarders I’d had to chase away from the shop. If there were vampires here, I couldn’t spot them. Gabriel came back carrying an obscenely large tub of popcorn.

  “Did you know that butter comes in a liquid chemical form?” he asked, grinning over the oil-slicked kernels.

  “But we can’t eat it.” I giggled as he set the tub between us.

  “You said this is what people do on dates. I wanted to do this right.”

  I grabbed his face between my palms and kissed him good. This was the Gabriel I’d fallen for. I could put up with the uncertainty, the brain-wracking questions, for just a little taste of this kind of happiness.

  “Are we skipping the popcorn hand-brushing thing?” he asked, between nips on my lips.

  “Hey! Go get a room!” bellowed a loud male voice behind us. Gabriel glared over my head at the elderly hall monitor. I giggled as he stood up and headed in the guy’s direction.

  “Sit down,” I told him.

  Gabriel glared at the loudmouth. “But that was very rude.”

  “It’s all part of the experience.”

  Gabriel mastered the yawn move and the knee squeeze and was well on his way to the around-the-shoulder chest grab by the time the credits rolled. As we left the theater, he talked animatedly about seeing Bela Lugosi play Dracula in the original Broadway play.

  “But I must admit that his screen performance was even more compelling. It’s fascinating that they managed to film his eyes as ours appear, as if lit from within.”

  “He had help. The cinematographer shone little pinpoint spotlights into his eyes during filming. It was the cheapest, most effective way to get the effect. Did you know that there was a Spanish-language version of the movie shot at night on the same set with different actors?”

  “No, but it makes sense that you do.”

  “So, what did you think of dating outside our homes?”

  “It reminded me of my youth. Being close to a beautiful woman I wanted desperately to touch and not being able to,” he said, winding his arms around me as he led me to his car.

  I chewed my lip and made a pouty face. “Was there a good-looking woman sitting next to us?”

  “Are you ever going to just take a compliment and not turn it into a joke?”

  I considered for a moment and shook my head. “Not likely, no.”

  We had a few blocks to walk before reaching the car. It was a beautiful night, and I was enjoying strolling down a downtown sidewalk arm in arm with a handsome man. The downtown area was an odd mix of beautifully refurbished buildings and abandoned storefronts. One of those lovingly restored buldings contained the Coffee Spot, a Hollow institution known for bad java and unbelievable pecan pie. My father and I used to make up errands on Saturday mornings, then hide out at the Coffee Spot and eat cheese fries.

  From across the street, I peered through the window, smiling at the memory of Mama demanding to know how Daddy had gotten melted Velveeta on his shirt during a trip to the hardware store. I was about to seize an opportunity to share a nondisturbing experience from my human years with Gabriel, when I recognized two faces in a front booth. It was Mama Ginger and my synapse-slapping senior friend, Esther Barnes.

  “What the?”

  I couldn’t step closer to the window for fear of Mama Ginger’s internal Jane-tracking device going off. Instead, I ducked behind a nearby car and squinted at them. Really hard.

  “Jane?” Gabriel grinned, staring down at me. “What are you—”

  “Shhh!” I hissed, pulling at his coat and making him crouch next to me.

  “This seems unnecessary,” Gabriel grumbled, frowning as I shushed him again. “We will discuss the shushing later.”

  Framed by the coffee shop’s logo in the window, Mama Ginger and Esther seemed to be arguing. Knowing Mama Ginger, this was not unexpected. She’d once started a fistfight at a Relay for Life meeting over whether her card club’s booth should be luau- or casinothemed.

  I couldn’t hear through the glass, but both Esther and Mama Ginger talked with their hands. Esther was pointing one of her long, bony fingers at Mama Ginger and then made a gesture that meant “More money” or “I need moisturizer.” Mama Ginger was shaking her head and seemed to be saying, “I need it sooner.”

  I tried to zero in on Mama Ginger’s thoughts but heard only white noise. I looked up to Gabriel, who was sticking a finger in his ear and seemed to be trying to pop some pressure loose.

  “You, too?” I asked, narrowing my gaze at the septuagenarian psychic. Maybe Esther’s psychic presence acted like some sort of scrambler, keeping both of us from reading the people around her. I clutched a fist and shook it at her. “Esther Barnes.”

  I watched their conversation for a few more minutes, culminating in Esther’s threatening to get up and leave. Mama Ginger made placating gestures and finally broke out her wallet. She slid some cash across the table, which Esther counted. Twice.

  I waited for either of them to get up and leave. Maybe if I could get Mama Ginger alone, I could ask her a few questions about Esther. But they wouldn’t budge. They both seemed determined to win some sort of impromptu pie-eating contest.

  Sighing in exasperation at my own suspicious nature, I stood up, turned my back on the scene, and brushed off my coat. More than likely, all I was witnessing was some sort of illegal transaction involving unlicensed Precious Moments figurines.

  “Can we stop skulking now?” Gabriel asked.

  I nodded and quickly led him away before Mama Ginger could spot us.

  “Is everything OK?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. That woman that Mama Ginger’s talking to, she walked into the shop the other night and … well, she smacked my brain around in a psychic sense. I don’t like that she and Mama Ginger are talking. The two of them joining forces cannot possibly be good for Zeb … or mankind, in general.”

  Gabriel nodded solemnly. “Agreed.”

  I put my arm through Gabriel’s and tried to resuscitate our date night as we walked away.

  “Did I ever tell you that my dad and I used to go to that coffee shop every weekend?”

  8

  Werewolves look for three key components in a mate: ability to hunt, viable genes, and a sense of humor.

  —Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were

  I shouldn’t have told Mama to Photoshop me into the family Christmas picture. She’d found some photo kiosk at the mall and cropped in a picture from three Christmases ago, taken just after I’d had minor dental surgery. With eyes both red and bleary, I was wobbling near the rear of the tree attempting to hang an angel ornament in midair.

  Everyone else in the family is smiling and looking at the camera (with this year’s hair), and I was copied and pasted into a corner as if my top half was springing out of the tree. />
  Mama sent it to 120 of our nearest and dearest, including Zeb.

  “It looks like Christmas Night of the Living Dead!” he hooted.

  “That’s incredibly culturally insensitive,” I muttered. “See if I invite you to my Christmas party.”

  “Aw, sweetie, you know it’s not Christmas without us watching A Christmas Story until one of us passes out.”

  Zeb and I usually spent Christmas Eve together. He could only handle so much of his parents and used me as a reason to get away. We would hoard as much peanut-butter fudge and sausage balls as possible, then hide out at Zeb’s place to watch Christmas movies. Gifts were exchanged, relatives were avoided. God bless us every one.

  But this year, we were having “A Holly Jolly Undead Christmas” at River Oaks. Gabriel had promised to be there, which was fortunate, because I’d found the perfect present for him. Zeb was bringing Jolene, as Mama Ginger had made it clear that she was not welcome at the Lavelle family Christmas. Andrea was coming, which meant Dick would be there, even though he said he had plans that night. Fred and Jettie would try to fit us into their busy holiday schedule. Of course, Mr. Wainwright would be there. He was eager to question Jolene about her family.

  River Oaks hadn’t been opened for a big party since the Great Depression, when Greatgreat-great-grandpa Early lost a good portion of the family fortune in oil speculation in Florida. It was the first adult party I’d ever hosted, with real hors d’oeuvres and fancy clothes. I’d put up a real spruce tree and brought out all of the old glass ornaments. I hung fairy lights from every stationary object in the house. I lit a couple dozen good vanillascented candles and then blew half of them out. Having a lot of open flames around highly flammable guests was surely the mark of an inconsiderate hostess.

  Jolene promised to handle the human food, which was fortunate, since I think my stove had atrophied from disuse. Jolene said it just didn’t seem fair to make me cook stuff I couldn’t eat. I asked if she could put that in writing and send it to my mama.