by R. L. Naquin
“Not a problem.” I stretched my face into a bright, fake smile. “I’m going to die alone and childless. It’s my fate.”
“How much caffeine have you had today? You’re not right.”
I considered the question for a moment. “Hot chocolate has caffeine, right? So, a lot. I’ve been up since a little after three. This day is going to be fabulous.”
“You sure I can leave you here alone?” I knew she didn’t mean it. Sara was wearing her amused face, the one she used when she thought I was being silly and might start juggling bunnies and kittens any second.
Come to think of it, I might have seen that same expression on the paramedic’s face. I groaned. That’s right. I’m freakin’ adorable.
Rather than outline my humiliation for her, I changed the subject.
“I have an appointment in an hour. What can I do to make your day easier, since mine’s already trashed?”
Our office was small, but efficient. My desk was along the wall on the right, facing the left wall. Hers was back in the left-hand corner facing the door. It was rare that we ever had simultaneous appointments, so this worked well enough without having individual offices. We had comfy seating facing both desks so clients felt pampered into parting with their money. The corner opposite Sara’s desk had a coffee and tea area with a mini fridge containing milk, creamer and various juices. There was usually a pink bakery box sitting on the counter.
We liked cookies, and so did our clients.
The carpet was plush white, the walls a deep burgundy, and the whole thing came together with the air of a parlor rather than a cold, sterile office space. We used the work counter in the back room for crafty projects, assembling favors with birdseed, squares of tulle, ribbons, fabric, imitation flowers, candles, and endless jars of beads and sequins. We were prepared for anything.
Knowing this, I probably shouldn’t have offered my open hour to Sara’s needs. Without answering, she pulled me into the stuffy room and put me to work.
“Apparently,” Sara said, “Gail Dickson’s bridesmaids are not in the least interested in being helpful. I told her not to worry about it. We’d take care of the birdseed favors.”
“Why do people do that? Why would you agree to be in a wedding unless you were going to help? Do people not read Miss Manners anymore?”
Sara shrugged. “My guess is they’re already tired of taking crap off of Mama Dickson—I’m sorry, Madam High Pubah City Councilwoman Dickson. She’s even got me ready to slap her pompous little face, and I don’t rattle easily.”
That I could believe. Sara had taken point on this wedding, so I’d only been at the initial meeting. I was running backup. But I knew Councilwoman Dickson well. Everyone did. She managed to get her picture in the local paper on a regular basis, and anyone with a business in Sausalito knew pissing her off was a very bad idea.
This wedding would make or break us. Councilwoman Dickson’s only daughter’s wedding ranked a two-page spread in the local paper, and the politician had scored a promise of coverage in the San Francisco Chronicle as well. Being the head of the city council in a town as small as Sausalito shouldn’t have been a big deal, but Alma Dickson had made herself into some sort of local celebrity. If everything went well, we could expect a long line of giggling debutantes clamoring for us to do their wedding.
But if Mama wasn’t happy, we might as well pack up and move to another county.
An unhappy Alma was known to cause all sorts of trouble for business owners—parking tickets, building code violations, spontaneous sanitation inspections. I wouldn’t put it past the old bitch to send someone over in the dead of night to dump cockroaches into the office.
No. This was one wedding we had to pull off without a flaw. Sara looked uncharacteristically frazzled. Her eyes darted around the room like she wanted to pounce on the work table and get started.
“Go. I’ve got it. Well, some of it, anyway.” I waved my arm in the air. “Run around town. Be efficient.”
She looked relieved, but still edgy. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. Being an idiot isn’t usually fatal. It’s you I’m more worried about. Leave this. I’ll help. It’s what I do.”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, Maurice’s voice reverberated in my skull. Was that all I was on Earth to do? Help people? Might as well suck it up and accept it, Zoey. Helping is what you do. Just like Mom.
After Sara was gone, I puttered around collecting seeds and ribbons and tulle and tiny fake flowers. It took a few minutes to find Sara’s file on the wedding to double check the colors and number of guests. Sara is the put-together lady and I’m the spastic psycho, but underneath her pressed suit and my candy-striped socks, I’m more organized. The universe is an odd place.
The Dickson-Strauss wedding didn’t look like any more fun than I’d predicted after the initial consultation. Two hundred guests, midnight-blue and silver color scheme, traditional, traditional, traditional. I made a face while I tied ribbons around the birdseed-filled bags of fabric. Both Sara and I would attend, as the bride had paid for on-site oversight of her big day, but I wasn’t looking forward to it much.
My supreme organizational skills meant I could assembly-line wedding favors faster than the Ford Motor Company. It didn’t hurt that most of the materials were premade. Scoop the seed into the bags, tie the precut ribbons around the opening and add a tiny fake flower. Piece of wedding cake. I made it through a good seventy-five of them before I glanced at the clock and realized my Goth girl and her mother would be arriving any minute. Tying a bit of silver into an artful bow, I dropped it in the box and went out to settle at my desk to wait.
They were, of course, late.
While I waited, I pulled Bruce’s amulet out of my bag and examined it. The gold was shiny and polished, as if it were brand new. Filigree edged a raised disk in the center inlaid with a black stone shaped like a dragon in profile stretching its wings. Diamonds and rubies ringed the outline of the beast, a single emerald chip at the dragon’s eye. It was large. It was gaudy. And I loved it.
Maybe if I’d been wearing this antique chunk of crazy, I might have had more confidence and less idiocy at the coffee shop. I toyed with the links on the chain. Why had I fallen apart like that? It made no sense. Then again, much of the last few days had made no sense. I wondered what the hunky EMT must think of me.
And then it hit me. Normally, I wouldn’t be asking myself what someone thought of me. I would know. That’s why I was usually so much smoother when I met a good-looking guy. How could I be so stupid? My walls were up, blocking out everybody around me. Everything I’d been feeling that morning was coming from me. Nobody else was leaking in and giving me clues about how to behave. Apparently, this empath thing had been saving me from myself throughout my life and I never knew it. I needed to tweak the wall thing or I’d never survive without becoming a social pariah.
As I slipped the chain over my head, the door opened and a dark cloud—strike that—two dark clouds rolled into my office in the form of Spider and her mother.
Chapter Nine
Amanda “Spider” Talbot was a Goth stereotype. I doubted that she realized it or intended to come off that way, but she’d hit overkill about three layers of eyeliner ago. Her hair was a bottled black that had no shine and looked like an uneven, dried ink splotch. Dark lace and satin engulfed her small frame and dripped from her hands, allowing the tips of her chipped black polish to peek out. Her expression, as always, was dour. No doubt she was contemplating her own death scene some years hence.
As if at war with her dark daughter, Mrs. Talbot was dressed as a ray of sunshine—if sunshine came in a medicine bottle and smelled like stale crackers. Her yellow hair was frizzy and dried out, obviously a home job. The two might benefit from a little cooperation in the bathroom come dye-time. Neither was doing we
ll on her own. Mama Talbot wore a yellow sundress so bright even I wouldn’t have dared wear it. She had artfully applied the orange lipstick of my cosmetic nightmares. I felt vindicated; it looked like crap on her, too.
Despite her sunshiney outfit, Mrs. Talbot shared her daughter’s gloomy demeanor. Hers, however, was the genuine article. It was neither for pretense, nor a fashion accessory.
I braced myself and stood up to greet them.
“Ladies,” I said, waving them in. I stepped out from behind my desk and met them near the door. “You both look lovely. Have a seat, please. Can I get you something to drink?”
Spider asked for tea and her mother said she’d like some, too. This, of course, prompted Spider to ask for coffee instead. Black.
This was their second visit to my office, so I was prepared for their mutual hostility. The initial consultation had also included Mr. Talbot, so there hadn’t been any bloodshed. Daddy Talbot had a knack for keeping the two in line—or at least separated. After a brief interview, they all went home to discuss whether Happily Ever After was the right fit for the job. The fact that mother and daughter returned for a second consult was a positive note for the business, but I’d still have to earn their final approval. Difficult clients were my specialty. I would pull this off if it killed me.
I kept my smile steady and went to get drinks for them. It was already a rough start, and they’d only been there for thirty seconds.
The room wasn’t large. From the coffee corner, I could hear everything the two women were saying to each other, and it didn’t bode well for the rest of the appointment.
“Absolutely not,” Mrs. Spider said. “A black wedding dress is inappropriate, in poor taste, and rude to your guests.”
“Mother, it’s appropriate for me. Our tastes are vastly different, and my guests will applaud me for being true to myself.”
“It’s morbid and creepy.”
“That’s ridiculous. Black is elegant. Besides, it’s perfectly appropriate for a graveyard ceremony.”
I was focused on the drink prep, pointedly staying out of it until either the coffee and tea were ready or I was forced to spray them with a fire hose to separate them, but I’m fairly certain Spider’s mother choked on a mint. It was probably the kind stuck to the bottom of her purse. With lint on it.
“There is no way in hell you’re getting married in a graveyard. You’ll get married in a church like a normal person. I won’t have it. Getting married surrounded by dead people. What is wrong with you?”
Spider gave her mother a dramatic, condescending sigh. “Death is the ultimate expression of love, Mother.”
And this is when I decided I’d better intervene before Mama throttled my bride to show her exactly how much she loved her.
“Here we are, ladies,” I said. I carried the cups on a silver tray which I placed on my desk. “I highly recommend the shortbread cookies. My partner picked them up from the bakery this morning. She said she watched them come out of the oven. Shall we get started?”
“Your partner?” Mrs. Talbot looked uncomfortable.
Oh, good Lord, she thinks I’m gay and she has a problem with it. I blinked at her, my smile unwavering. “Yes, of course. My business partner, Sara. You spoke with her on the phone to make the appointment.” I need more sleep to deal with this.
The bickering continued throughout the next half hour. Spider was doing her best to antagonize her mother at every turn. Her mother continued to speak in a condescending tone and tell her what was best for her.
Flowers, music, venue, décor—all of it was a tug-of-war between Mary Sunshine and Dracula’s Bride. I had lost all control of the situation. This was not normal for me.
While they argued over the proper wedding shoes for bridesmaids, Mom making the case for dyed-to-match heels while daughter championed army boots, I took a moment to pull myself together. My hand strayed to my new amulet, fingers tracing the dragon. I thought this through.
I wasn’t getting anywhere because I had them blocked. I pulled my attention inside myself and examined my bubble. I’d become pretty good at building and maintaining it over the last few days. It was time for a new exercise.
I inhaled deeply through my nose and let the breath out through my mouth. Had the two women across from me not been so engrossed in their own performance, mine would’ve caused them to wonder what sort of new-age hippie they were hiring. I ignored them as much as they were ignoring me.
In my mind, I examined my wall and traced my finger in a small circle, slicing through the material like a laser. A gentle shove from my fingertips sent the loose piece floating out to the ceiling, leaving me a small window to pass information in and out. It probably wasn’t the best solution in the world, but for the moment, it would have to do.
I opened my eyes and examined each of the sniping harpies. I took in the older woman first, reaching out with my heart and mind, searching for what she was feeling.
Anger. Fear.
Helplessness. Loss.
Loss. Ah. There it was. Buried beneath the anger and fear, this woman was terrified of losing her daughter. Once I’d located the underlying emotion pushing at her, it was simple enough to put together why she was acting this way.
Spider was a little more complicated.
First of all, she wasn’t in the least bit pissed off, contrary to her attitude. She was absolutely delighted with the showdown. Tickled. Spider baited her mother intentionally, with little or no conviction behind any of her outrageous wedding demands. Where there should have been some sort of passion, there was a void. The only real emotion I was feeling from her was a twisted kind of joy each time her mother’s voice broke.
Interesting.
I cleared my throat, preparing to jump into the fray. “Ladies, if I can direct us back to the worksheet, we’ll see if we can find a few things we agree on.”
I took it slowly with them. “Let’s start with the guest list. Do we have an estimate?”
They answered simultaneously.
“Five hundred,” Spider said.
“One fifty,” her mother said.
There was a short pause before they started chittering at each other like angry monkeys fighting over the last banana. Any second, they might start the poo flinging, and I was pretty sure Sara wouldn’t be amused by the carpet stains that would leave behind.
Mrs. Talbot’s face turned an unhealthy pink. “That’s a preposterous number you pulled out of thin air. You don’t know that many people.”
“I’ve already posted an open invitation to everyone who hangs at Coffins.”
“You are not inviting a bunch of death-worshippers you just met in some club.”
I could feel the tension in Mama Talbot building to a new level. She was winding so tight I expected an audible sproing as she shot out of her chair and hit the far wall. I hoped when she snapped she wouldn’t take anyone’s eye out. I knew I should stop it from happening, but my instincts are solid for this sort of thing. I let it run its course.
“It’s my wedding, Mother.” Spider had gone still, her voice low.
“Why can’t you be normal, for once in your life?”
“Why can’t you let me be myself?”
“You haven’t been yourself for years. I hardly know who you are.”
“Just because you were eight months pregnant and had a civil ceremony at City Hall, doesn’t mean you get a do-over with my wedding. I don’t have to pay for your mistakes.”
And that did it. The camel’s back collapsed in a heap of broken vertebrae. Mrs. Talbot was up and out of her chair, heading for the door before I could uncross my legs.
At the threshold, her head snapped around and she fixed her attention on me. “I’ll be in the car. Do whatever the hell she wants. It’s not my business.”
The door slamme
d behind her. Her pain lingered for a moment, poking at the back of my neck like a sharp stick. Once that had dissipated, I was left with Spider’s thinly veiled glee. She looked and felt like a marathon runner who’d just crossed the finish line to victory.
It was the ugliest thing I’d ever felt.
“She can be such a trial,” Spider said. She stretched her legs in front of her and got more comfortable.
“Cut the crap, Amanda.” I wasn’t loud. I wasn’t accusatory. My voice was calm and steady.
She blinked and sat up a little straighter. “Excuse me?”
“She’s gone. You can put down the mask and let’s talk.”
“I don’t think I like how you’re speaking to me.”
“I don’t really care. If you don’t fire me, and if I decide to stick with you, you’re going to be honest with me and with yourself. Otherwise, I can’t do my job. Are we clear?”
She nodded once, but looked wary.
“I have no idea what the problem is between you and your mother, but it has nothing to do with your wedding. You want this to be your wedding or hers?”
Her voice was small and quivery. “Mine.”
“Then act like it. Every decision you’ve made so far has been based on what would piss her off the most. This is your wedding day—your first wedding day. We hope it’s the only one, but even if you had ten more weddings, there’s only one first. It is not a body piercing you can take out and heal over if you change your mind. It’s more like a tattoo. Permanent. Do you want to be forty-five years old and look back at pictures of you looking somber in a graveyard? Do you want to think about your wedding as the day you got a major one over on your mom? Or do you want to remember a beautiful, perfect day in which you were joined together with the love of your life?”
I’m not a monster—maybe under my current circumstances I shouldn’t throw that word around so lightly—but I will admit to the warm flash of pride that overcame me when I felt her deflate.
“I like the Goth style.” Her voice was still weak and timid.