Nice Girls Don't Date Dead Men
Page 16

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 are 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 casino-themed.
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 Great-great-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 vanilla-scented 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.
Jolene was also providing a crock pot full of cow’s blood from her farm, for the undead guests. I thought about adding spices to make it sort of a mulled-wine thing, but Mr. Wainwright advised strongly against it. He even gave me a book titled Elegant Undead Entertaining. Based on the “Foods That Vampires Can Prepare without Becoming Nauseated” menu, I was providing crackers and cheese, fancy cookies, and sparkling cider and thanked the ever-patient, ever-generous officials of the Visa corporation, for providing the groceries.
With the tree, the candles, and the scent of blood warming in the crock pot, the house smelled wonderfully of home and hearth. (My standards have changed a bit.) All that was left was for me to run around like a crazy person double- and triple-checking everything.
Pretty decorations? Check. Good food? Check. Not telling Mama about it? Check. It was the recipe for the perfect party.
And what else would a vampire wear to a Christmas party but a blood-red cocktail dress?
It was perfect, fabulous even, maybe the most flattering dress I’d ever worn. Cinched at the waist with a scarlet sash and a rhinestone poinsettia brooch, the luscious, floaty material fell in a perfect bell around my knees. I even broke the Curse of Bridesmaid Shoe Past, finally finding a use for those sassy pomegranate-dyed pumps.
Believe it or not, I found the dress in Aunt Jettie’s closet. Jettie wasn’t always a sweatsuit fanatic. She was quite the sharp dresser before she declared open rebellion against foundation garments. And fortunately, we were both tall, “athletically” built girls. And it smelled nothing like mothballs, so double points for me.
“Everything looks wonderful, honey,” Jettie said as I changed the CD in the stereo for the fourteenth time. I have no centralized music taste. I listen to an alarming amount of Sarah McLachlan, the DefTones, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Musically, I kind of got stuck in the 1990s. Gabriel called my CD collection “pedantic.” I think he forgot he was dealing with someone who knew what “pedantic” means.
Unfortunately, my pedantic collection did not include any Christmas music, so we had a choice between celebrating the birth of baby Christ with “Suck My Kiss” or a Lilith Fair concert recording. Neither felt appropriate, so I settled for the regional NPR station’s broadcast of Handel’s Messiah.
“Maybe I should rearrange the—” I turned toward the candles.
“Don’t!” Jettie cried. “Honey, they’re perfect. And it’s not good for you to handle candles too much.” I relented, and she stepped back, motioning for me to raise my arms. “Now, let me see you. That dress never looked that good on me.”