Your Coffin or Mine?

by Kimberly Raye

  “Debbie can have the free profile. She’ll need it. She’s on a budget.”

  “How about the doughnuts?”

  “A man can’t have too many Krispy Kremes.”

  I couldn’t resist. “A man or a demon?”

  He chuckled. “You still don’t know?”

  “I’m betting demon.”

  “Think,” he said. “And give me a call.”

  “I have been and I’ve even Googled entities from hell. You’ve got all the characteristics—good looks, flaming eyes, sex appeal. That, or you’re taking some new pheromone that makes you irresistible to the opposite sex.”

  “I meant think about Ty and the man who was with him.”

  “Oh.” I pushed aside all the thoughts muddying my brain and pictured Ty’s face.

  “See what you can come up with.”

  “I will.” And I did for the rest of the night and all through most of the next day—until I started cleaning, that is.

  I know, I know. Was I sliding into a pile of domestic muck so deep I might never climb out? Maybe, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. I needed a distraction. That on top of the fact that I’d had Word in my bathroom and on my couch, and was a woman on a mission.

  By the time the next night rolled around, my apartment was spotless and I was dead tired. No, really. To the point that I seriously considered calling the producers of Manhattan’s Most Wanted and telling them I’d been stricken with a dangerous bug and was now quarantined at a local hospital.

  At the same time, I couldn’t not show without stirring real suspicion because of what had happened during the dinner cruise. I already had one reporter interested in me. I wasn’t going to shake things up even more. I mean, really. What normal, sane woman in her right mind would forfeit a chance to get to know Manhattan’s hottest weather guy? Nada. That’s why I had to go. Otherwise someone would suspect I wasn’t a normal, sane woman. Enter Vinnie and his brother, and I’d be paying through the nose with highlighters and reams of copy paper.

  Which left me with one choice—show up, be obnoxious, and get Mr. Weather to cut me himself. I would then react in typical reality TV fashion—cry and act appropriately offended because, of course, after three pseudo dates I’d fallen madly in love with him. That, or I could cuss and spit in typical VH1 fashion. But that might lead to an I Love Lil series and I so wouldn’t be able to explain that to my folks. No, better to go for the waterworks and go sobbing into the night.

  Bye, bye reality show.

  Not that I would be able to breathe a sigh of relief or bask in the impressive number of clients I’d picked up thanks to the show. I still had to find Ty, make it through my mother’s dinner party, and fix Mandy’s wedding dress.

  I forced aside the sudden icky feeling that crept over me. One problem at a time.

  Twenty-six

  “Get. Out. Of. Here.” Esther’s mouth dropped open as she stared at the ornate white dress Mandy and I had come by to drop off at her place on Friday evening. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “I know it seems overwhelming, but I have the utmost faith in you.” I patted her on the back. “You can do it.”

  She stared at the dress, struck speechless for a long moment.

  I totally knew the feeling.

  “It’s just so…” she finally started, but her voice faded away as she swallowed a huge lump in her throat.

  “I know, I know. It’s loud. And busy. And scary. But so was the entire DKNY collection last season, but then they hired Janie Strausberg and look at it now. Tasteful. A bit eclectic, but I’m down with that. And hip. She took a bad situation and turned it into a positive. And that’s what you’re going to do.”

  She dabbed at her eyes and guilt rifled through me. “There, there. Please don’t cry. Because then I’ll want to cry and I so don’t need to be crying since I’m going to be in front of a handful of television cameras in less than two hours.” Which was why I’d cried on the way over with plenty of time to retouch.

  Mandy and I both had.

  “It’s just so…beautiful.”

  “I know we’re asking a lot, but…What did you just say?”

  She sniffled and wiped at her damp eyes. “I said it’s the most amazing dress I’ve ever seen.” She stared in awe. “I’ve always wanted a dress just like this.”

  “Like this?”

  She nodded several times. “Down to the tiny bows lining the hem. And dotting the skirt. And that great big one in back.”

  “These bows?”

  “And the beaded bodice.”

  “This bodice?”

  “And the six-foot train with the extra doodads.”

  “That train?”

  “Why, it’s straight out of my favorite fantasy. There isn’t a thing about it that I would change.” Her gaze collided with mine. “This can’t be the dress you were talking about.”

  “Of course not,” I blurted.

  Mandy nudged me and shot me a tell her look.

  I stiffened. Enter ballsy, do anything, dare anyone, don’t-take-shit vampire extraordinaire. I opened my mouth, and prepared to give it to Esther straight. It’s the worst dress in the Free World and if we weren’t so desperate, we would take it out, shoot it, and put it out of its misery. “Maybe.”

  Yeah, yeah, my aim was definitely skewed, but we’re talking Esther’s dream dress. I couldn’t very well tell her the thing had starred in the last Nightmare on Elm Street and that she really, really needed to get a life because she was obviously clueless when it came to fashion.

  My gaze swept the small but tidy apartment, the old movie posters—everything from Giant to The Lone Ranger—lining the wall. Yep, she was a few accessories shy of a complete outfit when it came to decorating, as well.

  My attention shifted to the pile of knitting that sat near the couch, the stack of crossword puzzles piled on the coffee table. And she so needed to spice up her extracurricular activities. Honestly, the made vampire was lonely and depraved enough. Who was I to pour salt on the wound by telling her her dreams sucked, as well?

  “So where’s the real dress?” she asked. She motioned to the ancient sewing machine that sat in the corner. It looked like an old-fashioned wrought iron desk, with pedals rather than a footboard. “I’m armed and ready.”

  Mandy nudged me and I cleared my throat. Just do it. “Look, Esther, it’s like this. Everyone has different tastes. Some people like cheesecake. Some prefer chocolate. Some people like Brad Pitt. Some women go ga-ga over Toby Keith. It’s all about personal preference.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “That maybe,” I swallowed, “possibly,” another swallow, “this might be the dress.” There. All done. And I didn’t spontaneously combust or turn into a big cat turd.

  “But that’s crazy. What could you possibly want to change about something that’s already perfect?”

  Mandy and I exchanged glances. “Everything,” we said in unison.

  “You’re kidding, right?” She glanced past us. “This isn’t some game show, is it? Am I being punked?”

  “Don’t I wish.” Hey, we’re talking Ashton Kutcher. He didn’t rate a full ten on my Orgasm-O-Meter, but he came in a solid seven at least. I cleared my throat and focused on the white blob. “You don’t think it’s a tad on the busy side?” I asked Esther.

  She shook her head. “Certainly not.”

  “What about poofy? You have to agree that it’s a little poofy.”

  “No.”

  “What about full?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “What about distracting?”

  “It’s a wedding dress. It’s supposed to draw everyone’s attention.”

  I shrugged. “Good point,” I said and Mandy elbowed me. “Listen, Esther. Mandy here isn’t the big, distracting dress type. She likes things more simple.”

  Esther nodded. “You mean plain.”

  “Exactly. While you or I wouldn’t think twice about jumping into this ba
by, Mandy really doesn’t have the joi de vivre to pull it off.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  I patted Mandy’s shoulder and gave her a pleading look that said, “Follow me, okay?” “Mandy isn’t an extravagant person. She’s more wholesome. Conservative. Blah.” Mandy stiffened and I kept patting. “You don’t want her to feel uncomfortable, do you?”

  “No, no. Absolutely not. It’s her wedding day. She should feel like a queen.”

  “Exactly. And that isn’t going to happen if she has to wear this dress. She wants something that fits her personality better. That’s where you come in. You can nip here, tuck a little there, and it’ll be perfect for her.”

  “What changes did you have in mind?”

  I pulled out the two-page list Mandy and I had jotted down on the cab ride over.

  Esther took one look and shook her head. “This is a lot more than a few nips and tucks.” She shook her head. “Maybe I’m not the right person for this.”

  “Nonsense. You’ve got the experience. The knowhow. And a whopping six weeks to get it all done.”

  “That’s impossible.” She gave another shake of her head. “I can’t do this.”

  “Maybe she’s right,” Mandy piped up. She wore a worried expression and a hopeless light glittered in her eyes. “This is a stupid idea.”

  Ditto. “No, it isn’t. It’s a glam idea, and it’s going to work.” It had to because it was all I’d been able to come up with. “That, or you can wear the dress as is.”

  “Or I can not wear it at all and call the whole thing off.”

  “Over this lovely thing?”

  Mandy shook her head. “Please. Would you stop saying that?”

  “That it’s lovely?”

  She nodded. “It isn’t. It’s awful.”

  Esther looked as if someone had kicked the big fat tabby parked on her couch. “You really think so?”

  “No,” I cut in. “I mean, yes, in her eyes, but to each his own, remember? You think it’s lovely and, therefore, it is. But you’re not wearing it. Mandy is, and she isn’t as excited about the whole thing.” I stared Esther in the eyes. “She isn’t half the woman you are,” I told the made vamp. “She can’t pull off this look.”

  She seemed to think. “Not everyone can do petticoats,” she finally admitted.

  “Exactly, which is why we’d like you to rip them off and taper the skirt down some.”

  “But,” she started and caught her lip. She cast a glance at Mandy, who looked as if someone had actually kicked her instead of the cat. Sympathy flared in her eyes. “I suppose I could cut out at least one of the petticoat layers.”

  “Really?” Mandy looked hopeful and Esther nodded.

  “Maybe even two.” She eyed the dress again and her hand dove beneath the layers of fabric. “But I won’t lie. I’m not so sure we can taper the skirt without compromising the integrity of the dress, and I won’t do that.” She gave her head a firm shake. “I couldn’t live with myself if I butchered this precious creation.”

  I waited for the birds to chirp and a cloud of fairy dust to rain down on us.

  Instead, my cellphone rang. “Just do what you can,” I told her before I punched the talk button and repeated Suze’s address for the fifth time. “Now stop stalling and GO ON THE DATE.”

  “All right, already,” Word mumbled before the line went dead. I punched off, slid the phone into my purse, and told Esther how grateful we were for her help. “Just do what you can,” I added.

  She agreed, halfheartedly, and Mandy and I caught a cab for the morgue. Mandy was on duty tonight and I was dropping her off on my way.

  “You’re looking very colorful tonight,” Mandy said as we barreled down Fifty-seventh. “And glittery.”

  I’d gone all out with a hot-pink Chanel dress, silver Louis Vuitton handbag, strappy Manolo Blahnik stilettos, and enough jewelry to weigh down the average mob hit. Makeup wise, I’d gone for a cross between Fairytopia Barbie and Lil’ Kim. Glitter eye shadow. Lots of eyeliner. Sparkling Ruby MAC lips, Pink Obsession glitter blush, and Dazzling Dust nail polish.

  “I’m trying to make a statement,” I told Mandy.

  “And that would be Don’t bother me. I’m in the middle of an acid trip?”

  “Don’t pick me. I’m a camera hog.”

  She shrugged. “That was my second guess. So what do you think will happen with the dress?” Mandy asked.

  “Are you asking Lil the realist or Lil the optimist?”

  “There is no Lil the realist.”

  “That would be door number two, then. Let’s see…Esther will realize that the dress is a hideous monstrosity, and since she’s a die-hard romantic who fantasizes about her own wedding, she’ll go above and beyond the call of duty to make yours as extra special as it can be. She’ll kill herself day and night until the dress is a vision of loveliness. You’ll walk down the aisle, say, “I do” with a smile on your face, and you and my brother will live happily ever after.”

  “She’s not going to pull off the bows, is she?”

  “Not a chance.”

  She seemed to think. “This is hopeless, isn’t it? Your brother and I…” She caught a sob. “We’re not going to make it.”

  “That’s crazy. The two of you are already making it. You’re living together. You’re putting up with him and he’s putting up with you. You don’t mind that he leaves his dirty socks on the floor and he doesn’t mind that you drape your wet bras all over the bathroom shower.” When she gave me a questioning look, I shrugged. “I’m a vamp, remember? Anyhow, you’re dealing with the bottles of leftover blood that he keeps leaving on the counter and he’s dealing with the granola wrappers all over the nightstand. He’s putting up with your work schedule. And you’re putting up with our mother.”

  “And Luc.”

  I nailed her with a gaze. “She sent over Luc, too?” She nodded, and a rush of envy shot through me.

  Luc was my mother’s favorite manicurist. He could do a French mani in ten seconds flat, and he gave the yummiest paraffin-wax hand treatments. And his pedis? My. My. My. Talk about delish.

  “Tell Jack I absolutely hate him,” I added. My gaze zeroed in on the fingers that Mandy had curled around her purse. “You, too?”

  She looked sheepish. “He’s right there at our beck and call. It seems like such a waste just to let him sit around and watch cable all day. I mean, really, Jack can only get his toenails filed so many times a day, you know?”

  Yep, unfortunately, I did.

  “I could always postpone the wedding,” she added after a long moment. “I don’t want to, but sometimes I think it’s the only thing left to do. Nothing seems to want to work out.”

  I thought of the two voice mails I’d had when I’d checked my cell messages before arriving at Esther’s apartment. There’d been one from Evie about a few recent clients, one from Word wanting to verify Suze’s address, and zero from my mother. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone a full twenty-four hours without calling me.

  She was obviously too busy doling out servants to Jack and plotting ways to break up his relationship with Mandy to bother with her daughter.

  Hip, hip, hurray!

  For now. But if Jack and Mandy called it quits, then I would be right back where I started.

  “Nonsense.” Determination gripped me. “The hotel is a sure thing and I’m confident that Esther will come through for us.” Just like I was confident I could get myself X’d off the reality show (fingers crossed) and find Ty (fingers and toes crossed) before it was too late. “We just have to think positive.”

  “That, or we could suck down a few chocolate martinis before you drop me off.”

  I glanced at my watch and thought of my crazy—and slightly uncertain—evening ahead. (Yeah, I had a plan, but that didn’t mean it was going to work.) “I do have an hour before the MMW limo picks me up.”

  She nodded. “That settles it then. Positive is out. Getting sloshed is in.”

&nb
sp; I was so going to need an AA meeting when my afterlife finally settled down.

  Twenty-seven

  I’d just stepped out of the cab in front of Dead End Dating when a black limousine rolled up to the curb and a uniformed driver got out. He opened the door for me and I climbed in with the other nine finalists.

  Ten minutes later, the car pulled up to Central Park where the official date would launch with individual carriage rides for each of the finalists with—you guessed it—the infamous Mr. Weather. Meanwhile, the rest of us would suck down cocktails and talk to the cameras at a sidewalk café that had been set up, complete with tables and a uniformed waitstaff. Lights twinkled in the trees overhead. Beyond, the moon hung high in the sky and the stars glittered hot and bright and…

  Deep sigh.

  It truly was the most romantic setup I’d ever seen, right down to the white carriage wrapped in a garland of red roses.

  The producer herded everyone over to the sidewalk café while a kindergarten teacher by the name of Pamela Sue Mitchell, who was up first, headed for the white carriage and Mr. Weather.

  He looked as perfect as ever in a pair of black Armani slacks and a royal blue shirt. His hair had been coiffed with gel and his fingernails buffed and polished. He held a single rose as he waited for the first contestant, a smile on his handsome face.

  I put on my best game face and stepped forward.

  I moved at the speed of light, zooming in between Pam and Mr. Weather before anyone realized what had happened.

  “Me first, me first,” I cried. I snatched the rose from his hand and leaned in front of him just as the camera zoomed in on us.

  I beamed for a close-up while he blew out a mouthful of my hair.

  “What are you doing?” he asked as he pushed me out of the way.

  “I’m always first,” I told him. “Just relax and go with it. The cameras are rolling.” Before he could get out another word, I climbed into the carriage and settled into the seat, my rose in hand.

  Mr. Weather exchanged a few words with the producers before they finally came up for air. He pasted on his smile and climbed in beside me while a production assistant herded a shocked Pamela back toward the makeshift sidewalk café.