by Молли Харпер
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.”
“Fibber.” I rolled my eyes.
“I don’t know any one-word insults for false modesty, but I’ll come up with one,” she said. “In the meantime, sit, catch your breath, er, relax. Enjoy this quiet time when the house looks perfect and you look beautiful and no one is frazzled or complaining that they can’t eat anything because of their lactose intolerance.”
“That’s lovely,” I said. “Which shelter magazine did you get that from?”
She grinned. “Original material. Now, I’m going to go stare at the cheese and crackers and long for days gone by.”
“You and me both,” I muttered as someone or something battered at my kitchen door.
Jolene, werewolf strength abounding, threw open the door with her hip and lugged a Coleman chest cooler into my kitchen.
“Either that’s a lot of food or you’re planning a really cheap funeral in my backyard,” I said, eyeing the mansized cooler.
Zeb hefted a tray of mini-quiches onto my counter. “Given your luck this year, do you think you should be joking about that?”
“Duly noted,” I said as Jolene unpacked a ham, mashed potatoes, stuffing, rolls, and what looked like a twenty-pound deep-fried turkey. “How many people are you planning to feed?”
“Me, Zeb, Mr. Wainwright, your friend Andrea …” she said, ticking off on her fingers.
“Do you think I brought enough?”
I held up a two-gallon Tupperware container of yams. “Well, if nothing else, I have some pot pies in my freezer.”
“You have more pot pies?” Jolene cried, looking at the freezer with longing.
“Now you went and ruined her Christmas present.” Zeb grinned.
Gabriel came to the door looking almost festive. He was wearing a dark blue scarf, which may have been the only time I’d ever seen him wear an actual color. He was also carrying a load of packages, several bottles, and a bright pink bakery box.
“You’re all coiffed,” he said, clearly shocked.
“I am capable of cleaning up nice,” I said grumpily.
“Very nice.” He nodded and gave me a friendly peck.
“That was just sad,” a voice behind us drawled. We turned to see Dick, radiant in a hollygreen T-shirt that said, “Join me on the naughty list,” carrying presents, a bottle of Boone’s Farm, and a sprig of mistletoe. “I’ve seen old people kiss better than that. Aunt Jettie is kissing Fred better than that right now.”
In honor of the occasion, Jettie and Fred had agreed to let all of the guests see them. I turned to my living room to find that Grandpa Fred had materialized and was, indeed, kissing Aunt Jettie like a character in an old World War II movie.
“Well, that’s just embarrassing,” I said, pushing Gabriel’s packages into Dick’s hands and laying a hell of a smooch on my special vampire fella. “Happy now?”
“Blech, no.” Dick grimaced. “It’s like watching your parents make out.”
Gabriel set his jaw and advanced on Dick.
“OK, River Oaks is neutral ground, you both promised,” I said, standing between the two of them. “Gabriel, please go inside. Help Jolene unpack her movable feast.”
I turned on Dick. “I thought you had plans,” I said, leaning against the door and smirking at him.
“Yeah, well, they fell through. I figured, why not throw you a bone?”
“I’m just not responding to that imagery,” I said as I accepted what could only be termed wine in the strictest sense of the word. “But I’m glad you’re here. Merry Christmas, Dick.
You have just enough time to go inside and look cool and unaffected when Andrea comes in.”
Dick perked up.
“But first, a few ground rules. No ‘ho, ho, ho’ jokes. That shirt is the only ‘naughty’ reference you’re allowed tonight. And keep the mistletoe where I can see it,” I said.
“Well, tie my hands, why don’t you?” he grumbled, then scrambled to get inside when he saw Andrea’s car pull onto my drive.
Andrea had volunteered to drive Mr. Wainwright, whose night vision was not what it once was. Neither was his day vision, for that matter. It took Gabriel and me to help him up the steps, but he was determined to carry his own presents and the jar of potpourri he had brought as a hostess gift.
At least, I hoped it was potpourri.
Oddly enough, the first person he greeted when he walked into the living room was my Aunt Jettie, who was confused but flattered. “He can see me?”
“You can see her?” I asked. “I thought vampires were the only ones who could see you; when you decided to grace us with your presence, that is.”
Mr. Wainwright chuckled. “Well of course, I can see her, she’s standing right there. She’s a bit transparent but still visible to those who have a … broader personal perspective.”
“Jettie Early, meet my boss, Gilbert Wainwright,” I said. “Mr. Wainwright, my late greataunt Jettie.”
“Charmed,” he said. I noticed he didn’t offer to shake her hand, an effort to avoid calling attention to the fact that she was noncorporeal.
“Jane’s told me so much about you,” Jettie said, smiling sweetly. “I’m so glad she’s found such a wonderfully interesting person to work for.”
“Well, she is a pleasure to have at the store,” he assured her. “She has revolutionized our filing system.”
“She said you didn’t have a filing syste
m before she was hired,” Jettie pointed out. My gaze shifted from my aunt to my employer. Did Aunt Jettie just giggle in a coquettish manner, drawing a suspicious look from my dead step-grandpa? Mr. Wainwright chuckled again and adjusted his suspenders.
My dead aunt was flirting with my boss. My dead aunt who was practically engaged to my dead step-grandfather. And my boss appeared to be flirting back. This could go nowhere good.
They started talking and realized they’d gone to high school together. They were in the last class to graduate from the original Half-Moon Hollow High before Milton “Firebug” Chambers burned it to the ground. They reminisced about Mr. Allan, the math teacher who spoke in the third person; the design of the first-ever Half-Moon Howler mascot costume; and Milton’s multiple failed attempts at burning the school down before he got it right. Mr. Wainwright asked Aunt Jettie about her demise and how the “tunnel of light” appeared to her. Jettie laughed uproariously and told him it was more like a tornado.
Eager to catch every detail, he asked Jettie to meet him at his office sometime, where he could interview her properly.
Grandpa Fred was not pleased. Fortunately, he couldn’t solve this problem as he did when Grandma Ruthie drove him crazy during his living Christmases: drinking buttered rum until he was near comatose, forcing my dad and I to cart him, Barcalounger and all, out to the car.
It’s awkward introducing two groups of friends. It’s even more awkward when one of those groups decides not to like the other. While Mr. Wainwright was thrilled to be acquainted or reacquainted with the supernatural beings, Jolene had taken an instant dislike to Andrea. A few minutes after the two of them gingerly shook hands, Jolene pulled me into the kitchen to whisper at a decibel far below human hearing that she didn’t trust her.
“I trust Andrea,” I said. “She’s been a really good friend to me. You’re just used to being the prettiest girl in the room, and having someone who remotely rivals your blinding hotness is throwing you off your game. And we don’t have to whisper. Andrea’s perfectly normal hearing is not going to pick up this conversation.”
“I’m just sayin’ one girl to another, I think you need to watch her around Gabriel,” Jolene said, grabbing a hunk of cheddar and chowing down. Around the cheese, she said, “A lot of girls, especially wounded human girls, go for the whole mysterious, dark-haired guy with the full lips, piercing soulful eyes, cheekbones you could slice a ham with—”
“Maybe I should watch you around Gabriel,” I said, eyeing her warily. “I think we should get back into the living room with your lovely canapés before everybody else figures out that we’re talking about one of them.”
“You’re right, I’m bein’ silly,” Jolene said, watching Zeb try one of Mr. Wainwright’s cigars, then get pounded on the back when he started to choke. “I just want everybody to be as happy as Zeb and me.”
“Lovebirds on amphetamines couldn’t be happier than you two,” I said, linking arms with her.
She sighed, leaning her head against mine. “I know.”
I lingered and watched the party from the kitchen doorway. Someone, mercifully, had dug up a Nat King Cole CD. Even over the bluesy cheer, I could hear Andrea and Zeb chatting about the merits of being the only “normals” in the room. They didn’t consider Mr.
Wainwright to be normal. Jolene swept in and marked her territory by kissing Zeb’s cheek and pulling him away from Andrea. Gabriel and Mr. Wainwright discussed Gabriel’s library and its shocking lack of information on freshwater sea monsters, until Dick distracted Gabriel by mentioning all of the parties they used to attend at River Oaks.
Gabriel sent a furtive look my way. I think he offered Dick money not to reminisce further. Mr. Wainwright then engaged Dick in adamant conversation regarding the sales of were-pelts on the black market. Dick was smiling at him in a way I didn’t normally see. It was almost tender. And it was weirding me out.
“Please, in the name of Christmas, don’t let Dick try to sell him anything,” I asked, looking skyward.
Fortunately, Andrea passed by in her slinky black party dress, and Dick’s attention shifted gears. Mr. Wainwright grinned as Dick trailed after her. He made eye contact with Aunt Jettie, rolled his eyes, and muttered, “Young people.” Aunt Jettie gave a girlish giggle, which got Grandpa Fred’s back up.
Andrea heard Mr. Wainwright’s side of the conversation and tapped me on the shoulder.
“Is Mr. Wainwright talking to himself again?” she asked.
“Nope. Aunt Jettie. I think he might have a little bit of a crush going. This is going to be a big shock for Grandpa Fred. This may be the love triangle that undoes the fabric of our universe.”
She cringed. Gabriel sauntered my way, offering me a punch cup of an imported dessert blood called Sangre.
“You throw a great party,” Gabriel said, nodding at the happy crowd.
“God bless us everyone,” I said, grinning. “This may actually be the best Christmas ever.
People I love. No pressure. No drunk cousins fistfighting on the lawn.”
“Well, I’m sure that’s an interesting story that I’ll ask about later.” He cringed before calling across the room, “While we’re on the subject of families, Zeb, can you tell me why your mother has been leaving me increasingly threatening voice-mail messages? She plans to put her foot, among other things, up several orifices.”
“I honestly don’t know,” Zeb said. “It’s possible she just dialed a random number.
Sometimes she leaves those messages for strangers.”
“I think I know,” I said, sighing. “Zeb’s mama seems to think you’re the only obstacle standing between me and Zeb, true love, and some sort of Precious Moments wedding extravaganza.”
Zeb seemed stunned but not nearly as disturbed by this as I was. He smiled at me with that weird, glazed-over stare, which was becoming way too familiar. I moved closer to Gabriel, twining my fingers through his. “You might want to keep your doors locked during the day, Gabriel. Also, cover your butt, because what she has planned would sting a little.”
“I don’t think Mama would actually do anything,” Zeb assured me, his voice low and soft.
“Easy for you to say,” I told Zeb. “It’s not your orifices at stake.”
“And on that lovely Yuletide note, I have something for you,” Gabriel said, leading me closer to the lights of the Christmas tree before handing me a small silver-wrapped package. With visions of jewelry dancing in my head, I opened it to find a little canister with a plastic trigger. “Mace?”
“Nope, silver in aerosol form,” he said proudly. “To prevent further parking-lot fights.
Just don’t stand downwind when you use it.”
“Oh, how thoughtful,” I said, lifting it carefully from the box. With all the enthusiasm I could scrape together, I told him, “It’s really, really great.”
“It’s a gag gift,” he said crossly. “Zeb said you’d find this kind of thing funny. Lift up the tissue.”
“Zeb has spent most of his adult years playing GameBoy alone on Friday nights,” I said, rooting to the bottom of the box. “Don’t take relationship advice from Zeb.”
In the bottom of the box was a tissue-wrapped bundle. It was a little silver unicorn on a fine chain.
“Andrea said that paying homage to a little quirk in your personality, the closet unicorn obsession, would show that I care,” he said.
“It really does,” I told him. “Can I touch it?”
“It would be a good first step toward wearing it.”
“But it’s silver,” I said, hooking a tissue-protected finger around the clasp.
“No, it’s white gold,” he said as he looped the chain around my neck. “Perfectly safe for vampires.”
“All of the beauty of silver without the burning and itching,” I cooed, running my fingers over the curves of the unicorn’s tiny legs.
“Does that mean ‘thank you’ in your language?” he asked, tilting his head.
“Thank yo
u, it’s very sweet,” I said, kissing him. “This is a wonderful coincidence, because I have this for you.”
Across the room, Zeb was making a sour face. Jolene jostled his arm, attempting to tease the scowl from him, but he shook her off, stalking toward the kitchen and out of sight. She stared after him, her face twisted into confused, hurt lines. Dick saw this and asked some random question about his responsibilities as “the man of honor” and how it related to cummerbund color, teasing her into a smile.
I handed Gabriel a square package. “I was sorting through some old family photos with Aunt Jettie. We found this.”
Jettie and I spent hours looking through old boxes of River Oaks tintypes when I was a little girl. We would study the sepia-toned photos of Earlys from the 1870s and comment on the clothes, the hairstyles, who looked like toothless Uncle Vernon. (Somehow, we always voted for Grandma Ruthie.) Jettie would tell me stories about my ancestors, such as Great-great-great-grandma Lula, who set fire to the Hollow’s only cathouse after finding her husband, the Reverend James Early, “proselytizing” there. The fire took out the cathouse, a nearby saloon, and the general store, where the owner sold dirty French pictures from the back room. She did more good in forty-five minutes with an oil lamp than Reverend Early did in thirty-five years of preaching.
We’re a proud family.
On a recent trip down Disturbing Genealogical Memory Lane, Jettie and I found portraits from Clarissa and Stewart Early’s wedding in 1877. In one smaller photo, two young Early cousins, Leah and Mariah, were shown smiling up at two strapping fellows in silk coats. I had seen this photo a hundred times before I was turned. Until now, I hadn’t recognized the young men being adored by my simpering foremothers: Dick and Gabriel, grinning like mad at the camera. They were so young. And Dick actually had his arm around Gabriel’s shoulders, laughing as if he had just told some raunchy joke.
I’d taken the photos to a camera shop to have copies of the print made. I’d framed one for Gabriel and one for Dick. It was not a manipulative Parent Trap ploy; I honestly couldn’t think of anything else to get them.
