Nice Girls Don't Live Forever

Zeb chuckled, watching as Andrea managed to insinuate herself between Mama and a grateful Jolene.



“So, how’s the house coming along?” I asked.



Zeb’s face flushed with an incredulous smile. “Great. Buster actually started putting up interior framing this week. He’s got a crew coming out to do the roof soon, and he said we might be ready for Sheetrock before next month. And when Jolene’s dad came out yesterday to give Buster the stink-eye, Buster just kept his head down and worked his butt off. Even Lonnie had to admit that Buster was doing good, solid work. We might actually be moved in by Christmas. Can you believe it?”



“Wow,” I intoned, trying to sound appropriately impressed. I kept my eyes wide and innocent. “You must have really put your foot down with Buster.”



Zeb puffed his chest out a bit and tried to sound nonchalant. “If I’ve learned anything from my scary in-laws, it’s all about tone of voice.”



As everybody circled to start the meeting, I scrambled to sit next to Mama, so I could control … um, introduce her. Mama had apparently taken the time to memorize the Pledge, a collection of five truths the group repeated before every meeting, and was louder than the rest of us combined as we promised: “I will remember that a newly turned vampire is the same person with new needs.



“I will remember that a loved one’s being turned into a vampire does not reflect on me.



“I will remember to offer my vampire loved ones acceptance and love, while maintaining healthy boundaries.



“I will remember that vampirism is not contagious unless blood is exchanged.



“I will remember that I am not alone.”



Before DeeDee could stand up to introduce herself, Mama bounced to her feet. “Well, hello, everybody! I’m Jane’s mama, Sherry. I’m just so happy to be here!”



“Hi, Sherry,” the group chorused, despite my attempts to pull Mama back into her seat by her sleeve.



“I’ll admit that I went through a bit of bad patch after Jane came out, but I’ve come to accept that I cannot change what Jane is,” Mama said, her voice quavering. “And I need to do whatever I can to make her feel accepted and loved by her family. Even if she tries to avoid spending time with us. And isn’t speaking to some of us.”



“That’s my Mama,” I conceded.



“Well, Sherry, it’s refreshing to see a parent so vocally supportive of her child after they come out,” said DeeDee.



I rolled my eyes. Can we talk about the fact that her “bad patch” involved force-feeding me pot pie and trying to give me a tan? I sulked through DeeDee’s discussion of the pain and confusion of new vampires adjusting to a human world and through her preplanned talk on subconscious conversational slips that can be highly insulting toward vampires. I couldn’t help but think this last topic was directed toward Mama, and I was all for it. But she was so caught up taking notes and beaming beatifically at DeeDee that I’m pretty sure the clue sailed right over her head.



The group broke up to socialize, which was usually my favorite part of the meetings, but this time, I was dodging my mother with a sudden, extremely urgent search for coffee filters in the stockroom.



“Jane?”



“Gah!” I cried, jumping and whacking my head on a shelving unit.



“Are you all right, hon?” Mama asked, cooing over my new contusion.



“No, no, I’m not,” I grumbled, rubbing my forehead.



“I’m sorry. I just wanted to catch you in private,” she whispered. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing, you know, since Gabriel broke up with you. Your daddy and Jolene said you took it awfully hard.”



“Wha—G-gabriel did not break up with me. I broke up with him. And what is Jolene doing talking to you about that? If she thinks she can deflect belly questions by baiting you with information about me, well, that’s just evil and brilliant, actually. I don’t think I give her enough credit …”



“Oh, you’re so silly. Now, I’d like to talk to you about your grandma’s birthday,” Mama said breezily. “Your grandma Ruthie wants to make sure you apologize to Wilbur so we can all enjoy dinner without any unpleasantness.”



“Hmm. Unpleasantness like bringing up the fact that Wilbur tried to stake me with his cane the last time I saw him?” I asked. Mama made a “disappointed” face.



Sometimes newly turned vampires are only given enough blood to enable them to wake from the death sleep. They have none of the vampiric strength or speed … or charm. They’re called ghouls. I only know this because my grandma Ruthie almost married one of them earlier this year. Despite the fact that Wilbur looked like Skeletor and may have bumped off several of his wives to sustain his endless after-death retirement, he and Grandma Ruthie decided to keep dating. After he tried to dust me with his cane.



It turned out that Wilbur and Ruthie were a perfect match. After all, Grandma Ruthie’s four husbands and previous fiancé all died under equally suspicious circumstances, involving a speeding milk truck, a brown recluse bite on the inside of the throat, a previously unknown allergy to Grandma Ruthie’s famous strawberry-rhubarb pie, a golf-related lightning strike, and a miscalculation of Viagra dosage. Wilbur and Grandma Ruthie seemed very happy together, though I guess when you never know when your lover might facilitate your release from your mortal coil, it’s important to keep up the appearance of happiness. Frankly, I was glad they were still so lovey-dovey. For me to win the “dead pool” with Zeb and Dick, either Wilbur or Grandma would have to meet a grisly end in a botulism outbreak next spring.



“No. Absolutely not. You all can just celebrate without me,” I told Mama. “I do not apologize to people who try to kill me. It sets a bad precedent.”



“Oh, but your grandma Ruthie will be so hurt if you don’t show up!” Mama protested.



“No, she won’t,” I told Mama. “You know she won’t. She’ll be much happier, and things will be a lot less tense without me there. In fact, that will be my gift to her this year, not showing up.”



Mama looked resigned but unhappy, which was generally how we both felt when negotiating the logistics of family gatherings. “Sometimes I just don’t understand the things that come out of your mouth, baby,” Mama said, pushing my hair back from my face.



“I hear that a lot,” I told her.



Mama chuckled, rolling her eyes. “Now that we have that out of the way, how are you doing, really?”



“Other than spending an unhealthy amount of time faking answers to magazine quizzes so I get better scores, I’m fine,” I told her. “The shop is doing well. I have sweet, patient friends with a high tolerance for whining. Zeb and Jolene keep me involved in their never-ending baby-name debate. Dick is the older brother I never really asked for. Andrea wants to start a belly-dancing class next month. My life is very full.”



“Do you want to talk about it?” Mama asked.



“No, I do not.”



“Honey.” She sighed, tipping my chin toward her. “I know it hurts right now, but whatever Gabriel did, I’m sure he’s sorry. And if he’s not, maybe Adam Morrow is still interested …”



“No. Mama, I love you. I love that you’re being supportive and that you want to put me back up in the saddle. But trust me, trust me, you don’t want me dating Gabriel … or Adam. I’m better off alone right now.” I kissed her cheek. “But I love you.”



“I love you, too,” she said, squeezing my cheeks. She let out a cleansing breath and returned to her normal cheerful tone. “Maybe it would help if I invited Adam’s mama to the meetings. You know, maybe if she learned to be a little more open-minded like me, it would make it easier on the two of you if you just happen to start dating.”



I thought about making a smart comment, but for the sake of this newfound bridge of mother-daughter understanding, instead I said, “Maybe we shouldn’t make more connections with the guy who has a fuzzy perception of personal boundaries?”



“Oh, you’re so strange sometimes,” Mama said in that tone of voice that always left me unsure of whether she was going to pay attention to what I said.



The gears in my brain whirred, searching for any activity that would keep Mama occupied and safely away from Adam Morrow’s mama. When all the machinery clicked into place, a wide smile spread over my face.



“Mama,” I said, putting my arm around her. “How would you like to throw Jolene a baby shower?”



I received a “reminder” e-mail from Head Courtney that I had yet to submit a progress report on my collections for the prize committee. She was giving me three demerits and told me to meet with Jenny to “better implement a synergistically creative approach” to my begging freebies before a progress meeting with the Courtneys. I was going to find the person who sold Head Courtney her copy of Who Moved My Cheese? and smack them.



With an obvious expression of disdain, Jenny strolled through the shop’s front door with her hand sanitizer at the ready. She seemed surprised by what she saw. She even smiled, just a tiny bit, at the fanciful little pottery dragon grinning at her from a table by the front window.



“How can I help you?” I asked, smiling pleasantly to the point that it was hurting my face. “We just got a shipment of self-help books. Can I interest you in a copy of How to Stop Being a Raging Bitch in 30 Days ?”



Jenny’s lip curled back, and I could practically see the acid response forming, but she bit her lip and exhaled loudly through her nose. “This is a nice place,” she conceded. “Good light, nicely arranged. Probably not a color scheme I would have chosen.”



“I’m sure.” My teeth were grinding as I led her to the counter. I didn’t offer her coffee or a scone, despite the fact that they were arranged temptingly under a nearby glass dome. This was not a social visit. This was business. OK, fine, fine, Jenny had been making me feel unwelcome for years, and now I was having a tiny bit of revenge.



She smiled sweetly, or what passed for sweetly when you’ve had enough Botox to paralyze an elephant. “Mr. Wainwright must have been fond of you to have left you all this.”



“Here we go,” I muttered.



Jenny shrugged, her eyes wide and not-quite-convincingly guileless. “I’m just saying, it must be awfully nice—”



“You think I like the fact that Mr. Wainwright died?” I asked coldly. “Do you think I wouldn’t rather he was here right now?”



Technically, he was there at the moment, hovering over his favorite copy of From Fangs to Fairy Folk: Unusual Creatures of Midwestern North America . But I wasn’t about to tell Jenny that.



“I think I’ll pop out to see how your aunt Jettie’s doing,” Mr. Wainwright whispered.



“Coward,” I muttered. I turned back to my sister. “Why did you come here, Jenny?”



Jenny tried, and failed, to look surprised by my line of questioning. “Courtney told you. We have to go over our collection plan before the meeting. I wanted to talk to you about getting some of the car dealerships in town to offer some detailing packages. I think I might have an in with the owner of Nelson Ford.”



I searched Jenny’s face. I even thought about peeking into her thoughts, but past experience with Grandma Ruthie had shown me that only prolonged the argument, it didn’t help me win it. Fortunately, I’d known my sister long enough to discern the acquisitive, gleeful look in her eye when she was bordering on social triumph. And if she was really going to forge some sort of tenuous connection with the largest auto dealership in town, she would have been dancing some uptight little jig.



My eyes narrowed. “No you didn’t. We could have handled this whole thing by e-mail. That’s how we’ve done it so far, why change now?”