Author: Molly Harper

Zeb made a gagging sound he hadn’t uttered since his dad made him try chitterlings, then spat the pastry in his napkin.

“What exactly is this?” he asked.

“Heart mousse tarts,” Jolene said, moaning the way I used to over cheesecake.

“Beef heart, to be exact,” Gabriel said cheerfully, watching Jolene devour her fourth.

“They’re a real delicacy,” Jolene told Zeb. “We only get these at Christmas.”

Zeb wiped his tongue with his napkin and smiled wanly at Jolene. “I’ll finish mine later.”

9

Werewolves are also territorial about holiday time. It would be unwise for a human to underestimate her werewolf mother-in-law’s desire to see her son on Thanksgiving and Christmas Day.

—Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were

I didn’t invite Gabriel to Christmas with my family. Because I don’t do that to people I like.

Grandma Ruthie spent every Christmas Eve neck-deep in nog, feeling at liberty to tell me exactly what she thought was wrong with my life and which of my poor choices had led me there. One particularly memorable holiday, in 2004, she offered to pay for plastic surgery, a total tune-up, including boobs, nose, teeth, and a little reconstruction to “soften my mannish features.” While generous, this offer kept me from coming to Christmas 2005.

And just as on Christmas 2005, Mama had not responded well to my skipping out on this year’s family festivities. Thanksgiving was spent with Mama’s extended family. I was allowed to skip it this year because the family preferred to eat lunch together, and an afternoon of watching other people eat just wasn’t worth the risk of spontaneous combustion. Mama made some lame excuse to the uncles about my needing to get the bookstore ready for the Black Friday shopping rush, which seemed to satisfy everybody.

Christmas, however, belonged to Mama. There was the prolonged Christmas Eve gathering in which Mama, Daddy, myself, Jenny, and her spawn, plus Grandma and that year’s grandpa exchanged presents. We then enjoyed the traditional Jameson meal of turkey, stuffing, and a piping-hot side dish of guilt-stuffed manipulation. Unmarried and childless (read: pathetic, with no place to go), I usually slept at my parents’ house and spent Christmas morning with them. I was one step away from wearing footie pajamas.

Jenny and her boys, loaded up with sugar and obnoxiously noisy toys, usually arrived at around 6 P.M., and we were stuck together in family harmony until Mama decided to warm up leftovers for dinner and parole us until next year.

I had already violated the sanctity of Christmas Eve by spending it with people who actually liked me, so avoiding my family on Christmas night this year was not an option. I showed up at sundown and gave myself a forty-five-minute window to duck out before anyone arrived for the warmed-over feast. Mama got her usual bottle of Windsong, which she asked for every year. I gave Daddy a book on the haunted battlefields of Kentucky, which Mr. Wainwright recommended. I got slipper socks and a copy of The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People.

The house seemed even more quiet than usual, the gaps in conversation echoing just how much my estrangement from Jenny was putting a strain on my parents’ holiday. Mama did, however, manage to mention how much everybody missed me on Christmas Eve and that it would be so much easier if I just stayed for dinner. About twenty times.

By easier, I’m pretty sure Mama meant easier for her. It was easier for her not to have to address my issues with my sister, such as the fact that Jenny had helped Missy the psychotic real estate agent by (albeit unwittingly) feeding her information about my schedule, River Oaks, and all manner of things that helped her harass me and frame me for murder. Oh, and the lawsuit she filed against me.

That sort of discussion can put a real damper on Baby Jesus’ birthday.

While Mama started preparations for re-dinner, I think I lost track of time talking to my dad about the possibility of tracing Mr. Wainwright’s family. Normally, I can sense my grandma’s approaching presence, like Bambi’s mom sensing when Man has entered the forest. I was caught off-guard in both senses, when Grandma Ruthie arrived with her newest catch, the aforementioned Wilbur.

They say the mourning period for a relationship is at least one-half of the time that was spent in the relationship. Grandma had reduced it to her shortest time ever, one-twenty-seventh of the relationship.

I smelled Wilbur long before I saw him. This went well beyond your typical old-man aroma. This was rot, decay, mold, black stinky gingivitis, and bad cheese. On top of that, he looked like a cheap Halloween mask come to life, all papery wrinkles and saggy, yellowed eyelids.

Sadly, he was still better-looking than former grandpa Tom.

“Oh, Jane, I didn’t know you were going to be here.” Grandma Ruthie sniffed as Mama took her coat, the unspoken but clear sentiment being that she wouldn’t have come if she’d known I was going to be there.

Mama hustled their coats out of the room. Daddy, obviously determined not to get caught up in whatever was about to transpire, kept his eyes glued to the television and relentlessly changed the channel. Wilbur looked from me to Grandma to me again. I crossed my arms and grinned at Grandma, happy not to be the rude, socially backward one for once.

Finally, Grandma sighed and said, “Jane, this is my fiancé, Wilbur. Wilbur, this is my, this is Jane.”

“So nice to meet you,” he said. “Your grandma has told me so much about you.”

“I doubt that very much,” I said, smiling sweetly. I didn’t flash my fangs. I’d leave it to Grandma to send senior men into mysterious cardiac-arrest episodes.

Wait, did she say fiancé? I zeroed in on Grandma’s left hand, where a tasteful diamond engagement ring twinkled.

“You’re engaged?” I gasped. “Again?”

Sensing the shift in the room, Mama poked her head into the living room. “Jane, honey, can I see you for a minute?”

Jaw unhinged, I followed Mama into the kitchen, where a wealth of Tupperware was carefully laid out in the traditional Jameson post-Christmas smorgasbord formation on the countertop. I clamped my hand over my nose when confronted with Mama’s reheated “fancy” cheese grits, made with gouda and bacon and an obscene amount of garlic.

“Is she crazy?” I demanded around my hand. “Is he crazy?”

Mama shrugged. “Well, I will admit that the mourning period was a little short.”

“She brought a date to the burial,” I hissed, removing my hand from my face and concentrating on talking instead of smelling. (Stupid instinctual breathing!)

“At the time, he was just a friend, trying to help her through a difficult time,” Mama said in what could only be described as her “denial” voice. I simply watched her, expressionless, prompting Mama to say, “Your grandma isn’t like you, Jane. She’s from a different time. She’s the kind of woman who needs a man in her life.”

“For a brief time, before her evil curse kills them in a terribly ironic way,” I said, which made Mama’s face pucker. “You know, this never would have happened if you had taken my advice and put up those ‘Warning—Black Widow—Do Not Marry’ posters with Grandma’s picture down at the senior center.”

“Honey, you know I don’t like it when you talk that way.”

“I don’t like having a grandma with a four-volume wedding album. We all have our burdens to bear.”

The tiniest eye twinkle under the veneer of annoyance told me Mama was trying not to laugh.

“When’s the wedding?” I asked.

“They haven’t set a date yet,” Mama said. “But you know how she likes to get married in the fall—” Mama caught herself. “See? Now you have me doing it.”

I pressed my lips together to suppress the smirk.

“Wilbur seems like a very nice man,” Mama told me in her “Don’t argue” voice. “He treats Grandma how gentlemen used to treat ladies. He opens doors for her. He carries heavy bags. He orders for her in restaurants.”

“So he’s like a concierge,” I said.

Mama was not amused.

“Mama, she’s going to kill another one!” I moaned. “This has got to stop. Hasn’t she had all the husbands she needs?”

“Shh, they’re going to hear you,” Mama said, sending furtive looks at the door.

“Oh, they can’t hear anything.” I rolled my eyes.

In an obvious ploy to redirect the conversation, Mama looked furtively toward the door and said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you, but I didn’t want to in front of your daddy. How are things going with your Gabriel?”

“Fine.” I jerked my shoulders.

“Fine?” she asked. “Just fine?”

I nodded, my lips pressed tightly together, narrowing my gaze as Mama shot me a canary-devouring feline smile. She said, “You’ll never guess who was asking about you at prayer meeting the other night.”

“You’re right. I won’t.”

“Adam Morrow, you remember, you used to have such a big crush on him in high school. I used to find his name doodled all over your notebooks. Adam Morrow. Mrs. Adam Morrow. Jane Jameson-Morrow, Jane E. Morrow. Jane and Adam Morr—”

“I got it. I remember.”

She smiled. “Well, he has been asking about you at church. And I thought, why not ask him over for dinner sometime? A poor single boy who works as hard as he does knows how to appreciate a good home-cooked meal.”

“Mama, please don’t.”

Mama pursed her lips, turning back to the steaming contents of her stove. She stirred. She salted. She tasted. Finally, she turned back to me with a dreamy expression of the generous mother-goddess that, frankly, scared me. She cleared her throat and used her special “imparting motherly wisdom from the mountaintop” voice. “When your daddy and I were dating, he planned on going fishing with some friends over Homecoming weekend. This was back in high school. We’d only been dating a little while, and I think he didn’t want me to think I could plan things out for him.”

“Clearly, he didn’t know you very well,” I said.

“Mmm-hmm,” she said, stirring the potatoes. “I told him it was perfectly fine if he wanted to go fishing with his buddies, because Eddie Carroll had offered to take me to the dance.”

“Mr. Carroll? My math teacher? Ew.”

“You should have seen him in high school. With a full head of hair, he was quite the man about town. If things hadn’t worked out with your father—”

“Stop,” I told her, laughing. “I do not want to hear that I could have been a Carroll.”

Mama giggled. “You know, he still tells me on occasion that I have lovely ankles.”

“They are lovely. But back to the story, please,” I said, shuddering at the thought of Mr. Carroll ogling my mother at Parent-Teacher Night.

“Well, the moment your father heard that, he called his buddies and canceled the fishing trip,” she said, preening. “He was pinning that corsage on my dress faster than you could say ‘dog in the manger.’ And every dance or party after that, your father knew that he would be going with me, because I might have other offers. Sometimes men need a little competition to realize what they have. It’s healthy for a relationship.”

“Did Mr. Carroll really ask you to the dance?” I asked. A Cheshire-cat smile spread across her face. I laughed. “You know, Mama, sometimes I completely underestimate you.”

“You’re probably right. So, if I ask a question, will you bite my head off?” she asked.

“You know I won’t actually bite you, right?”

“You know what I mean,” she said, tasting the gravy. She offered me a spoonful, but I declined, as its bouquet reminded me of that smell refrigerators get after long vacations. “Why not just call Adam, honey? You were crazy about him in high school. And he’s such a nice boy.”