Author: Molly Harper

“Actually, Grandma Ruthie has canceled the wedding.”

“Because of something I said?”

“Oh, no, of course not.” Mama laughed. “But when you started talking about how many wives Wilbur had, it just turned her stomach. Then she realized that she’d been married almost as many times as he has.”

“So, she realized her reign of matrimonial terror must end?” I asked as Gabriel approached with Solo cups full of what might have been Boone’s Farm’s version of champagne.

Mama snorted. “Something like that.”

“Does this mean I should contact the authorities about Wilbur?” I asked. “Did he take the break-up well?”

“Oh, no, she didn’t break it off with him. She says she still wants to date him,” Mama said.

“Ew!” I cried. “He’s a dead guy.”

A hurt look flashed across Gabriel’s features. I mouthed, “Not you,” then pointed to the phone and added, “Wilbur.”

“You’re dead,” Mama pointed out.

“I’m a different kind of dead. I’m a cool kind of dead. Wilbur is all graveyard smells and feeding on the bottom rung of the food chain.”

“Jane, just let it go. Your grandma’s a grown woman. If she wants to date a dead man, she can date a dead man.”

“That’s not what you said when I started dating a dead man,” I grumbled.

“Well, I just want you to be nice to Wilbur when you see him at the Labor Day picnic.”

“I don’t have to be nice to people who try to stake me.”

“Jane, it’s bad enough that you aren’t speaking to Jenny. Don’t cause more problems with your grandmother.”

“Jenny stole knickknacks from me, and I stopped talking to her. What makes you think I’ll respond any better to someone trying to stake me with a cane?”

In a maneuver that would make a NASCAR driver proud, Mama switched conversational lanes on me. “Oh, honey, I’ve been meaning to ask you, have you seen Adam Morrow lately? His mama was at the beauty shop today. She hasn’t heard from Adam in the last day or so.”

“No, I haven’t seen him since he stopped by the shop the other night,” I said. “He seemed …” Creepy. Perverse. In need of medication and negative-reinforcement therapy.

“Fine.”

“Well, if you see him, tell him to call his mama,” she said. “It’s not right to make a mother worry like that.”

“I will. Look, I’ve really got to go, Mama,” I said as the DJ asked the crowd to clear the floor for Jolene and Zeb to have their first dance as husband and wife. I played the only excuse that I knew would get Mama off the phone. “I’ve got a date tonight. With Gabriel.”

“Good night!” Mama squeaked, then promptly hung up.

Gabriel and I watched with interest as Zeb led his new bride onto the dance floor and the painfully familiar flute intro lilted.

“Oh, please tell me she didn’t.”

“What?” Gabriel asked as Celine Dion’s breathy soprano warbled, “Every night in my dreams …”

I groaned. “Who picks ‘My Heart Will Go On’ for their first dance song?”

“It’s a nice song.”

“It’s a song about people dying. Frozen people dying. Not exactly the sentiment I would want to start my married life on. Then again, why am I surprised?” I shrugged. “She has a Titanic chip boat.”

“What would you prefer?” He snorted. “ ‘Hungry Like the Wolf’?”

“It would be either brilliant or brilliantly tacky,” I agreed.

“She’s very happy,” Gabriel observed.

“Ah, don’t do that,” I said. “Don’t make me petty.”

I watched as Zeb twirled his wife across the clearing with surprising grace. Jolene was happy. She had all of the things I wanted for myself. A man whose love couldn’t be questioned, or, if she could question it, she didn’t. A firm handle on her special condition. Professional contentment. Parents who adored and accepted her, even if other members of the family didn’t.

I would watch Jolene, learn from her. I’d ask myself, “What would Jolene do?” the way most people ask, “What would Oprah do?” Even if that meant not asking my boyfriend about the mysterious and apparently unhinged Jeanine until he was ready to talk about her. I would not look for trouble in my relationship and create problems where there was none. I would trust that Gabriel loved me. Even if it came back and bit me on the ass in a major way.

Turning to my undead date, I poked him in the side and asked, “Are you going to dance with me or what?”

“Why can’t you wait to be asked?” he muttered.

“Have you met me?” I asked. “Surely you must have figured out some of this by now. I’m contrary … and you love it.”

He shrugged.

“So, really, which one of us is the sick one?” I asked.

“Will the best maid, the man of honor, and their escorts please join the happy couple?” the DJ asked.

“Now you have no choice,” I told him.

Dick yanked Andrea onto the middle of the dance floor and offered a courtly bow. Andrea looked vaguely embarrassed but laughed as he drew her into his arms. Gabriel and I made a less dramatic entrance.

“I’m a terrible dancer,” I told him.

“I don’t care.” He pulled me into a box step, which my vampire grace still didn’t help me master. “So, I’ve been thinking.”

I smirked. “That can be dangerous.”

“You haven’t quite used your triumph settlement the way you wanted to.”

“Not true. Look at how happy they are.” I nodded toward Jolene and Zeb.

“I know it took quite a bit of money to do that. And it will take quite a bit more money to get the shop going.”

“Which is your clever way of saying that Ophelia told you exactly how much I got.” I gave him a wry smile.

“I cannot comment,” he said. “Because Ophelia’s scarier than you are.”

“Not going to argue there. But I am going to have a nice healthy nest egg. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Well, we both know that’s not true. The point, which we rarely get to painlessly, is that I know that you wanted to spend some of your ill-gotten wealth on travel.”

I eyed him suspiciously. “What did you do?”

“Nothing yet, but you say the word, and we will be on a plane. I’ll keep my schedule open. I figured we could start in London and work our way east. I want to be with you when you see the Bibliothèque Nationale de France, harass some poor gondolier in Venice with questions. I’ll even go to the Eiffel Tower if you want to be prosaic. Anywhere you want to go we’ll go.”

“Travel?” I asked. “For how long?”

“Until you get tired of me.”

“When can we leave?” I asked.

“From here, as far as I’m concerned,” he said.

“That’s a little quick.” I laughed. “But I would love to go. Soon. And we will go to the Eiffel Tower, thank you.”

“I knew it,” he said. “At heart, you’re just a sentimental romantic fool.”

I laughed again, watching as Jolene and Zeb circled the floor. Lord help me, I actually started misting up. “Sometimes.”

“Are you crying?” he asked, lifting my chin.

“No!”

“Sentimental, romantic fool,” he said again as I wiped at my eyes.

“I really hate this song,” I grumbled.

He twirled me out and dipped me. “Honey, let it go.”