“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.”

“I think I’m at the point in my life where I need more than a nice boy. I need a nice man.”

Mama tsked and patted my cheek. “Is Gabriel a nice man?”

Recalling the unfortunate Bud McElray incident, I hesitated. “Not particularly. That may be what I deserve, though.”

Mama sighed and stirred. “Well, I don’t really follow you. I can tell you that when Eddie Carroll tried to cut in at the Homecoming Dance, Daddy broke his nose.”

“Tempting, but Gabriel might not stop at the nose.”

“Let things with Gabriel take their course,” she intoned. “And in the meantime, see where things go with Adam. In the end, knowing they have a little competition may speed things along.”

“Speed what things along to what?” I asked.

Mama shushed me and handed me a tray of eggnog and slightly damaged leftover Santa cookies. “Now, just take this out to them, and mind your manners. Behave yourself with your grandma.”

“I will if she will,” I hissed back.

When I walked back into the den, Daddy was still mindlessly changing the channels, ignoring Grandma’s very presence. Wilbur and Grandma were snuggled up on the couch. Grandma was trying to tempt Wilbur with a candy cane, swiping it sensuously along his lips. Wilbur was smiling fondly at her as he reminded her about his diabetes. I guessed chronic disease precluded her need to seduce him with seasonal candy.

Repulsed, I turned on my heels and headed back to the kitchen, but Daddy called, “Jane?” Desperate for someone to share his suffering, he demanded, “Is that eggnog? With liquor?” I winked at him and gave him a double helping.

“It’s so nice to see you helping your mama for a change,” Grandma said, nodding imperiously toward the tray. I ignored the bait.

“Would you like some?” I asked Wilbur.

Wilbur was about to answer when Grandma patted his hand fondly and simpered, “Oh, Wilbur is lactose-intolerant. His stomach is just so sensitive. He can’t have salt because of the high blood pressure or sugar because of his diabetes. Or fats. Or nuts. Or meat. He usually sticks to Ensure or these macrobiotic shakes.”

Grandma pulled a canned shake out of her enormous Aigner purse. Wilbur took it out of her hand and stuck it back into her purse before I could get a good look at the label.

“So, how did you two meet?” I asked. “When did you two meet?”

“Oh, it’s the sweetest story.” Grandma sighed. “I was on my way into Whitlow’s to plan Bob’s service, and Wilbur was there in the hallway, waiting for a friend’s visitation to start. He saw how upset I was and offered me his hankie. It was so romantic and chivalrous, I just had to invite him for a cup of coffee in Mr. Whitlow’s office.”

I stared at Wilbur, reaching out, trying to touch his mind. Nothing. It was like scraping my knuckles on a brick wall. Stupid inconsistent vampire powers.

“Mr. Goosen—”

“You can just call me Grandpa,” he said, smiling.

One would think that at this point in my life, with as many grandpas as I’ve had, one more wouldn’t bother me. But something, possibly step-grandparent weariness or allegiance to Bob, made me say, “I don’t think so.”

Grandma sighed and sent me a wounded look. Wilbur took a deep breath and sat forward, his hands in a steepled, grandfatherly stance. “Now, Janie, honey, I know it’s been a rough couple of weeks. But everyone else seems to be happy for your grandma and me. Ruthie said that you don’t deal with change well.”

“You don’t know me well enough—”

He interrupted me again, which was not doing much to warm my heart toward him. “I understand that you love your grandma and you’re concerned for her well-being. I think that’s admirable, Jane.”

How horrible was it that I wanted to tell him he had it totally wrong?

He reached out to pat my hand. His own was clammy and damp enough to make me want to pull away. “I just want you to know that I love your grandma and I’m going to take care of her.”

“It’s not her I’m worried about.”

Mama popped her head into the doorway again. “Jane, could I see you in the kitchen for a minute?”

Daddy sent me a frantic look. Clearly, the idea of more alone time with the geriatric lovebirds had him panicked. Slinking out of the room, I muttered, “Everybody stops interrupting me, or I’ll publish a newsletter featuring your secret thoughts of the day.”

Mama had heated all of the food. She’d also rolled the plastic picnic ware into paper napkins and filled all of the cups with ice. She was now organizing and reorganizing the Tupperware lids, first putting them on the containers, then tucking them under the containers. She was doing pointless busywork. Thinking back, I realized Mama rarely came out of the kitchen for the leftover Christmas dinners.

“You’re hiding in here,” I accused. “You don’t want to be in there any more than I do. You’ve been hiding in here for years.”

“I have not!” Mama cried, not meeting my gaze.

“Oh, it’s over now. I’ve seen the man behind the curtain,” I whispered. “I take no holiday guff from you, from now on. Ever.”

Mama ignored me while she fiddled with the defrost feature on the microwave.

“Look, as much fun as it is trying to send secret warning messages to Dead Grandpa Walking, I need to go.” I looked at the clock. “It’s getting close to six, and I would like to avoid further awkwardness with Jenny.”

“You’re already here. Why don’t you just stay?” Mama wheedled. “The boys haven’t seen you—”

“Since the funeral home, last week,” I said. “And they were too busy destroying the telephone-shaped ‘Jesus Called Him Home’ floral arrangement to talk to me. I don’t think my absence will scar them for life.”

The pounding arrival of the boys at the front door told me that I was too late.

“Grandma! Grandma! We got Blood Spatter Carjacker Mayhem Four!” Andrew shouted, waving the gore-soaked video game case at my mother. “Can we play it now? Please?”

“Oh, honey, you know Grandma doesn’t have a game system—” Jenny said, coming into the kitchen. She skidded to a stop when she saw me.

“Everything here is boring.” Andrew sighed as he and Bradley slinked into the living room. If he had paid attention to the look on his mother’s face, he would know that if he stuck around, it might get interesting. Or at least blood-spattery.

My brother-in-law, Kent, the chiropractor whom I’ve rarely heard speak, followed at Jenny’s heels. The moment he saw me, he pivoted and trailed after the boys.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” Jenny said, sending a reproachful look Mama’s way. “Mama, I agreed to see her at Bob’s visitation, but that’s it. You can’t let her come over and not tell me. It upsets the boys to see her.”

I rolled my eyes. “The boys didn’t even notice I was in the room. And if they did and you actually told them their aunt was a vampire, they’d probably think I was the coolest thing since Blood Spatter Carjacker Mayhem Four. And don’t blame Mama. I didn’t mean to stay so long, but I got caught up talking. I’m leaving now.”

“Oh, but you can’t go!” Mama cried. “This is the first time we’ve all been in the house together since you …”

“Died?” I finished for her. “You can say it. I died.”

“Shh!” Jenny shushed me, looking toward the den.

“Please, can’t you both just put this all aside for the holiday?” Mama begged. “For the family?”

“No!” Jenny and I chorused.

Mama switched tactics just by dropping her voice an octave. “Now, girls, this is just silly. We’re family. And it’s Christmas. If you can’t forgive your family around the holidays, what—”

“Stop,” I told her. The way she stretched the word into “faaaaaamily” when she wanted something always set my teeth on edge.

“The time of year doesn’t change anything. I don’t want her around my family,” Jenny ground out.

I shot her a look that could have dropped a more observant woman. So, it was her family. As far as she was concerned, I wasn’t part of it anymore. Frankly, she was welcome to it. “I’m going.”

“Now, Jenny, be a good sister,” Mama told Jenny. “We have to have the whole family together for Christmas. The good Christian thing to do would be to—”

“She’s dead!” Jenny cried. “The good Christian thing to do would be to give her a decent burial.”

“Now, Jenny, you know you don’t mean that,” Mama said through clenched teeth.

“Burial talk is my cue to go,” I said, grabbing my jacket. “I think I’ll be leaving the country for New Year’s, so please don’t call.”

I stuck my head into the den to give Daddy a quick good-bye, which he couldn’t hear over the screeching and beeping of the boys’ new radio controlled-monster trucks.

From the kitchen, I heard Mama whine, “Tell Jane it just won’t be Christmas without her.”

“You have me, Kent, the boys here, why—” I closed the front door on Jenny’s wounded response.

I looked back through the window. Wilbur looked absolutely miserable. I was sympathetic, but when it came to the Jameson family Christmas, it was every man, woman, and vampire for themselves.

10

Adult werewolf children are expected to stay within the confines of pack territory. Those who move more than a five-minute run from pack headquarters are either disowned or hosts to frequent weekend guests.

—Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were

From the dawn of time, women have formed friendships for one purpose only: to make sure they’ll have someone to provide unpaid serf labor for their weddings. And we all just go along with it, spurred by fear that if we don’t submit to the bridal demands, there will be no one to slave over our own weddings.

That’s why, six months before the actual wedding, I was spending an evening measuring and cutting exactly fourteen inches of cornflower-blue ribbon over and over and over and … over. These ribbons would be sent to a printing company to be stamped with “HMS Titanic” on one side and “Zeb and Jolene—Struck by Love” on the other. They would then be tied around old-fashioned hurricane lamps as part of Jolene’s carefully planned tablescape. Each table was going to be named for famous (read: deceased) Titanic passengers, such as John Jacob Astor and Molly Brown, then decorated with hurricane lamps and fake ice. Of course, no one would pay attention to a seating plan, which is another Southern wedding tradition.