Your Coffin or Mine? (7 page)

At the same time, I couldn’t find matches for Jack. He already had Mandy and (I never thought I’d say this) he was in love. Sure, she was human. But she was also smart and pretty and, more important,
nice.

Say yes, find a few bogus matches, and you’re off the hook.

Right, genius. If I didn’t produce quality females, my mother would think I wasn’t any good at my job. Hence the whole wasted life thing again. Short of falling on the sharp end of a pencil or dancing naked in broad daylight on a beach in Costa Rica, I was stuck.

A sick feeling washed over me, the same feeling I’d had earlier at Ty’s place. A feeling that told me the next two weeks were going to be the worst of my life.

“Just tell me how much I owe you and I’ll give you my Visa number.”

I quoted the usual amount, plus a little bonus for pain and suffering (mine, of course). My mom didn’t so much as gasp, so I added, “I usually work a profile for at least a month, which means I’ll also have to charge a rush fee since you want me to do it in half that time.”

“Whatever, dear. Just add it to the card.”

I smiled. Two weeks
was
an awful long time. Scientists could invent a cure for meddling mothers. Brad Pitt could fall madly in love with me and whisk me away to his island in the Caribbean. My mother could fall head over heels in love with her new human daughter-in-law and, for once in her afterlife, butt the hell out.

News flash: In addition to being a closet romantic, I’m also a hopeless optimist.

The possibilities suddenly seemed endless as I took down the card number, said goodbye, and went to my laptop to open up an account for my brother. I’d just keyed in his name and stats when the phone rang again. One glance at caller ID confirmed that it was not my mother. I snatched up the receiver.

“Dead End Dating, where the women are beautiful, the men sexy, and the pockets deep.”

“Thank God you finally picked up. I left three messages on your cell.”

“Hey, Mandy.” Dr. Mandy Dupree was a resident in forensic pathology and my youngest brother’s fiancée. She was a petite redhead with a cute figure and the misguided notion that my mother actually liked her.

I know, right? The woman could barely stand me and I was the fruit of her loins.

The
matchmaking
fruit of her loins.

I stared at my brother’s name on the screen and guilt rolled through me. Not that I was going to pair him up. Not with anyone viable. I would come up with a few decent people and parade them in front of my parents for show. Jack would refuse to bite (he was in love, after all), and he and Mandy would never be the wiser. I’d still get my fee and my mother would face the inevitable.

“You didn’t forget, did you?”

“Of course, I didn’t forget.” My mind started to race. I had agreed to be the official maid of honor, which meant I’d already gotten roped into interviewing harpists and flute players. (Can you say disc jockey?)

Not that I’d admitted as much to my mother. Jacqueline Marchette would find out soon enough when Jack and Mandy marched down the aisle.

If
she showed.

Max was betting she would see the light and be at the wedding. Rob had a few g’s riding on her staying home and sulking. I, who knew our madre better than anyone, had put my money on her showing up and raising such a stink that we would all wish she’d stayed home.

“I knew you wouldn’t forget.”

“You bet your ass I wouldn’t.”

“What about your mother? I left two messages on her cell to remind her.” Her voice took on a desperate quality. “You do think she’ll come, don’t you?”

Never in a million years. “I’m sure she wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I know. My bad. But she sounded so hopeful that I couldn’t bring myself to break the news. “The only way she would miss something of this magnitude is if she were kidnapped and bound with ropes of garlic.”

“You’re so funny, Lil. I’m so glad we’re going to be sisters. I always wanted a sister. Someone I could talk to about boys and do makeup with and try out new hairdos with.”

“If you ask to borrow my clothes, I’m hanging up.” A girl had to have her boundaries.

She laughed. “Hurry over, okay? I don’t know where to start. This is like the most important thing
ever.
”

“The biggie,” I agreed. “Top of the mountain.”

She went silent for a long moment. “You forgot, didn’t you?”

“How could I forget the most important thing
ever
?” Unless, of course, I was stressed out of my head with an MIA made vampire, a meddling mother, and a struggling business. “But let’s just say—in theory—that I
did
forget. What would it be that actually slipped my mind?”

“The bridal shop. I left the address on your cell. I’m picking out the wedding dress tonight.”

“Now?”

“Right now, and I really need your advice.”

I eyed the stack of profiles that begged for my undivided attention. I also had an in-box full of e-mail. I had to proof the newest ad for the local newspaper. I’d promised to help Word with his profile when he finished up with the computer. I needed to get a bag of kitty litter and a bed for Killer.
And
—and this was the biggie—I had to find Ty before something really bad happened.

I didn’t have time to lounge around at Vera Wang, a glass of champagne in hand, and spend someone else’s money on a ridiculously expensive dress that would only be worn—

Wait a second. Was I insane?

Free drinks?

Shopping?

Someone else’s green?

“I’m on my way.”

Eight

T
hey say confession is good for the soul. Being a denizen of the dark (and because I mowed down that lady at Barney’s last week trying to get to a half-off BCBG bag), I need all the help I can get. So here goes…

I’ve had the fantasy.

No, I’m not talking the one about winning the lottery or being Brad Pitt’s one and only or being a rock star/supermodel/Dallas Cowboys cheerleader.

I’m talking
the
fantasy.

The (big sigh) wedding fantasy.

The one with the white doves and sprays of pink roses and the ice sculpture shaped like my favorite Salvatore Ferragamo hobo bag. The MAC Super Luster lip gloss favors for the women, mini-bottles of Ralph Lauren for the men. A horse-drawn carriage. A multitiered cake done in the palest pink with edible silver bows and French piping.

I know, I know. I’m a vampire who can’t eat solid food. What the hell am I doing envisioning a wedding cake? But they smell scrumptious and you can’t have a wedding without a cake.

Since I was someday hoping for my own
dum, dum, da-dum,
I couldn’t help but be excited for Mandy. I dropped Killer off at home—with a saucer of milk and several newspapers—and took a cab to the address my soon-to-be sister-in-law had left on my cell.

“But this is Queens,” I told the driver when he finally pulled up in front of the small shop located between a Vietnamese bakery and a pizza parlor, far, far away from Vera or Lazaro or Jim Hjelm, or any of the other prominent designers of bridal couture.

“This is the address, lady. That’ll be fifteen bucks.” He glanced in the rearview mirror and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “That is, unless you want to take it out in trade.”

No, really. Such is the life of a vampire with mucho sex appeal and really great accessories.

“Here’s a twenty.” I handed him the money.

His face fell. “You sure?”

I stared into his eyes and saw more than I ever wanted to know about Wally Gillespie aka Minnie Me.

“Keep the change.” I slid from the backseat. “And if you do decide to go through with the penis enlargement,” I handed him a Dead End Dating card, “give me a call. I can definitely hook you up.”

His mouth dropped open, but I turned away before he could say anything.

I walked the two feet to a glass storefront with the words
Wedding Wonderland
done in white neon script. Pulling open the door, I quickly found myself surrounded by big, poofy dresses, fake flowers, and the smell of potpourri. An instrumental version of “You Light Up My Life” flowed from a CD player in the corner.

Mandy and an older looking woman with the same red hair and giddy expression sat on a white velvet sofa in front of a coffee table overflowing with bridal magazines.

“Oh, good,” Mandy squealed. “You’re here. Mom, she’s here!”

I’d met Harriet Dupree once before when I’d been planning a baby shower for Viola and the other twenty-seven pregnant werewolves I’d hooked up for the lunar eclipse. Mandy had volunteered to help and her mother had dropped off several serving platters (and oodles of chicken wings) for the big occasion. She’d also stood around oohing and gooing over all the baby gifts and telling me how positively darling I was—and precious
and
gorgeous—and that she just could not, repeat, COULD NOT, understand how some man had not snatched me up a long, long time ago.

I know. Me, too.

Anyhow, I’ve liked her ever since.

“Lil!” The older Dupree threw her arms around me and smothered me in a big hug. “So good to see you.”

“You, too.”

“All right, ladies.”
Clap, clap.
“Since everybody’s here, let’s get started. While I don’t mind staying late, I’ve got two poodles and a pit bull waiting at home for their supper.”

I turned to see the store’s proprietor. She had bright bleached-blond hair, enough eye makeup to impress Marilyn Manson, and bloodred nails about three inches long. She wore gold-rimmed glasses that hung from a chain around her neck and bright red lipstick. Black spandex pants hugged her thighs and a red, white, and gold abstract top hugged the biggest pair of breasts I’ve ever seen (which speaks volumes since I’ve been around for more than five hundred years). She smelled of hair spray and Italian sausage. Her accent dripped Jersey.

Our gazes locked and I got the down low. Shirley Cannoli. Born and raised in—where else?—Jersey. Still lived there. Newly divorced from her husband, Norman, of twenty-five years. Two grown daughters, one of whom went to NYU while the other did nails at a small shop in Hoboken. She didn’t normally stay after hours because of her “babies,” i.e., pets, but she was on a mission to beef up her customer base. She’d had three boob jobs and was now planning a face-lift. Provided, of course, that she impressed this particular bride. She was certain this would be her stepping stone to more hoity-toity weddings like the ones splattered all over the pages of the Life Styles section every Sunday. Which was why she’d agreed to a private showing so frickin’ late when she should be at home watching Leno. Not that she was complaining. Hell, no. She was grateful that she was standing here in her latest pair of Do Me shoes instead of sitting at home with her feet propped up and her bunions free. She was also eternally grateful that her cousin Michael had married Harriet’s half-sister. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be getting this chance. All she needed was one good mention.

I, personally, figured she needed a lot more than that. But she looked so excited and I couldn’t help but give props to a fellow entrepreneur. I smiled and sank down on the sofa between Mandy and her mom.

“Before we get started, can I interest anyone in a little refreshment?”

I slid my hand into the air. “I’ll have champagne.” Another glance around the room. “Make that two glasses.”

“I’ve got Jell-O shots,” Shirley announced with a hopeful expression. “See, the whole point of the alcohol is to relax, so I figured I’d get the most bang for my buck. One shot and you’re as loose as a goose.”

“That’s so clever, Shirley,” Harriet said. “I’ll have one.”

“I have to work tomorrow, so I’ll pass,” Mandy said. “Lil?”

“I think I’ll pass.” While I could enjoy the occasional glass of champagne, one shot and I wouldn’t just be sitting here, suffering in silence. No, I’d be trying on dresses with Mandy and, worse, probably liking them. “On second thought, go ahead and hit me.”

“Atta girl,” Shirley said, giving me a wink.

A few seconds later, I was sucking down a watermelon whiz and praying that Jell-O didn’t count as a solid. (See the whole vampire liquid-diet issue.)

“We can’t start yet,” Mandy told Shirley when she turned to a rack of dresses that lined a nearby wall. “We’re still waiting for Jack’s mother.”

“Um, why don’t you go ahead and show us what you have?” I motioned to Jersey.

“She’s not coming, is she?” Mandy asked once the woman had turned to rifle through one of the wall racks.

“She wanted to.” In an alternate reality where born vampires loved and respected their human brethren. “It’s just that she was feeding the piranha in the swimming pool and one of them took a hand off, so she had to go to bed early so she could rest and regrow.” Can I improvise or what? “She didn’t want to spurt blood all over the dresses, but she told me to tell you to have fun.”

“How awful.” Mrs. Dupree patted my hand. “She should try aloe vera, oatmeal, and mayonnaise. My own mother swore by it for cuts and things. Just mix it up, pack it on, oh, and cover it with a piece of raw bacon. Twenty-four hours and you’re as good as new.”