Nice Girls Dont' Live Forever Page 4

  It was new restaurants all the time. He was on edge. He accused me of being paranoid when I asked legitimate questions like ‘Why did you change your e-mail password?’ or ‘Where did you sleep yesterday?’” I groaned. “I’m going to be miserable and alone for the rest of my long, long life.”

  She shrugged. “Oh, it’s not so bad. We still have yoga on Thursday nights.”

  “Oh, yeah, that will make up for the loss of companionship and sexual gratification.”

  Andrea grinned salaciously. “Well, you never know what you mightlearnin yoga.”

  “Perv.” I chucked a coffee filter at her.

  Andrea finally gave me the full report on the break-in. She’d arrived early a few evenings back, expecting a delivery of comfy chairs for the reading nook, and found the front window bashed in.

  She called the cops, who were sadly familiar with the neighborhood, and they chalked it up to drug addicts, teenagers, or drug-addicted teenagers. Proving precisely why I hired her in the first place, Andrea had already filed the insurance paperwork, arranged for an antiques appraiser from Louisville to come by to estimate the damage to the books, and contacted a glass repairman to replace the front window the following afternoon.

  “So, really, there was no reason for me to come home,” I said, awkwardly stuffing my hands into my pockets.

  Andrea arched an eyebrow at me. “Yeah, I wish someone had thought to tell you that.”

  3

  In an undead relationship, it’s best not to focus on the “nots.” Not being able to have children.

  Not being able to legally marry. Instead, focus on what you can have, true long-term commitment.

  —Love Bites: A Female Vampire’s Guide to Less Destructive Relationships

  I could smell that Jolene was pregnant, a new, soft, green sort of scent that hit me the moment she opened the creaking trailer door.

  I put on my “ignoring my surroundings” smile, the one that said, “I do not see the huge streaks of rust lapping down the pink wall panels or the carpeting that may be Astroturf.” Zeb was overseeing a PTA meeting that night and had asked me to check in on his bride. She’d missed me, he said, and was a little put out that it had taken me three days to make it over to their place.

  Fortunately, I was carrying two recently reheated pot pies to win my way back into her good graces.

  “Hey!” She beamed until she saw what I was holding. “Oh, no.”

  “What?” Jolene loved Mama’s pot pies. For the last year, they were the only thing that kept her enormous appetite at bay when she visited my house. Since she and Zeb became my neighbors, I brought them over regularly for Jolene to snack on. And now, the mere presence of my foilwrapped gift seemed to be turning Jolene a delightful shade of “bleh.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she whimpered. “I’m just a little sensitive to smells right now. Hormones combined with werewolf nose make it so much worse. Zeb was brownin’ hamburger the other night, and I had to run out of the room to throw up twice. And I can’t eat the foods I usually love.

  I couldn’t get enough of your mama’s pot pies a few months ago, and now, just the thought of breakin’ the crust—” Jolene took a deep breath and pursed her lips.

  “I’ll leave it outside,” I said. “You sit down.”

  I went to the kitchen and managed to smack myself in the face with a half-attached cupboard door while I poured Jolene a glass of water. The trailer was snug, to say the least. The kitchen was what Jolene’s mother, Mimi, called a “two-butt model,” meaning no more than two butts could fit side by side between the stained faux-wood-grain counters at any one time.

  “You’re out of Saltines, so I grabbed some Ritz crackers,” I said.

  “Thanks,” she said, the color of her cheeks returning ever so slightly as she opened the waxpaper tube. “So, how was your trip?”

  I launched into what was now the standard, heavily edited description. Lovely hotels, rude people, beautiful museums. Jolene paused mid-chew and clapped a hand over her mouth. With an

  “Oh, God,” she ran for the bathroom door and retched pitifully.

  Like a doofus, I followed her into the tiny bathroom. “Are you OK?”

  I pressed my hand over my nose as Jolene’s sick smell smacked me in the face.

  “This is as close to pregnancy as I ever want to get.” I handed her the water glass. “I thought morning sickness was just supposed to be, well, in the morning.”

  “My ass. It’s around-the clock- ‘no-warnin’ sickness,’” she wheezed. “One minute, I’m a perfectly fine, functioning human being, and the next, I’m tossin’ up everything I’ve ever eaten.”

  “And that’s saying something,” I marveled. She glared at me. “Not helping, sorry.”

  “I threw up in the parkin’ lot at the Piggly Wiggly the other day. I had to tell Bitty Tate I was pregnant, because I didn’t want her telling everybody I’ve got a drinkin’ problem. Everything makes me sick. I ate a salad the other day, a salad, without any meat at all. I’m gonna waste away to nothin’.”

  I eyed her belly paunch, which made her look about four months along in human terms. “I wouldn’t worry about that.”

  She glared up at me. “I’m gonna hit you, just as soon as I can stand up.”

  “Fair warning.”

  “I’m so miserable,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes. “And I should be grateful that we made a baby so easily. Some mixed couples can’t, you know. And I can’t complain to my mama, because she’ll camp out here in the living room and refuse to leave until the baby is in college.

  And I can’t complain to Zeb, because he gets this weird, frightened-rabbit look in his eyes if I imply that I’m anythin’ but one-hundred-percent awesome. I’m just—I’m glad you’re here, Jane.”

  “Well, you look great,” I told her, pushing her hair back from her sweaty forehead. And it was true in an infuriating way. Even the sweaty glow and water retention of early pregnancy only bumped Jolene down to what would be considered gorgeous for most humans. It just wasn’t fair to the four billion or so other women on the planet. My only consolation was that eating a Ritz cracker had just made her throw up.

  “So, how’s your family?” I asked, helping her back into her chair.

  “Well, Mama’s overjoyed. Calls me six or seven times a day. She says hi, by the way. Daddy’s sort of torn between pride and the horror of knowin’ what his little girl’s been up to. I think up until now, he’d been tellin’ himself that Zeb and I were sleepin’ in bunk beds. My cousins are sort of holdin’ their breath, I think, because they know my aunts are gonna make a huge fuss because it’s my first baby. And my cousin Vance has run away with a carnival.”

  I shuddered, picturing the none-too-bright cousin with unnatural feelings for Jolene operating a Tilt-A-Whirl. “Is this one of those things where I hope that you’re kidding but assume that you’re not?” She nodded. I tried to use a nonchalant tone as I asked, “How are you and Zeb doing?”

  She sighed again. “Weird. He’s so quiet. He’s never quiet, except for when, you know, under a whammy. Oh, man, you don’t think Mama Ginger scrambled his brain again, do you?”

  “No. You know what I think?”

  “Obviously not, or we wouldn’t be havin’ this conversation,” she muttered.

  “I think Zeb’s just scared. Scared of growing up. Scared of not being able to take care of you and the … litter.” Jolene got it together enough to smack my arm. I winced, glad that bruises didn’t last long on me. “OK, think about what happens to married people with children in Zeb’s family.

  They end up drunk and angry and living in matching trailers in their relatives’ backyards. He’s terrified of ending up like Mama Ginger and Floyd. I think he convinced himself that he could handle the transition to husband pretty well, but what I will only refer to as his spontaneity and your superabsorbent eggs came back to bite both of you on the butt.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Stop putting ketchup
on your egg rolls, for one thing. That’s gross. And maybe your family could spend less time rearranging your cabinets. Other than that, hell, I’ve never been married or pregnant. What do I know?”

  She huffed. “Well, you’re a big help.”

  “I do what I can. Or don’t, as the case may be. Now, tell me, how is Mama Ginger? Is she still all skittish and sorry? Or has she returned to her deranged, yet strangely effective, ways?”

  “No, thank the Lord.” Jolene rolled her eyes. “She seems to feel just bad enough to stick to snippy comments when Zeb’s not around and then pretendin’ not to know why I’m upset.”

  My brows lifted. “Comments about?”

  “About having everythin’ handed to me. How it must be nice to have a family that will give you a trailer, friends that will give you land and money to build a house. About how I need to cut the apron strings and stop letting my family boss me around. I guess, ’cause she wants to be the one bossin’ me around. Then she’ll start makin’ suggestions on how I could make her son happier.

  And then I just mention how you might be droppin’ by, and she gets really quiet.”

  “She knew I was out of the country, right?” I asked. Jolene nodded. “Well, it’s not as if I can teleport home.”

  “She doesn’t know that.”

  “Have you told Mama Ginger about the baby yet?”

  “No,” she said emphatically. “I was thinking we would wait for the baby to be a year old or so.

  Maybe in kindergarten.”

  “That is not unwise,” I said, picturing what Mama Ginger might consider appropriate boundaries and advice for an expectant mother. “So, how does this whole werewolf pregnancy work? Zeb already told me about the shorter-gestation thing. But what else is different? I mean, can you still transform? Are werewolf babies born able to transform? Do you give birth in a big cardboard box with towels in it?”

  “That’s not funny,” Jolene said, glaring at me.

  I held up my thumb and forefinger, measuring “a little bit funny.”

  “I can phase for about another month. After that, it can be stressful for me and for the baby,” she said, rubbing her belly. “Pups can’t phase until they’re at least five. Their little bodies can’t handle it until then. Mama always said it was God’s way of keepin’ them from runnin’ off and never being seen again,” she said. “I’m going to have a perfectly normal human birth with a perfectly normal baby. And even though the women in my pack have given birth at home for the last twenty generations, I’ll be givin’ birth in a hospital. Zeb’s sort of insistin’ on it. I think the idea of not havin’ doctors, expensive machines, and high-test drugs—for him, not me—makes him a little panicky.”

  “Well, you can’t really blame him.”

  “Oh, no, I’m sort of relieved to have an excuse to go to a hospital,” she admitted. “I’ve always hated attendin’ the births on the farm. I mean, I know I don’t exactly have modesty issues, but the idea of being laid out like that and, you know, all that stuff coming out while my aunts and cousins come runnin’ in and out of the room, takin’ pictures and smokin’ and describin’ their own horrible births. No, thank you. Mama’s a little disappointed, and I think it hurts the aunts’ feelin’s. But to be honest, I think everybody else is sort of interested in what it’s gonna be like to wait around in the hospital for a baby. It will be a McClaine family first.”

  “But what about prenatal care? Ultrasounds? Won’t a doctor notice that you gave birth to a fullterm baby four months early?”

  “There’s a midwife in town who’s been takin’ care of the family for years. She helps with the births and prenatal care. She helps us fake the medical records and the birth certificates so they appear normal. The humans will just assume I was pregnant before the wedding, which I can live with,” she said, toying with her glass. “But I have a favor to ask you.”

  “If this involves the words ‘birthing coach,’ my answer is ‘I’m touched, but no thank you,’” I told her.

  “No.” She laughed. “I was hopin’ you would come be there at the hospital, as sort of a referee/bouncer. Keep my family from invadin’ the labor room and Zeb’s family from killin’ each other.”

  “And I don’t have to see anything or hear anything or, again, see anything?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then I’m your girl.”

  I should have suspected something was wrong with the Half-Moon Hollow Chamber of Commerce as soon as I saw the chamber seal was pink.

  It had been a while since I’d attended a chamber meeting—ten years, to be exact, since I was awarded a $1,500 Chamber of Commerce good citizen’s scholarship for writing an essay on

  “Patriotism: What Living in Half-Moon Hollow Means to Me.” It was May 1995. I was a senior.

  I was $1,000 short on tuition and faced living at home and attending the local community college.

  I would have written it in limerick form if they’d asked.

  That dinner was unremarkable, the main difference being that the chamber seal was still navy blue and gold. I was served bland chicken while the chamber president gave a speech on the perils of youth and supporting good, decent young people where they could find them. I was handed a check and dismissed so the chamber could discuss the possibility of attracting a rubberband manufacturer to the Hollow.

  The present-day chamber office had moved to a swankier part of downtown, to a restored Victorian townhouse with a dizzying amount of gingerbread. With the pink and white seal proudly presented on the lawn, the place looked more like a sorority house than the place where our community’s collective business interests met.

  To be honest, joining the chamber was sort of a test. Reopening the shop and trying to attract a larger clientele meant I was going to have face the living public with much more regularity. I’d managed to operate on the fringes of polite society for the past year or so. And frankly, I had no confidence that I wasn’t going to get staked by a random customer in a disagreement over a senior discount. I wanted to see if I could move among humans again. Plus, it was important for Specialty Books to shed its obscurity and enter the mainstream business community. Too many Hollow residents had no idea what or where we were. Andrea and I wanted to be the sort of establishment that welcomed all beings, dead or undead, and their money. Joining the chamber was the first step in becoming legitimate.

  I was greeted at the door by a wall of high-pitched chatter. All around me, slender blond women in knockoff designer suits sipped wine spritzers and swished their hair back and forth in slow motion. A few of the braver, thinner souls were wearing suit jackets paired with capris, which to me has always seemed like the professional equivalent to wearing hot pants to the office. But on these girls, it looked fashion-forward.

  They were all so … shiny. The last time I was around this much pink, it belonged to Missy Houston, the vampire real-estate agent who tried to frame me for murder, steal my house, and kill me. I shook through my color phobia and built up whatever psychic defenses I could muster against the waves of rampant thoughts. It was like having a really insecure mosquito buzzing around the surface of my brain. Given the “just flew in from the tanning bed” glow most of the girls were sporting, I was absolutely sure I was the only vampire in the building. And somehow, I didn’t think it would be a good time to bring it up.

  The floor was highly polished and very old. I felt my own sensible flats slip across the polished surface and wondered how these women negotiated it in those stilettos. I plucked at the conservative navy pantsuit I’d chosen in the hopes that it made me appear to be a serious businesswoman. Even with vampire hotness on my side, I felt a little dowdy. I checked to make sure that at the very least, I’d worn matching shoes.

  I decided to give it three minutes before I bolted from the building as if my eyebrows were on fire. There was a sign-up table offering “Hello, My Name Is” tags and pastel gel pens. But none of the other ladies was wearing one, because, of course, they already knew one another. I
snagged a copy of the meeting agenda from the refreshment table. It was printed on pink paper with brown polka dots, the kind you might buy from an extremely perky stationery store.

  That’s when I realized. There were no men. Anywhere. Not a single whiff of testosterone in the place. Had I accidentally stumbled into a man-eating coven? Was I going to be sacrificed as the ugly brunette?

  I decided that my three-minute limit was up and made a dash toward the door, bumping into a willowy blonde as she poured another chardonnay. She dropped the bottle, which I quickly snagged before it hit the carpet.

  “Fast hands,” she said, tinkling out a laugh. “I’m lucky you caught that, or Courtney Ahern would have torn out my eyes for ruining the Persian rug. I’m Courtney Barrow. I own the Unique Boutique, the sterling-silver shop over on Dogwood.”

  Courtney Barrow was just as cute as a button. She was tiny, curvy, and had an intricately braided silver necklace looped around her neck. Though my proximity to a substance I was highly allergic to made me somewhat nervous, Courtney Barrow was the only genuinely friendly face I’d seen that night, so I was sticking close to her.

  “Jane Jameson, Specialty Books.”

  Her slick, coral lips quirked. “Isn’t that an adult store?”

  “No, no, there used to be an adult store next door. But we bought them out and expanded into their space. We pretty much gutted the store and started all over. You couldn’t have used that space for anything else, anyway. There was a lot of steam-cleaning involved. I don’t know when to stop talking sometimes.”

  Courtney was unfazed by my babbling. “A bookstore. That’s so interesting. What made you go into the book business, Jane?

  “I was too tall to be a ballerina?” I offered.

  Courtney giggled. “You’re a hoot! Oh, you just have to meet Courtney Harris. She’d love you.”

  “All right, then,” I said as she wound her arm through mine. “Wait, she’s named Courtney, too?

  How many Courtneys are there here?”

  “Twelve.” Courtney sighed as she led me deeper into the crowd of shimmering Courtneys. I was introduced to Courtney Gordon, who had started an event-planning company for children’s birthday parties, and Courtney Stephenson, who ran a specialty shop for baby bed linens. None of them seemed even remotely interested in my bookshop, and, to be honest, I couldn’t figure out how I would cross-promote occult items with luxury crib sheets. I was starting to think I’d made a huge mistake joining the chamber. I wondered if Courtney Barrow would release me voluntarily or if I would have to gnaw off my arm like a coyote stuck in a trap.