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“Yes,” he said. His lips quirked at a memory I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole, then locked into a completely un-Dick-like grimace.
“Did you know that she left your employ because she got pregnant out of wedlock? And that she drowned about six months after giving birth to the—” He refused to meet my gaze, looking to the left.
“You already know, don’t you?” I said. “You know about the baby, about Albert. You know.”
“What are you—who told you—how—” he spluttered.
“Which question do you want me to answer first?” I asked, cringing.
“Jane, you need to stay out of this,” he whispered darkly. “Just forget you ever found any of this. Don’t say a word to Gilbert.”
“But why?” I asked. “Why not just tell him? I think he would be thrilled to know he had a family. I love him, but I’m not related to him. He loves talking to you. I saw you together at the Christmas party.”
“Stop,” Dick said, grabbing my shoulders and covering my mouth with his hand as he cast panicked glances at the rear of the shop. “You’re meddling in something you have no part in. Whatever good deed you think you’re doing here, just stop. This is none of your business.”
“But—”
“Just butt out, Jane.” The bell clattered to the floor as he slammed the door behind him. Mr. Wainwright, disturbing pop-up book in hand, hobbled up to the counter. “Was Dick here? I thought I heard his voice.”
I shook my head. “Just some guy who insisted that we were, in fact, the adult video store next door. He was very upset by our limited selection.”
Mr. Wainwright laughed, handing me the book. “Maybe we should think about getting a new sign.”
Generally, it’s considered a faux pas for the bride’s family to host a prewedding party for her. Fortunately, on the Great Invisible Scroll of Southern Wedding Etiquette, there’s a loophole stating that if most of the guests are in the bride’s family, it’s acceptable. And werewolf women are very into prenuptial events. Jolene’s festivities alone included two showers, a pounding, a mate-fasting, and something called a bloodening. The pounding is far less violent than it sounds, a party where family and friends give the happy couple a pound of some staple—sugar, flour—and items to set up their household. A bloodening, on the other hand … well, we’ll talk about that later.
Tonight’s agenda included kidnapping the bride to get her sloppy drunk and treating her to a parade of half-naked man flesh, which was some sort of McClaine female tradition. But since Jolene’s cousins hadn’t quite taken the initiative in planning, Jolene had to take matters into her own hands. She suggested we break into her trailer with a provided key to “surprise” her. It just happened to be on the night Jolene had reserved a table for eight at the Meat Market, the only all-male, nearly nude revue in the tristate area. Because nothing says “celebration of connubial bliss” like men who spend a suspicious amount of time at the gym thrusting their spandex-covered man parts at desperate dollar-waving soccer moms.
And because I was the best maid, I got the “honor” of writing Raylene a check for the genitalia-shaped cake that would be gracing our table. I was also expected to foot the bar tab and serve as designated driver. I ended up driving Mimi’s twelve-passenger van, which was necessary to haul the half-lit bridesmaids and gift bags containing penis-shaped note pads, refrigerator magnets, coasters, and ice-cube trays.
When the hell am I going to want penis-shaped ice cubes?
Our party was seated in the dark, humid, but surprisingly clean club, as Marcus the Matador completed his last twirl about the stage. Jolene was sporting a veil with little foam penises sewn on the hem and a T-shirt covered in Lifesavers that offered a “Suck for a Buck,” both of which were provided by her cousins, along with the penile party favors. Though the cousins’ attention was currently focused on the butt-cheek bacchanalia, Jolene just seemed happy they showed up.
She looked so content, sitting there in her obscene veil, oblivious to the improbably dressed fireman shaking it to “Hot Stuff.” Her expression was dreamy, extremely out of place considering the setting. It was just like the night she and Zeb announced their engagement, happiness bordering on a coma—the announcement that I responded to by questioning their brain functions for getting married after such a short time. Zeb had to cart me outside before I further hurt Jolene’s feelings. And when he told me she was a werewolf, I freaked out even more and accused Zeb of losing his mind.
Dang it. Dick had a point. I was a meddler.
“Do you think I’m intrusive?” I shouted over a remix of “It’s Raining Men.”
She started and turned her lazy gaze at me. “Hmm?”
“Am I intrusive?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “But in a good way.”
“How can you possibly be a good kind of intrusive?”
She set her drink down, barely noticing when the verdant liquid splashed onto the already sticky table. “Well, you can be bossy and suspicious and quick to judge. Sometimes your mouth writes a check your butt can’t cash.”
“We’ve discussed that you could agree with me less emphatically, yes?”
She giggled. “But you do it ‘cause you need to protect the people you love. And that’s not such a bad thing.”
“I know that I can be sort of—” I paused and then settled for “overbearing, when it comes to Zeb, his happiness and safety and hygiene. But I would like to say that I’m really glad that he’s marrying you.”
She sniffed and threw her arms around me. There’s nothing quite like an armful of drunk werewolf to help you find some perspective.
“I love you, Jane,” Jolene slurred. “I love Zeb. I really love Zeb. He’s the first man to ever see me as more than a pretty face and hot body.”
