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“Can I still come to the wedding?” Mama Ginger asked in a sad, humble little voice.
Zeb stood and, for the first time in his life, talked sternly to his mother. “You can come, Mama, but you’re going to be nice. You’re going to be sweet as pie to Jolene and her family.”
“But Zeb—”
“Sweet as pie,” Zeb repeated.
“But I—”
“Ginger, just shut up!” Beer in hand, Floyd stomped into the room and wagged his finger in Mama Ginger’s face. “You’ve talked enough for the both of us over the years. And I’m going to be speaking up a little more often. You’re going to be on your best behavior tomorrow. You’ll tell that girl how nice her dress looks. You’ll say nice things about the food, the decorations, and anything else that catches your eye. You will offer to help in any way you can, even if it means sweeping out the chicken coop. You will apologize to Jolene’s family for how you’ve acted so far, and you will do your damnedest to make up for it over the next couple of years.”
Zeb and I gaped at his father in shock. It was the most words either of us had heard him string together since he dropped a carburetor on his foot in 1989.
“Floyd Lavelle, you’ve never spoken to me like this in your whole life.” Mama Ginger sniffled, her lip trembling. Apparently, her guilt only went so deep.
“Then it’s time that I started,” Floyd said. He strode out of the room after slapping Mama Ginger on the butt. “Now, everybody keep quiet. I’m trying to watch the damn game!”
Zeb grinned. “I’m going to take a shower. I’m getting married tomorrow!”
“I don’t know how to take all this,” Mama Ginger said, wringing a Kleenex around her fingers.
“Well, I would plan on swallowing a big slice of humble pie, Mama Ginger.” I patted her arm and led Dick and Gabriel out of the room. “Maybe two.”
22
A traditional werewolf wedding reception does not include a receiving line. They are unnecessary as 90 percent of the guest list consists of the happy couple’s immediate family members.
—Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were
It was a traditional Southern wedding.
The bride was beautiful, of course. The ceremony was held outdoors under the full moon. The spring air was warm and soft. The bridesmaids were dressed like those crocheted dolls people use to disguise toilet-paper rolls.
Jolene had chosen “Nearer My God to Thee” as the processional, because she’d read that was what the band on the Titanic played. As I led the charge of like-dressed puffballs, I took time to look for familiar faces in the crowd.
Mama Ginger was up front, wearing a completely appropriate and demure cornflower-blue mother-of-the-groom’s dress. Her slightly deflated appearance had far more to do with the fact that she’d spent most of the day tying tiny bows around the chocolate anchor favors than any lack of enthusiasm on her part. After a severe dressing down from the alpha couple, most of Jolene’s family were equally meek and made a grand effort to pull together and create Jolene’s dream wedding. By the time the vampire wedding-party members arrived early that evening, the air had a certain “Let’s put on a show!” quality to it. Jolene’s female cousins were using their werewolf agility to hang twinkle lights and hurricane lamps from precarious branches. The uncles cleared the riot debris and set up the altar. Uncle Luke, who was quite repentant, spent the afternoon attaching an outboard motor to the mysterious Styrofoam iceberg. And of course, the aunts did what they did best: cooked a feast. There was a huge spread occupying three full-length picnic tables with every kind of roast animal you could imagine, plus casseroles, grits, and congealed salads.
And in a beautiful gesture of familial unity, Raylene managed to pull together a gorgeous ice-blue four-tier wedding cake with a little fondant Jolene and Zeb atop a fake iceberg topper. And nothing on the cake looked anything like a penis. It was Raylene’s cake masterpiece.
Even over the rather maudlin processional, my vampire superhearing picked up Zeb saying to Gabriel at the altar, “I feel the need to mention that, well, I love you guys. Even if you did vamp out my best friend, Gabriel, you’re a really good guy. And Dick, I really appreciate you hitting on that old lady to unscramble my brain. I’m sorry I’ve been such a jerk lately.”
Gabriel slapped Zeb on the back. “I don’t have many friends, Zeb. But you’re certainly the best among them.”
The two men smiled at each other. A moment of silence passed.
Zeb cleared his throat. “And, uh, sorry about slapping Jane on the butt. That won’t happen again.”
Another silent, slightly more uncomfortable moment.
“Well, this is awkward,” Dick muttered.
Zeb nodded. “Yep.”
Gabriel grinned as I passed the end of the aisle and took my spot. True to his word, he was dashing in formal wear, a cutaway tux with old-fashioned four-in-hand tie. I would wonder how long he’d had it, but I think the answer would upset me.
The ceremony was short and to the point, which may have had something to do with werewolves’ generally short attention span and an upcoming meal. There was no mention of “If anyone here present knows of any lawful impediment,” which was in no way unintentional. There were no unity candles and, mercifully, no solos.
The happy couple marched out to “Raise the Titanic,” which was oddly dark considering the proceedings. Zeb and Jolene boarded the iceberg while one of Jolene’s teen cousins manned the tiller. They made a blessedly slow progression across the pond while Zeb stood behind Jolene, stretching out their arms and screaming, “I’m king of the world!”
