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“What about drinking this?”
“I have a whole thing planned. Just relax that ramrod spine of yours and come with me.”
I took Gabriel to Memorial Park, a tiny patch of grass in the middle of downtown. It was home to a gazebo flanked by blackened cement statues of famous Civil War veterans from the Hollow, including Waco Marchand, who now served on the local commission for the Council for the Equal Treatment of the Undead. High-school kids posed for pictures in their prom-night finery at the gazebo each spring. But tonight it was abandoned, empty save for the fairy lights strung from the carefully preserved gingerbread eaves. I winked at Gabriel and began unpacking the picnic basket on one of the gazebo’s little wrought-iron benches.
“It’s December,” Gabriel said, staring at me and tucking his coat tighter around his body.
“We stay at room temperature,” I reminded him, patting the bench. “Besides, we have twinkly Christmas lights, only available at this time of year. We have a lovely bottle of oaky B-positive. We have grapes and cheese, which, I’ll admit, I bought on the way over to your house strictly because I’ve seen people pack them for fancy wine picnics in movies. We have romance and atmosphere out the ying-yang.”
He gave me a smile that assured me that he was working hard to humor my girlie romanticism.
“I’m wearing the date shoes,” I reminded him.
“Curse your sassy toes,” he huffed. “Let me open that. You don’t want to cork it.”
“Are you implying that a little old thing like me can’t operate something as complicated as a corkscrew?” He grinned at my indignant tone. “OK, you’re right. But that’s not because I’m a woman. It’s because most of the stuff I drank when I was alive involved screw tops.”
“I’ve always enjoyed your little quirks.” He grunted at the faint pop of the cork coming loose. He carefully poured into the plastic wine glasses that came with the picnic set. “What do we drink to?”
“World peace?” I suggested. He grimaced. “To doing things that normal couples do?”
He cleared his throat and raised his glass. “To Mrs. Mavis Stubblefield, without whom we would not be here together tonight.”
I laughed. “That’s kind of twisted.”
He nodded while he sipped. “But true.”
“To Mavis Stubblefield, without whom I wouldn’t have been fired, publicly drunk, mistaken for a deer, shot, and turned into a vampire by you,” I conceded, and took a deep drink. Despite my pacifist leanings, I enjoyed the sizzle of human red cells as they zipped through my system. “Maybe I should send her a thank-you note.”
“We both know that’s not going to happen.”
“Also true,” I admitted, snuggling my head into the crook of his neck.
“What are you doing?”
“Enjoying the moment.” I sighed.
“You are, without a doubt, the most interesting girl I’ve ever shared a gazebo with,” he murmured, kissing my forehead.
“Interesting. There’s your favorite word again.”
“I think we’ve established how interested I am in you.” He chuckled, kissing me. He sighed when he released me. “I feel as if we haven’t been able to spend much time together lately. I’m sorry business has taken so much of my time.”
My lips parted, and I could feel the rush of questions gathering. Why wasn’t he answering his phone? Why was he being so uncharacteristically vague about his travels? Where had he been, really? But the evening was so perfect, so relaxed. Again, passages from Sense and Sensibility popped into my head. Elinor almost loses her Edward because she doesn’t speak up and tell him how she feels. She might have ended up alone, but Lucy Steele lets Edward off the hook by eloping with his brother. Would Edward stay in love with Elinor if she pitched a tantrum when he left her at Norland without confirming his feelings? Would making demands and ultimatums confirm that Edward made the right choice in Lucy?
I was an Elinor, not a Marianne. I didn’t want to waste precious, uninterrupted time together with outbursts or questions that might provoke an argument. So I feinted for a safer topic.
“It has helped that I’ve been all about wedding, wedding, and more wedding lately.” I sighed. “Tell me how it’s possible that this shindig has taken complete control of my life and I’m not even the one getting married? I’m just a lowly bridesmaid, and yet I’m the one doing cocktail-napkin comparisons and in-law interventions.”
He mulled that over for a moment. “Oh, I saw this in one of those ladies’ magazines you leave scattered around at your house. I think the term is ‘Bridezilla’?”
“I don’t know if I would use the word ‘Bridezilla.’ It’s not that Jolene’s being all that demanding or … yeah, were-bride just about covers it,” I admitted. “I don’t know what to do. I just keep getting pulled in. Dress fittings, engagement parties from hell, favor-making parties. It’s not that I don’t have the time, I’m just getting worn out, you know? But I don’t think any of her cousins will do any of this stuff with her.”
“And her fiancé has made vague yet disturbing advances toward you and is treating her badly, so you feel incredibly guilty.”
“No!” I insisted. I looked down into my glass and grumbled, “Yes.”
“You’re a very good friend.”
