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A remarkably more cordial Cindy parked in a chair with her comic and sipped her coffee. She proved to be quite the good-luck charm, as her arrival brought a stream of steady peals of the front entrance bell. Several vampires, whom I’d never seen before, came in and sipped warmed blood and discussed forming an undead book club. Zeb and Jolene stopped by for pastries (for Jolene) and a book titled The Drama of the Half-Were Child (for Zeb.) They cozied up at the bar near my dad and chatted about the impending Lavelle. They still hadn’t told Zeb’s mother about the pregnancy. After Mama Ginger broke into the trailer, rearranged all the furniture, “organized” their mail and bills, and cleared most of the food out of Jolene’s fridge, Jolene had adjusted the disclosure date to when the baby left for college. She’d also added those biometric fingerprint locks to her plans for the new house. Seriously, you don’t mess with a werewolf’s food supply, even under the guise of being “helpful.”
Several members of the Friends and Family of the Undead, a group dedicated to helping the loved ones of newly turned vampires, perused new releases in the self-help section and were thrilled when I offered to host the meetings at the shop on Thursday nights. A few of my currently human former library patrons braved the bad part of town and bought up Anita Blake titles they probably wouldn’t have purchased in a “mainstream” bookstore. They also floated the concept of forming a book club focusing on supernatural works, starting with Alice Sebold’s The Lovely Bones .
I missed the children and children’s books. I missed old tattered copies of Harold and the Purple Crayon and tracking down the copy of Behind the Attic Wall that had been lost and nearly kept by careless girls (including myself) a total of fourteen times. But this new enterprise was certainly rewarding. We actually sold books. To live customers. Which hadn’t happened at Specialty Books in a while. Of course, by live, I mean present at the time of sale. I couldn’t guarantee heart or lung function.
I was helping books find their way to people again. I would have teared up a little if I’d had time. These misty thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a petite brunette with a heart-shaped face and high, sharp cheekbones. She had on a thickly ruffled blouse paired with a long black skirt. A delicate cameo pin secured the neck. She was a vampire, and she stared at me for a while before finally approaching the counter.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“No, I believe I’ll just browse about for a while. I think you might have exactly what I’m looking for.” She smiled, the tips of her fangs peeking out over her thin, whitened lips.
“O … K.”
Directing two men who I suspected could be ghouls to the financial-planning section kept me distracted from this odd customer. There was something not quite right about this woman, and it wasn’t just her taste in old clothes. Her eyes were feverish and bright, and I couldn’t seem to look into them for too long. Her skin was pale even by our standards. She smelled wrong, like liniment and camphor, the combination of which was almost overpowering when she approached the register carrying copies of Love Bites, How to Survive Sire Abandonment, 30 Days to a Healthier Undead You, I’m OK, You’re Undead, and, oddly enough, A Walk to Remember .
“You have a wonderful selection,” she said, her dark eyes boring through me.
“Thank you. Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Not quite. But this will do for now.” Her voice was flat as she handed me cash, which was quickly becoming my favorite medium of payment.
“Well, please come back. And let me know if I can help you find it.”
“I’m sure you can,” she said, smiling at me with an intensity that, frankly, was starting to weird me out a little.
She faded into the crowd (crowd!) of customers and out the door. An hour before closing, my feet were so sore I didn’t even think of asking Andrea whether she’d noticed Creepy Cameo Chick. Instead, we totaled out the drawer, rejoiced over every large bill, and promised each other that Cindy the Goth Good-Luck Charm would be welcome to free lattes whenever she wanted them.
Mr. Wainwright and Jettie reappeared and admitted to a tiny fib. Mr. Wainwright couldn’t stand the idea of missing my big night and had spent most of it watching the sales floor in invisible ghost mode. Mr. Wainwright waxed poetic over every sale and declared that the shop had probably made more in-store customers that night than in the previous year. He declared Andrea and me to be marketing geniuses. Aunt Jettie just smiled and claimed to have “known it all along.” Dick popped a bottle of champagne so expensive I dared not ask where he got it, and we sat at the coffee bar toasting a good night.
All in all, Gabriel certainly picked the right moment to walk back into my life.
“Jane?” he said, tentatively walking toward me, holding a bouquet of fat, vibrant yellow sunflowers tied with raffia and ribbon.
I was surprised at how much trouble I had looking him in the eye as he crossed the room, and at how gratifying it was that he looked like ten miles of bad back-country road. Gabriel was paper pale, the hollows of his cheeks dramatic and drawn. And if I wasn’t mistaken, there was a little nervous twitch to his upper lip. If he felt half as bad as he looked, well, the vindictive part of me thought that was a pretty good start. And I was touched that he knew I would know that sunflowers meant “adoration” and “warmth.” But even after weeks of missing his voice, his face, I found that more than anything, I just wanted him gone. I didn’t want to have this conversation now. I wanted to bask in my success for just a little while longer. I should have known better. If my history has taught me anything, it’s that once I start enjoying a little good fortune, the karmic balance shifts to kick me in the face and restore the status quo.
“Hi,” he breathed, as if he had spent an entire evening planning that single syllable.
“Hi,” I conceded after considerable thought.
>“We open in ten minutes, and nobody’s here yet,” I said, switching the fairies back to their original position. Andrea reached over and smacked my hand.
“Ow! No hitting!”
I shot a significant look at her boyfriend, who was conscientiously stacking midnight-blue shopping bags embossed with the new Specialty Books logo near the register. I considered it a supreme gesture of trust to allow Dick to stand that close to an unlocked cash drawer. At my indignant glare, he shrugged and slung an arm around his glaring girlfriend. “I’ve seen you fight. My money’s on her.”
“I’m not paying you, right?”
Dick shook his head.
I muttered, “Good.”
“Am I your first customer?” I looked up to see my father standing in the doorway.
“Daddy!” I cried, throwing my arms around him and nearly bowling him over. “Yes, you are.”
If there was anyone who could help with my “Improve relationships with family” goal, it was my father. I am an unabashed Daddy’s girl. Not like Carol Anne Mussler, whose home life took on a decidedly creepy aspect after she dedicated “Every Breath You Take” to her father at the high school’s annual talent show. But what more could I do than pledge my undying favoritism for the man who gave me my lifelong love of reading? The man who defended me from Mama and Grandma Ruthie’s repeated attempts to make me into a Jenny clone? The father who loved me unconditionally, despite my growing catalogue of flaws? If Daddy hadn’t decided to give me the unfortunate middle name of Enid, he would have been a parent without fault.
Daddy stroked my hair back from my eyes. “What’s the matter, Pumpkin, afraid no one will show up?”
