Casa Dracula 3 - The Bride Of Casa Dracula (13 page)

“O ye of belittling faith. You haven’t even asked if I’ve called your future mother-in-law. I have, and she adores me. She will come straight to me for anything and I will steer her in the direction of light, sense, and all that is fabulous.”

Nancy and I spent a few hours going over wedding details. She thought of things that would never occur to me and went through all my needs on an elaborate checklist. Then she said, “Don’t you have a swimming pool here?”

I took Nancy to the pool compound. She was very impressed by the retractable roof and I was happy to have company who could enjoy the sun with me. We stripped down and splashed in the nude, and by the time we returned to the house, we were drowsy with sun and warmth.

The worst-calling my mother Regina-was over and Nancy seemed to have everything in control. I was feeling hopeful about the wedding when Nancy kissed me good-bye and left.

don’t go staking my heart

I t took me four trips to carry my essentials from the master bedroom to the maid’s room. I settled my writing gear on the old wooden desk. I crawled underneath and found where I had scratched my initials. Using the end of a paper clip, I added Daisy RIP with the date. She used to sleep on the bed beside me, my first friend at Casa Dracula.

I made a cocktail (calf blood, mineral water, a dash of Tabasco, and a squish of lime) and sorted through my pile of mail. A white envelope held a terse rejection letter from an agent: “The material you submitted does not fit our needs at this time.”

I tossed it into the recycling bin and settled in a chair with the latest edition of the Weekly Exposition. One of my friends was a stringer for the tabloid, so I’d subscribed. His brilliant story about a senator’s love baby with a Venusian princess was very inspiring and made me eager to begin working on Don Pedro’s project.

Since I intended to fabricate most of the story, I’d begun to think of it not as a memoir, but as a fauxoir. I began plotting out the astonishing tale of a boy born in the jungle whose great spiritual gifts are immediately recognized. I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and grape juice while I worked.

When Oswald came home at about nine and found me in my new digs, he gave me a kiss and said, “What are you doing?”

“I’m working on my special project. Are you hungry? Do you want me to make you a sandwich?” This was how things had become when we didn’t have guests here-we were careless about our hours and meals, especially since Oswald worked longer and longer hours.

“Thanks, but I already ate.” His eyes looked worn out, with bluish shadows under them.

“You’re tired. Do you want to watch a movie tonight? Or I can give you a massage.”

“I’ve got some more work to take care of. How was your day?”

I wanted to tell him that he worked too hard, but that would only lead to an unsatisfying discussion. “Nancy is an event-planning genius. We went over all the wedding arrangements, and we already have a color scheme.”

He had an “I’m trying to be attentive” expression, but I could tell he was preoccupied. “That’s good.”

“Yes, cream, spring green, and shades of plum.”

“Sounds good, but don’t make it too dramatic.”

“Do you mean ‘Mexican’?”

“If I meant Mexican, I would say Mexican,” he said with a grin. “I mean that I prefer more subtle color schemes.”

“Subtlety is not style,” I said. “Nancy’s taste is impeccable. Also, she spent a crazy amount on letterpress invitations.” I got up from my desk and stretched.

“That’s okay, but I’d appreciate it if you and Nancy could spare me the gruesome details.”

“Are you giving us carte blanche?”

“I’m giving you credit card blanche. My mother’s going to start launching her assault soon enough, and I’ve got to rest up in case I need to throw myself on a grenade.”

“Ah, Nancy’s already spoken to her. Your mother loves her.” Oswald looked skeptical. “I even told my mother Regina today,” I added.

“Did you really? Good for you.”

“She thinks I’m making the whole thing up because I read too many books.”

He laughed and kissed the top of my head. “I’ll be in the study.”

I went to the family room, which felt too big and empty, and watched a show about celebrity weddings. The program divided the total wedding cost by the length of the marriage. Ordering a ten-foot-tall cake seemed to spell doom for any relationship.

I called Nancy and told her to turn on the show. “Are you watching? What do you think of that leather bustier?”

“She looks like a streetwalking ho! But check out her pretty tiara.”

“I love tiaras. Can I wear one?”

“Not unless you’re Hollywood trash or royalty. Otherwise it is Not Done. You might be able to wear one if you marry your lover. Doesn’t he have some title?”

“Yes, it’s ‘doctor.’”

“I mean Ian Ducharme. Gigi says he’s a lord.”

“He told me it was a prize-with-purchase. An ancestor bought a bog and got the title.” Bogs made me think of peat, and peat made me think of gardening. “Will you make sure the flowers on my cake are organically grown, but bugless?”

We dished until the show was over, then I ran out to the pond. I pulled out the weeds that had begun to sprout between the rocks around Daisy’s grave. I occasionally glanced around, hoping to see the new dog, but he didn’t show up. I hadn’t realized until she was gone how much I’d relied on Daisy’s companionship.

The next morning, I had a good block of time to work on Don Pedro’s memoir. Because he was a florid speaker, I wrote his story in extravagant purple prose. I began each chapter with a tidbit of mystical nonsense, such as, “The passageway to true transmutation can be achieved only by grasping the wings of the august condor and guiding it into the raging gorge of our fears.”

When I was writing like this, I forgot everything else. I could practically hear Don Pedro speaking as the words flowed from my mind to my fingers on the keyboard. When I’d asked Don Pedro where he was from, he hadn’t answered, and none of his documents had any early biographical information.

I thought he should have an exotic background. I wrote that he was born in Belize, because I knew they had jaguars and that pirates used to hide in the coves there. I wrote that Don Pedro was born at the same moment that the village shaman died and a magnificent jaguar appeared on the roof of his palm frond hut. There was a rumble of thunder, a flash of lightning, and the animal vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared.

The story raced along. I was just figuring out how to incorporate the discovery of cursed pirate booty when Oswald’s office manager called to tell me he wouldn’t be home for dinner again. “Complications with a patient who’d lied about her medical history. They never learn.”

“Do you know how long he’ll be?”

“You know how these things go, hon. Could be another two hours, could be six.”

I was alone again. I blasted some music and worked until the sky darkened. Then I changed into my warm-up pants and went outside. I ran on the path around the perimeter of the property. I was by the creek when I saw a dog coming toward me. It was my pal from yesterday.

He joined me and stayed at my side while we circled the fields. I could hear his gentle panting and the padding of his paws on the soft soil. I slowed to a walk at the pond. “The return of El Lobo,” I said aloud. “That would be a good title for a story.” The creature’s ears went back and his mouth opened in the way I always thought of as smiling.

I sat at Daisy’s rock and the dog lay down at my feet. It was funny how comforting a companion could be, even one that didn’t talk. A shooting star appeared in the sky, and I wished that the wedding would go wonderfully and that the groom would be ecstatic with his bride. In hindsight, I should have been more specific.

When I got back to the house, the dog looked at me. “Okay, come in,” I said, even though I knew Oswald wouldn’t be happy. The dog joined me on the sofa in the family room as I flipped through television stations. “I think I’ll call you Pal. Is that okay?” His tail thumped on the sofa.

The dog stayed with me as I watched an old spy thriller starring Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman, but then he heard something outside and went trotting off to the front door. I opened it and listened. There were only the usual sounds of the wind rustling the branches and a dog barking in the distance. Pal looked back at me and ran off into the night.

“Vaya con Dios, Pal.” I watched until I could no longer see him, and then I went to bed.

When Oswald came down to breakfast the next morning, I said, “The dog came back.”

Oswald kissed me and then poured a cup of coffee for himself. “That ‘dog’ looks exactly like an Eastern timber wolf. I don’t know if it’s even legal to keep them.” He sat beside me and said, “Can you call Animal Control today to see if someone has reported one missing?”

“What if I want to adopt him?”

He sighed. “The shelter is full of dogs that could use a good home. And you could pay attention to some of the dogs we already have.”

“Those dogs like you and Ernie better. But Pal has a connection with me.”

“How are you going to feel when that creature rips up one of the lambs or attacks the horses?”

“I took him to the barn and nothing like that happened.”

“Nothing yet.”

Our discussion degenerated into an argument that involved failed attempts to domesticate wolves (Oz); allusions to Romulus and Remus and the birth of Western civilization (me); saintly dogs awaiting adoption (Oz); kismet (me); claims that if I had a real job, I wouldn’t get preoccupied by wild beasts (Oz); snipes that even feral animals paid more attention to me than Oz (me).

The words “Type-A mama’s boy” and “immature, irresponsible dreamer” may have been uttered. Doors were slammed. It was a very exciting way to start the day. It had taken me a while to get used to the idea that an argument didn’t mean the end of the relationship. I was riding high on self-righteousness when I realized that we wouldn’t be able to have make-up sex that night.

The next few weeks assumed a pattern. Oswald left early and came back late. I wrote with such fervor that the hours flew by. In the evenings, Pal would show up for my run and to hang out. Nancy didn’t seem to be calling me very much about the wedding, but when she did, she operated with such efficiency that we were able to quickly finish business and move on to important gossip.

Neither Oswald nor Ernie was ecstatic about my dog. But they made inquiries and didn’t hear of anyone missing a wolf, or any new predatory attacks, so they relaxed a little.

We all relaxed a little. Which was why I didn’t run in circles screaming and rending my clothes when the Council’s Rules Committee mailed a note telling me that they were sending their new wedding coordinator to meet with me. She would arrive tomorrow and stay with us for a few days.

“I hope she doesn’t interfere with my writing,” I told Oswald. “I’ve got a deadline.”

Oswald commented that I hadn’t been back to the loft to see about renovations. He’d bought me books on real estate investing. I had looked at them-not read them exactly, but I’d opened the books and picked out individual words. I was disappointed to learn that amortization had nothing to do with amor, and equity wasn’t about social consciousness. I’d always heard that men in relationships eventually revealed horrible things about their perverse passions, but I’d assumed that meant suggesting bizarre sexual acts. This real estate issue could not be resolved with a slap of Oswald’s hand and an “Only in your dreams!”

“I’ll study those books later,” I told him. “Should we put this wedding person in your grandmother’s cottage?”

“You know how Grandmama is about her things.”

“I suppose we can put her in the room next to yours, Oz, if you don’t mind.”

He shrugged. “Whatever you think is best.”

I spent an hour preparing the guest room for the vamp wedding coordinator. I changed the linens, and put a vase of ‘Kathleen’ hybrid musk roses on the dressing table and several new magazines in a rack by the bed. The guest bath was clean, with a new bottle of shampoo and new bars of honeysuckle-scented soap. The stairs might be difficult if she was elderly or frail, but we would deal with that if the problem arose.

That night I felt antsy, not just because of our expected guest but also because Oswald and I were finding it increasingly difficult to live boink-free. We kept grappling deliciously with each other and then he’d break away guiltily as if he’d caught himself doing something awful.

“Oswald, no one would know…”

“I’m not taking that risk,” he said. “I’m not going to jeopardize your situation with the Council.”

“If I told you that you could cut me, would you change your mind?”

His pupils widened and he pressed his body against me. “We can do that without the sex,” he said. The excitement made his voice catch, and that made me recoil. It wasn’t Oswald’s fault that he wanted my blood. Of course he wanted my blood. He was a fricking vampire. “No, you were right, Oz. Let’s wait.”

The next day, Oswald wished me luck with the wedding coordinator and said he’d be home early and would pick up things for dinner.

Ernie brought a demibottle of rabbit blood from the barn. “Everyone seems to like rabbit,” he said. “I’ve got some nanny goat, too, if she wants that.”

I fussed around the house, getting more nervous by the minute. When the buzzer sounded, I pressed the button that automatically opened the front gate, and then took a last look in the hallway mirror. My hair was pulled back and I wore a blue pique cotton shirt and black slacks. I was too tan, but still presentable as a vampire bride.

I walked outside as a pearly white luxury sedan came down the drive, sun reflecting on the windshield. The car stopped and the driver’s door opened. A woman dressed in a white linen shell, topped with a sheer jacket, and white cigarette slacks got out. Her dyed ebony hair was cut in a severely chic bob, and her sunglasses were huge. A beaten gold collar was displayed on her long, bony neck.

She was striking and beautiful, if you thought beautiful meant skeletal, overly made-up, and well-dressed.