Those who move more than a five-minute run from pack headquarters are either disowned or hosts to frequent weekend guests.
—Mating Rituals and Love Customs of the Were
From the dawn of time, women have formed friendships for one purpose only: to make sure they’ll have someone to provide unpaid serf labor for their weddings. And we all just go along with it, spurred by fear that if we don’t submit to the bridal demands, there will be no one to slave over our own weddings.
That’s why, six months before the actual wedding, I was spending an evening measuring and cutting exactly fourteen inches of cornflower-blue ribbon over and over and over and … over. These ribbons would be sent to a printing company to be stamped with “HMS Titanic” on one side and “Zeb and Jolene—Struck by Love” on the other. They would then be tied around old-fashioned hurricane lamps as part of Jolene’s carefully planned tablescape. Each table was going to be named for famous (read: deceased) Titanic passengers, such as John Jacob Astor and Molly Brown, then decorated with hurricane lamps and fake ice. Of course, no one would pay attention to a seating plan, which is another Southern wedding tradition.
Jolene had the gall to call this gathering a “work party,” in the style of Amish people who get together to make a quilt or build a barn. I didn’t think Amish women typically had a Camel hanging from the corner of their lips while they worked, like Jolene’s aunt Lulu.
Also, the Amish employed more lenient leaders than Jolene, who had the tendency to become a little bossy when it came to her nuptials.
“It has to be at least fourteen inches to make sure each bow has about three inches of hanging ribbon on each side,” Jolene told us. I would have questioned whether Jolene was serious, but she didn’t respond well when I laughed at her “All bridesmaids must cut their hair to exactly three inches below the shoulder by March” edict.
Pointing out that the printing company would have cut these ribbons for an additional $250 would have resulted in huffy eye rolls from Jolene’s battalion of cranky cousins.
Besides, Aunt Vonnie, who had somehow heard my full opinion of the bridesmaids’ dresses, was already giving me the dagger eyes.
The McClaine clan alpha couple—known to Jolene as Mom and Dad—lived in the main house on the compound, a quaint little yellow farmhouse, with white shutters and a porch swing, surrounded by a series of increasingly dilapidated trailers. Inside, the walls were decorated with Thomas Kinkade prints and silk floral arrangements saved from funeral services. Everything was neat and clean and protected by doilies. And everybody was naked. Which explained the doilies.
Jolene and her cousins whipped their clothes off the moment they got in the door, the way most people kick off their shoes.
“Does this bother you?” she’d asked the first time I stumbled into her mother’s house.
“I just don’t know where to look,” I said, settling for a strange orange silk-flower arrangement mounted on the wall. The truth was, as the only clothed person there, I felt weird. I felt more naked than Jolene.
The only cousin who was remotely friendly was Charlene, who had asked for my home and e-mail addresses twice in the four hours since meeting me. She wanted to be my best friend. Seriously. My best friend. You cannot be nice to people like Charlene. It’s like feeding a stray cat. The cat just keeps coming back until you have to move. So I was being overtly rude to her, which wasn’t really helping my standing with the rest of the family.
Fortunately, among werewolf women, the word “bitch” is not offensive. I was having a lot of fun with that.
“Hey there, bitches!” I called as I came through the door. “What are my favorite bitches up to today?”
The only response was a chorus of unenthusiastic, drawled “Hi’s” and “Heys.”
“I know what you’re doin’,” Jolene muttered as she hugged me. “And it’s not funny.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong,” I said, tucking wavy crimson hair behind her ears. She scowled at me. “I’ll try to keep it to a minimum.”
Jolene was clearly the Golden Child in her clan. Her mother, Mimi, and all of the aunts fawned over her, telling and retelling cute stories from when she was a cub. Any accomplishment or news from the other cousins was matched with something about Jolene. Jolene was the only one of her cousins to attend community college. Jolene could skin a rabbit in two bites. Jolene was Miss Half-Moon Hollow 1998. Jolene and Zeb would be the first couple in her family to plan an actual honeymoon—to Gatlinburg, Tennessee, which was where you went when you couldn’t afford to go to Florida but wanted to be far enough away that your parents couldn’t “drop in” on the wedding night.
“Jolene works at Uncle Clay’s sandwich shop,” Aunt Lola said, beaming beatifically atJolene. “He says all the customers just love her. She’s so helpful, so sweet. She just makes everybody she meets so happy.”
Raylene, Angelene, Lurlene, and Company let loose a collective sigh and synchronized eye roll. Sensing that the mob might be turning ugly, Jolene asked, “How’s the new job, Raylene?”
“Fine,” Raylene said, her voice flat as she concentrated on cutting the ribbon without fraying it.
“Just fine?” Jolene asked. “I mean, it’s got to be fun, right?”
Raylene shrugged. “Sure.”
“Well, you seen one, you seen ‘em all, right, Raylene?” Angelene asked slyly.
“Angelene,” Mimi growled. (Yes, literally.)
“I just started as a cake decorator at the Sweet Tooth,” Raylene explained. “I specialize in adult cakes.”
“Like Black Forest?” I asked. “That always seemed pretty grown-up to me.”
I really missed Black Forest cake, or any kind of cake. I missed chocolate. Bah! I still can’t believe the last food I ate was potato skins.
“No, Raylene makes cakes that look like”—Aunt Tammy looked around as if there were spies lurking behind the lace curtains—”sex parts.”
Raylene sighed. “I make penis cakes.”
Well, at least I knew what we were serving at the bachelorette party.
“How does one get into the penis-cake field?” I asked. “Where do you buy the cake pans for that?”
Raylene stared at me, unsure whether I was teasing her or honestly interested. Sensing a lull in the conversation, Aunt Lola—Raylene’s own mother—changed the subject back to Jolene.
“We’re all just so excited about Jolene’s wedding.” Lola sighed. “We’ve all waited for this, for just years now. And Zeb’s such an … he’s a sweet boy. Tell us again how he popped the question?”
Arlene muttered, “‘Cause we haven’t heard this story in almost an hour now.”
Jolene obviously heard her cousin but ignored her. To be fair, I had heard the story a few times myself.
“Zeb had this big plan with a restaurant and hidin’ the ring in a soufflé,” Jolene said, smiling dreamily. “And then I stepped out my front door, he saw me all dressed up, and he blurted out ‘Willyoumarryme?’ and shoved the ring at me. It was so cute!” Jolene cooed, looking down at the little diamond ring for which Zeb had plunked down two months of his teaching salary. “He almost shouted at me when he proposed. He was supposed to have the waiters at Julian’s sing this cute little ‘Will You Marry Me?’ song. Most of them are in the high-school swing chorus, and when we got to the restaurant and they found out we were already engaged, they were so mad they had missed their chance to perform!
After that, Zeb was afraid to order the soufflé. Who knows what they might have done to it?”
“Did he cry?” Lurlene asked. “I heard that human males cry at the drop of a hat.”
The amazing thing about werewolves, who spend half their lives behind a human mask, is that they have terrible poker faces. It’s part of that canine earnestness thing. For a brief second, a look of pure annoyance flashed over Jolene’s perfect features. Lurlene smirked.
“How’s it goin’ with Roy?” Jolene asked. “Isn’t he the one who drives the ice cream truck?”
There was that annoyed flash again, only on Lurlene’s face.
“That was Ray,” Lurlene said, glaring. “Roy and I aren’t dating anymore.”
“Wait, didn’t I see his name in the paper for somethin’?” Jolene said.
“Oh, he got busted for trying to sneak a brisket out of the Super Saver in his jacket,” Tammy said in the most helpful tone I’d heard in a while. “He would have gotten away with it if he hadn’t dropped the brisket.”
“Oh! Is he the one who yelled, ‘Who threw this meat at me?’ and then tried to run out of the store?” I giggled. “Didn’t it take three Taser shots to get him down? Knowing that he’s a werewolf now, well, that makes a lot more sense … I’m not helping, am I?”
I ducked my head and pretended that measuring ribbons exactly was the most important thing in the world.