Andrea rolled her eyes. “Well, I figured if I’m going to survive working at the shop, I would have to. And you only hinted that a person of any intelligence was required to read at least one Jane Austen book, like a thousand times.”
I tapped a finger to my chin. “That doesn’t sound anything like me …”
It was two days from the reopening. The cash-register drawer was stuck. We were missing a rather large shipment of what I considered our cornerstone product, The Guide for the Newly Undead. And I was beginning to suspect that Andrea was slipping extra espresso into her magical mystery coffee potions because “caffeinated Jane” amused her.
The only thing we had going for us was a local dairy that was willing to deliver to an account as small as ours and to a location as bad as ours at night. In fact, it was a delight to come downstairs from Mr. Wainwright’s old apartment to find a tall man in an indecently tight blue Half-Moon Dairy uniform stocking our little coffee-bar fridge with half-and-half and heavy cream.
“Wow, is that our dairy guy?” I whispered. Andrea didn’t bother removing her eyes from the sight of Dairy Guy’s delicious blue-clad bottom swaying as he loaded the fridge.
“Yep,” Andrea answered absently.
“He’s going to be coming here regularly, right?”
We simultaneously tilted our heads as Dairy Guy’s hips changed angles. Andrea sighed, “Yep.”
“Maybe we should arrange for Dick to be elsewhere on delivery nights,” I whispered. “Because you’re drooling. And I don’t blame you because milk does a body goooo— Oh, my God.” My jaw dropped as Dairy Guy turned, and I recognized him as little Jamie Lanier, whom I used to babysit every summer.
Jamie loomed four inches over my tall frame. His warm green eyes twinkled at me from under a faded blue ball cap he’d slapped over his wavy dark blond hair. (Curse my weakness for all-American boys!) Every inch of him was toned and tan, and he smelled like Irish Spring soap. I bit back a sigh.
This was the danger of living in the small town where you grew up. Local hotties have to start off somewhere, and generally, it’s as the annoying towheaded Little Leaguer who would only eat smiley-face pancakes from ages five to seven.
“Miss Jane! Hi!” He flashed those devastating dimples. “It’s great to see you!”
“Jamie. How’s your mom?” I asked, flinching at his use of “Miss,” a sure sign that he thought of me as a senior citizen. “Still teaching?”
“Yep. But she says she’s going to retire now that I’m graduating and she and dad are going to have the house to themselves.”
“You’re graduating from college?” I said, an insane note of desperation in my voice as I tried to do the age math in my head.>“Hey, hey! If you can’t respect the daiquiri, at least respect the shirt,” she griped, swiping at the liquor I’d made her spill on her celery-colored blouse. “I know better than to ask you to respect me.”
I blew her a kiss and poured more daiquiri as Andrea began her tale in an ominous tone. “Margie said it happened slowly. One cold October night, a Courtney attended her first meeting, then another and another. It was as if the chamber was a hive being invaded by really perky Africanized bees. And pretty soon, they were proposing extra events and creating committees to run those events, and they built a power base. They elected themselves as officers, moved the headquarters, rewrote the bylaws, and made life miserable for the old-school members. One by one, the charter members all left. Margie quit after they gave her a demerit for wearing brown shoes with a black suit. To Margie, that translated to: You’re over forty, get out.”
“What happened to all the men?”
Andrea shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess they just quit, or they got too many demerits …”
“I think the Courtneys ate them,” I countered.
“Your guess is there’s some supernatural reason for the pink chamber seal?”
I nodded. “My guess: coven of succubi.”
“Well, you should fit in well, being a vampire and all.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “You did tell them that you’re a vampire, right?”
I sipped my drink to avoid answering.
“I thought you said you weren’t going to live in the coffin anymore!” Andrea cried.
“I’m not living in the coffin. I’m just not volunteering any information that wouldn’t come up in an introductory conversation. Do you walk up to people and say, ‘Hi, I’m Andrea. I’m a natural redhead.”
“I’m not a natural redhead.”
“I knew it!”
“Don’t deflect the question. So, I guess you’re not going back, huh?”
“I have to,” I mumbled. “I’m in charge of the prizes for the charity carnival.”
Andrea hooted. “They’ve pulled you in!”