Death Takes a Holiday (8 page)

Darned if my smile isn’t from cheek to cheek.

“Hey,
” April says. “
Where are you? Call me
.”

Must have been at the airport.

Last one.
“So, Trixie dear
,” Oliver begins, “
I arose this evening ready to eat an entire murder of crows to regain your good graces, only to find you have fled the state. I do hope it had nothing to do with me
.” He pauses. “
Please call me
,” he says seriously.

Great. A vampire with bruised feelings is a disaster waiting to happen. He’s either terrorizing Will or moping around like Hamlet. I do have terrible taste in men, even when it comes to office husbands. I should divorce him and take up with Andrew. Less blood, more laughing at Carole Lombard movies.

I settle into bed before calling. If I’m lucky he’ll be out and I can just leave a message. But alas, he answers at the third ring. “Hello, Trixie,” he says so I can practically hear the grin on his face. “How was your flight?”

“Uneventful. How are you?”

“Perplexed. Concerned. Despondent.”

“And why is that?”

“You departed without saying goodbye.”

“You were asleep.”

“You could have left a note.”

“You are not my keeper, Oliver. I don’t have to get your permission to fly home for Christmas.”

“This
is your home.”

Neither of us utters a sound for a few seconds. He always does this. He always says things that I have no response to. So I do what I always do: humorous deflection. “What? Are the others there picking on you now that I’m not there to defend you?”

“I am being avoided, per usual.”

“Then go hunting. I’m sure the bar girls are waiting with bated breath to succumb to your charms.”

He doesn’t answer right away. “So I take it you have no desire to discuss what transpired last night? Because the last time I saw you, you were screaming as if under attack and now are fifteen hundred miles away without warning.”

“You were worried?”

“Of course. So tell me, Trixie darling, should I serve up William’s head on a platter or would you prefer it in a hat box?”

“Neither,” I warn.

“You were in his arms bellowing last night,” he says harshly. “He is lucky I did not rip his throat out there and then. I—”

“Stop it,” I say. “
This!
This is why I came home, okay? I’m sick of you two threatening each other. Did you not listen to a word I said last night?”

“I did.”

“Well, apparently not because we’re right back where we started. Have you apologized to Will yet?”

He’s silent.

“Then I have nothing to say to you until you two sit down and settle things.”

“And if we do not?”

“Then … maybe I’m not coming back in two weeks,” I find myself saying. “Goodbye, Oliver. Call me when you’ve grown up.” I shut the phone off.

And now I have a headache. I hate tough love. I’m so not good at it, but it’s all he responds to.

That man! Ugh! He drives me up a wall. He knows all my buttons and can’t help himself, not a good combination. No wonder I’m his only friend. Enemies he’s got in spades but friends … Heck, I think I’m the first in decades. One would think he’d treat me better. Okay, most of the times he does. Anyplace I want to go, he’ll accompany me without complaint. Movies, book readings, even shopping. Metrosexuals take their cues from him. Half the new stuff I’ve bought he picked out, and boy do I look good. Clothes aren’t his only forte. The man’s a millionaire, as are most vamps. Something about being alive for so long the trends become predictable. I’ve almost doubled my investments.

There are some obvious perks to being buddies, but the drawbacks are wearing me down. Besides the ostracization by my fellow agents, there’s also the constant flirting, jealousy, conceitedness, and the fact that at least once a day I have the strongest desire to jump his bones. The guy is sex on a stick and
boy
do I want a lick. But he’s a walking dead man with serious commitment issues and the relationship would have the longevity of a ruler. No, friends is good. Friends I can handle.
If
he takes what I’ve said to his barely beating heart. Because as much as I value him, I value my sanity more. But honestly … I can’t imagine my life without him.

And that scares the hell out of me.

FOUR

THE BELLE OF THE BARBECUE

“
N
ANA,
I
’M HOME!”

I haven’t said that in awhile. She and Mrs. Ramirez stand in the kitchen talking and mixing something in a big bowl as “All Alone on Christmas” by Darlene Love plays on the radio. Both women grin as I walk in with my shopping bags. God, I love vacation. I slept until one, had Nana take me to get a rental car, then spent most of the day shopping before visiting April at the salon, gossiping with everyone while being pampered. I feel like a new woman.

“We’re making potato salad for the party,” Nana says, adding the mayo.

“Your hair looks nice,” Mrs. Ramirez says.

“I just got a trim and blow-out for the party,” I say, running my hair through it. “Are you coming with us, Mrs. R?”

“Of course she is,” Nana says. “She even made guacamole.”

“I do love a good party.”

“I thought about making gingerbread men, but I didn’t know if there was a Christmas theme or not,” Nana says.

“I have no idea,” I answer, kicking off my espadrilles.

“I love Christmas,” Mrs. R says. “What do you want,
bonita
?”

“Peace on earth and goodwill toward men. That or a pony.” I smile at them, then start toward my room.

“We’ll leave in half an hour!” Nana calls.

I shut my bedroom door. With the ex-boyfriend factor thrown in, a quick costume change is required. Yes,
I
dumped
him,
but it would be against the girl code if, given the chance, I didn’t make him rue the day he ever lost me. The five-hundred-dollar Carolina Herrera sleeveless blue and white polka dot halter dress with V back and matching patent leather heels should do it. Still. I am a tad nervous about seeing Steven again.

Officer Steven Weir of the Chula Vista Police Department, my only true-blue boyfriend. (The man I lost my virginity to doesn’t count unless therapy sessions constitute dates.) Steven and I met on a double blind date with Javi and April. Steven and Javi met at their gun club and became friends over their mutual love of killing paper men. He’d go over to April’s house, drink beer, and hang out. Why she thought these would be selling points when pitching the date is beyond me. But it was Friday night, and as usual, I had nothing better to do. There might also have been the promise of free French fries. I am a weak woman.

My first thought when I saw him was,
Hawaiian shirts are so two decades ago
. It was bright red with tiny martini glasses on it. Besides that he was pretty cute. Short sandy brown hair spiked up, medium height and build, small brown eyes, and rounded baby cheeks he never grew out of. His smile was his best feature. Mischievous. That elevated him a tad in my book. Dinner was pleasant enough. We talked about work, politics, the usual first date stuff. He called the requisite three days later and asked me out again. Couldn’t think of a reason to decline, so I went.

For two years we got together three times a week just like clockwork. We’d go to a sporting event, barbecues, or occasionally a movie. And once a week, usually Friday night, we’d have bland sex. It was okay. If we had fun beforehand, it could be a good night, but nothing to write home about. Twenty minutes from start to finish. My fault though. If I felt even the slightest hint of an orgasm, I’d fake one and end it, though this only happened once or twice.

All in all we had a decent relationship. He told cool cop stories, gave good foot massages, and unless he was working, I always had something to do Friday night besides laundry. Then the idiot went and spoiled it all by asking me to move in with him. I said no. He said say yes or we’re over. I said goodbye. Thus ended Steven and Beatrice.

April tried to talk me out of it, but I wouldn’t relent. No one knew why I had done it. On paper we were a great couple: mature, responsible, friendly. We didn’t get on each other’s nerves. He’d make a good husband and father. But every time I imagined our lives together, I’d never get past the wedding. We had little chemistry. We had nothing in common. He was … boring. I knew we weren’t right together early on but kept going because, heck, no one else was lining up to ask me out. Normal women had boyfriends, and I’d be darned if I wasn’t one of them.

He handled the split well, rebounding with another officer on the force within weeks. We were cordial if we ran into each other. He even sent flowers when I was in the hospital. Like I said, nice guy, just not for me.

As I spray my now gorgeous hair with gloss, my cell phone buzzes. It’s the mansion. Ugh.

“Beatrice Alexander,” I say in my professional voice.

“It is I,” Oliver says.

“Have you apologized to Will?” I ask without missing a beat.

“No, but—”

“Then bye.” I snap the phone shut and start on my mascara.

“Beatrice!” Nana calls. “We’re already late for your party!”

The phone buzzes again, but I ignore it. I could simply turn it off, but this will torture him more. He’ll keep calling and calling all night this way. One thing about vamps, they have eternity, so patience and tenacity come naturally.

I fluff my hair again and walk out feeling pretty darn good. I look spectacular and there’s a gorgeous man going nuts because I won’t pay attention to him. I couldn’t ask for more when going to meet my ex. Except if I arrived with Oliver on my arm.

Well, there’s always my next high school reunion.

When I first met April, a week after I moved to San Diego, she lived two streets over until she was kicked out the day her parents discovered she was pregnant. She lived with us for a month until Javi rented a house five minutes away, where they still live today.

The cramped street is bumper to bumper with cars, as usual. I recognize Steven’s red Jeep with the NRA bumper sticker on it right in front of the house. We park two blocks away, and I instantly regret the heels.
Price of beauty, Bea
.

April’s house is a lot like ours: a one-story ranch with an attached garage, though toys and bikes litter her lawn. All the lights shine inside and music booms in the back yard. Christmas lights hang from the roof with a huge wreath right above the garage. We walk in without knocking, the privilege of a best friend. Various stains from juice, blood, and food are visible on the beige carpet. There are
people around, about a dozen in the living room, some I know. Yolanda from the salon smiles at me. April’s cousin Luis and a woman sit on the red and black plaid couch with a quilt on the back. He holds up his beer and nods as we come in. Action figures, Matchbox cars, and the odd Barbie doll lie in piles around the room. Just as I remember it. April’s never had much patience for cleaning or decorating.

I say hello to those I know before making my way to the kitchen, April’s domain. Instead I find April’s husband, Javi, with their son Carlos sitting on the counter as his father rolls a Band-Aid on his knee. Javi looks descended from Mayan gods with square jaw, broad nose and forehead, and straight black hair pulled into a ponytail. Carlos is a tiny version of his father, though the boy was lucky to inherit April’s lips.

“Aunt Bea!” the boy cries. He leaps off the counter and scurries over to me, squeezing me tight with his tiny arms.

“Hi, big guy,” I say hugging him back.

“We made you a poster for you coming home!” he says, releasing me.

“Did you? I can’t wait to see it.”

Javi hugs me too. “April was right. You do look damn good,
chica
.”

“
Gracias. Y tu
. And look at this guy! He’s grown so big!”

“Did you miss me?” Carlos asks.

“So much.”

“Mommy says I’m a’posed to make you feel bad for going away so you’ll move back.”

Javi pulls the boy closer by the shoulders. “
Mijo,
you weren’t supposed to tell her that.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“And where is Her Royal Sneakiness?” I ask Javi.

“In the back yard. She did tell you Steven’s here, right?”

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll be on my best behavior.” I look down at Carlos. “Can you take me to your mom, please?”

I extend my hand, and Carlos takes it. He all but drags me through the sliding glass doors. About a dozen more people mill around in the back yard, talking and eating as “Make Me Lose Control” by Eric Carmen plays on the stereo. They went all out for my homecoming. White Christmas lights dangle from the awning with Tiki torches flaming every few feet. The picnic table is covered with food, everything from salad to flan. Javi’s brother, Edgar, stands behind the grill flipping burgers and chatting with Steven. Both men, along with every single person but Nana, has a Corona in their hands. A huge white banner about eight feet across hangs on the fence with “WE MISS YOU AUNT BEA!” written in multi-colored letters. Mrs. Ramirez stands at it with a marker in her hand, writing on it. There are a lot of scribbles on it and even a few hand prints from the kids. That is so thoughtful I could cry.