Definitely Dead

Hawaii” as a golden oldie, and I wondered where Bubba was—not my own brother, but the vampire now known only as Bubba. I hadn’t seen him in three or four weeks. Maybe the vamps of Louisiana had moved him to another hiding place, or maybe he’d wandered off, as he does from time to time. That’s when you get your long articles in the papers they keep by the grocery check-out stand.
    Though I was having a blissful moment of being happy and content, I had one of those stray ideas you get at odd moments. I thought, How nice it would be if Eric were here with me in the car. He’d look so good with the wind blowing his hair, and he’d enjoy the moment. Well, yeah, before he burned to a crisp.
    But I realized I’d thought of Eric because it was the kind of day you wanted to share with the person you cared about, the person whose company you enjoyed the most. And that would be Eric as he’d been while he was cursed by a witch: the Eric who hadn’t been hardened by centuries of vampire politics, the Eric who had no contempt for humans and their affairs, the Eric who was not in charge of many financial enterprises and responsible for the lives and incomes of quite a few humans and vampires. In other words, Eric as he would never be again.
    Ding-dong, the witch was dead, and Eric was restored to his character as it was now. The restored Eric was wary of me, was fond of me, and didn’t trust me (or his feelings) an inch.
    I sighed heavily, and the song vanished from my lips. It was nearly quenched in my heart until I told myself to stop being a melancholy idiot. I was young, I was healthy. The day was beautiful. And I had an actual date for Friday night. I promised myself a big treat. Instead of going directly to the grocery store, I went by Tara’s Togs, owned and operated by my friend Tara Thornton.
    I hadn’t seen Tara in a while. She’d gone on a vacation to visit an aunt in south Texas, and since she’d returned she’d been working long hours at the store. At least, that’s what she’d said when I’d called her to thank her for the car. When my kitchen had burned, my car had burned with it, and Tara had loaned me her old car, a two-year-old Malibu. She’d acquired a brand-new car (never mind how) and hadn’t gotten around to selling the Malibu.
    To my astonishment, about a month ago, Tara had mailed me the title and the bill of sale, with a letter telling me the car was now mine. I’d called to protest, but she had stonewalled me, and in the end, there didn’t seem to be anything to do but accept the gift graciously.
    She intended it as payment, since I’d extricated her from a terrible situation. But to help her, I’d had to indebt myself to Eric. I hadn’t minded. Tara had been my friend all my life. Now she was safe, if she was smart enough to stay away from the supernatural world.
    Though I was grateful and relieved to have the newest vehicle I’d ever owned, I would have been happier to have her uninterrupted friendship. I’d stayed away, since I assumed that I reminded her of too many bad things. But I was in the mood to try to rip down that veil. Maybe Tara had had enough time.
    Tara’s Togs was in a strip mall on the south side of Bon Temps. There was one other car parked in front of the store. I decided it might be good that a third party would be there; it would depersonalize the meeting.
    Tara was serving Andy Bellefleur’s sister Portia when I went in, so I began flicking through the size tens, and then the eights. Portia was sitting at the Isabelle table, which was extremely interesting. Tara is the local representative for Isabelle’s Bridal, a national company that produces a catalog that’s become the bible of all things wedding-related. You can try on samples of the bridesmaid dresses at the local outlet, so you can order the right size, and each dress comes in about twenty colors. The wedding dresses are just as popular. Isabelle’s has twenty-five models. The Company also offers wedding shower invitations, decorations, garters, bridesmaids’ gifts, and any bit of wedding paraphernalia you can imagine. However, Isabelle’s was pretty much a middle-class phenomenon, and Portia was definitely an upper-class woman.
    Since she lived with her grandmother and her brother in the Bellefleur mansion on Magnolia Street, Portia had grown up in a sort of decayed gothic splendor. Now that the mansion was repaired and her grandmother entertained more, Portia had looked noticeably