Definitely Dead

stuff to do?”
    “Somehow I’ll manage.”
    I wondered what the rush was. Why weren’t the happy couples waiting until summer, when Halleigh wouldn’t be working? Why not wait, so Portia could free her calendar for a proper wedding and honeymoon? And wasn’t the man she’d been dating an accountant? Surely a wedding during tax season was the worst possible scheduling.
    Oooo . . . maybe Portia was pregnant. But if she was in the family way, she wasn’t thinking about it, and I hardly thought she would be doing otherwise. Gosh, if I ever found out I was pregnant, I’d be so happy! If the guy loved me and would marry me, that is—because I wasn’t tough enough to raise a kid by myself, and my grandmother would roll over in her grave if I was an unmarried mother. Modern thinking on that subject had completely passed my grandmother by, without even ruffling her hair with its passage.
    While all these thoughts were buzzing around in my head, it took me a minute to process Portia’s words. “So try to keep the second Saturday in April free,” she said with as close to a charming smile as Portia Bellefleur could manage.
    I promised I would, trying not to trip over my own tongue with astonishment. She must be high on wedding fever. Why would my presence be desired at the wedding? I was no big buddy of any of the Bellefleurs.
    “We’re asking Sam to bartend at the reception,” she continued, and my world realigned into a more familiar pattern. She wanted me there to assist Sam.
    “An afternoon wedding?” I asked. Sam sometimes took outside bartending jobs, but Saturday was usually our heavy day at Merlotte’s.
    “No, night,” she said, “but I already talked to Sam this morning, and he’s agreed.”
    “Okay,” I said.
    She read more into my tone than I’d put there, and she flushed. “Glen has some clients that he wants to invite,” she said, though I’d asked for no explanation. “They can only come after dark.” Glen Vicks was the accountant. I was glad I’d retrieved his last name from my memory. Then everything clicked into place, and I understood Portia’s embarrassment. Portia meant that Glen’s clients were vampires. Well, well, well. I smiled at her.
    “I’m sure it’ll be a lovely wedding, and I look forward to being there,” I said, “since you were kind enough to invite me.” I’d deliberately misunderstood her, and as I’d foreseen, she flushed even redder. Then a related idea occurred to me, one so important I bent one of my personal rules.
    “Portia,” I said slowly, wanting to be sure she got my meaning, “you should invite Bill Compton.”
    Now Portia loathed Bill—disliked all vampires—but when she’d been forwarding one of her own plots, she’d dated Bill briefly. Which had been odd, because afterward Bill had discovered Portia was actually his great-great-great-great-great-granddaughter, or something like that.
    Bill had gone along with her pretense of interest in him. At the time, he’d just wanted to find out what her goal was. He’d realized that it made Portia’s skin crawl to be around him. But when he’d discovered the Bellefleurs were his only surviving kin, he’d anonymously given them a whacking great bunch of money.
    I could “hear” that Portia thought I was purposely reminding her of the few times she’d dated Bill. She didn’t want to be reminded of it, and it angered her that I’d done so.
    “Why do you suggest that?” she asked coldly, and I gave her high points for not just stalking out of the shop. Tara was being studiously busy over by the Isabelle table, but I knew she could hear our conversation. Nothing wrong with Tara’s hearing.
    I had a ferocious internal debate. Finally, what Bill wanted prevailed over what I wanted for him. “Never mind,” I said reluctantly. “Your wedding, your list.”
    Portia was looking at me as if she really saw me for the first time. “Are you still dating him?” she asked.
    “No, he’s dating Selah Pumphrey,” I said, keeping my voice even and empty.
    Portia gave me an unreadable look. Without another word, she went out to her car.
    “What was all that about?” Tara asked.
    I couldn’t explain, so I changed the subject to one closer to Tara’s retailing heart. “I’m delighted you’re getting the business,” I said.
    “You and me both. If she didn’t have to pull it together in such a short time, you can bet Portia Bellefleur wouldn’t ever go Isabelle,” Tara said frankly.