Chapter Seventeen

That shut him up. We started racing to my parents’—well, I raced and Julian sort of flowed—in silence. I have to hand it to him, though. He stayed with me like a second skin, despite the warning. Although, as fast as Julian moved, I guessed he was going to dip out as soon as I was safely inside Mom and Dad’s house.

But once underway he started the old familiar refrain. “Nixie. About Nosferatu—”

The last thing I wanted was another earworm, especially not one tinged with guilt. Time for major distraction. “Dru told me you and she are just friends.”

“We are. But Nosfer—”

“Yeah, Nosy’s angry, stay in at night, lock all the doors and use garlic deodorant. I get that. I’m more interested in what made you the Betamax Stuffy-lupagus you are today. Since it wasn’t a woman?”

Julian blinked. “You’re asking what made me decide to eschew puerile behavior?”

“Uh…yeah. I guess.” Sometimes I got the feeling we both needed a permanent link to Babel Fish. “What happened?”

He was silent for several seconds. Finally he said, “I’m not proud of it.”

“Tell me more,” I said in my best Suitglish.

His jaw worked, like he was chewing something rancid. “Fine. I’ll tell you. Since you’ll just torment me until I do.”

“Torment? No way. Coax, maybe, or urge—”

“Do you want to hear this or not?”

“Um…yes.” And because his eyes were shading violet, I added, “Please?”

Julian took a deep breath. “In the early eighteen hundreds I got caught up in the Romantic movement. I fancied myself a poet.”

“Byron and those guys?”

“At first. At first all I did was hang around coffee shops wearing a big shirt, trying to get laid.”

I snorted. “Sounds like the beatnik era, minus the goatees.”

“There are cycles. Anyway, I got restless. I don’t know, maybe it was some sort of middle-age crisis. A poet acquaintance had made the transition to vampire. He said my poetry was garbage. That I was not a ‘real’ artist. William said ‘real’ art was in throwing away boundaries.”

“Who?”

“William the Bloody. You wouldn’t know him. I can’t believe I let him get under my skin. Well, one night I got drunk with him and his cronies. Turned out his brand of artistic freedom and ‘real’ art translated into slash and burn. Later I found out one of the buildings I burned had occupants.”

“Oh, Julian.” What began as an exercise in distraction now sent an arrow of sympathy straight through my heart.

Julian gave a laugh colored with self-disgust. “Fortunately for me, they were dead before I set the fire. Unfortunately for them, William and company also practiced the artistic ‘freedom’ of torture.”

I could see why Julian hated the non-conventional. I would have to rethink my view of him.

“I haven’t thought of that incident in years.” He shook his head, as if shaking the memory away. “Is that your parents’ home?”

I looked up. Sure enough, I saw the familiar bungalow. We’d have to talk more later.

Mounting my parents’ stoop, I turned to face Julian. “Well. Thanks for the ride.”

A slight smile broke through Julian’s grim expression. “It was the least I could do.” I thought he’d missed the sarcasm, but he bumped his hips and flashed me a hint of fang. Oh, man. I’d forgotten about the limo ride. Sobering, he said, “You’ll stay inside the rest of the night?”

“Do I have to?” I thought we’d passed the stage where Daddy had to lay down the law for the little girly-girl.

“I worry,” Julian said, and I felt my mad drain away.

“Yeah, okay.” I shuffled awkwardly, wondering if I should give him a kiss or not. Wondering if I could give him a kiss without having a whole fap-fest on my parents’ stoop. “Well. Uh, bye.”

“Sweet dreams, Nixie.” Julian bent to give me a gentle brush on the lips.

That was when the door banged open.

“Helmut! Dietlinde’s home!” My mother reached through the door and yanked me inside. “And she has brought home a friend.” The word had as much warmth as if she’d said “worm”. She inspected Julian as closely as a drill sergeant. “Who are you?”

Ever-suave, Julian straightened and held out his hand. “My name is Julian Emerson, Mrs. Schmeling.”

My mother eyed him with mistrust. “You’re not one of those punky rock groupers, are you?”

“No, Mrs. Schmeling. I am an attorney at law.”

My mother’s whole demeanor changed. She grabbed Julian’s outstretched hand and tried to tug him in, too. “Oh, well, that’s different, now, isn’t it? Come in Mr. Emerson. Come right in.”

To his everlasting credit, Julian looked to me for permission. Not the vampire-over-the-threshold permission. But my actual approval for him to meet the folks. Struck speechless, I could only nod.

My mother’s pretty strong but Julian entered under his own steam. He gave the place a cursory glance. I pictured my childhood home from his perspective. Nubbly, fifties-style beige couch. Cheap nylon carpet. Doilies straight out of the nineteenth century. No upscale seaboard manor this. He would be superior, maybe even disdainful.

As if he could hear my thoughts, Julian slewed me a look. “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Schmeling.” His tone was entirely sincere.

“Why, thank you, Mr. Emerson.” A delighted smile crossed my mother’s face. She took Julian by the arm and led him into the front room. “Sit, Mr. Emerson. Dietlinde, I made a fresh pot of coffee. Go get Mr. Emerson a cup.” I could see the gleam enter her eye. The predatory gleam of a mother in full husband-hunting mode. Maybe St. Bart hadn’t won the race yet.

Mother practically pushed Julian onto the couch. Julian, though he didn’t realize it, was just so much fresh meat. I hesitated. “Jul…Mr. Emerson was kind enough to escort me home. But he can’t stay—”

“Nonsense. Have you had dinner, Mr. Emerson? We have ham in the fridge. A man’s got to eat, nicht wahr?”

“A man must eat,” Julian murmured in agreement.

“So go, Dietlinde.” My mother shooed me off. As I hesitated she turned to loom over Julian like the Phantom of the Opera, complete with hover-cape.

Shizzle. Julian was dead. And did vampires even eat ham? “Um…isn’t it kind of late for supper, Mom?”

“Late?” My mother said indignantly. “Late? It is not even six p.m. Practically the whole day is left. In the old days your grandfather would have worked the fields another five hours by moonlight.”

“And Großmutter would have sewn a dozen dresses for the Lutheran Ladies Aid & Relief Group with only a single candle. Yes, Mother.” I tried one last time to derail this disaster. “But Julian can’t stay. Julian—”

The gleam returned. “It’s Julian, is it? Julian, not Mr. Emerson?” She attacked Julian. “Just how long have you known my daughter, Mr. Emerson?”

Thankfully, Julian was unfazed. “We met at the mayor’s office last week, Mrs. Schmeling. We’re both involved in the annexation matter.” Implying we met under highly official and impeccable circumstances. For the first time I blessed his cool control.

“Really? Tell me more, Mr. Emerson.” All man-trapping systems now fully engaged, Mother took the chair opposite him. “Dietlinde, where is that ham?”

Julian said, “Coffee will be fine, Mrs. Schmeling.”

“You heard the man, Dietlinde. Go get the coffee!”

I gave up. Hopefully, if Julian could hold his own against vampires and mobsters, he could take on one German mother. I went to get coffee.

When I returned my mother was cooing. “The Boston Emersons? Then you can trace your family back to England?”

“Yes, Mrs. Schmeling. In fact, one of my relations served in the court of Elizabeth I.”

“How thrilling, Mr. Emerson.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. So far so good. I advanced into the room.

I was setting the coffee down when she hit him with, “So when did your family give up the Episcopal Church?”

Red alert, Mr. Spock. I tried to catch Julian’s eye to warn him. When that didn’t work I flailed my hands silently like a berserk puppet.

Julian was either criminally insane or stupid, because he ignored me. “The Church of England, actually, and we didn’t give it up.”

My mother sat straight in her chair. Her eyebrows snapped together in a frown. Red eyes and fangs would not have been unexpected.

I covered my face with my hands and sank onto the sofa. Couldn’t he have lied? Just a little?

My parents are old-school Missouri Synod Lutherans. I could just guess what my mother was thinking. Anglican?! Heathen! Julian was surely toast now. Mother would never stand for a mixed marriage.

Mixed marriage? Abruptly I uncovered my face. Where the hell had that thought come from?

I soothed myself. Surely it came from my mother. Mom was thinking marriage so I thought marriage. I certainly wasn’t dreaming about wedding cakes and happily ever after. Especially not co-starring Julian Emerson, Suitguy Deluxe. Although his wedding tackle was certainly deluxe…no, no, no!

Julian spoke, distracting me. “Tell me more about your family, Mrs. Schmeling.”

It was the only thing he could have possibly said to redeem himself with my mother. Family stories and secrets were her lifeblood. She could yak half the night away.

Of course I’d heard all the stories before. So many times, in fact, that the entertainment had been leached out of them. Now on the big screen, Nixie’s Family! in tedious technogray.

But Julian asked questions so skillfully I found myself listening to new stories. Things I’d never heard before. Things I’d never known before.

For example, I knew I was named after my aunts, my mother’s sisters. But…

“Dietlinde is your older sister, Mrs. Schmeling?”

“Yes. And Nixie my younger sister.”

“Three girls and one bathroom? How did you get along?”

My mother laughed, but then got quiet. “The bathroom wasn’t a problem.”

“No?” Julian prompted gently.

My mother took a deep breath, like she was gathering strength. “No. Our parents died. When I was fifteen and my sister Nixie was twelve. Dietlinde raised us. She was only eighteen. But she took two jobs and kept us together. Kept a roof over our heads and food on the table. To me, she was a hero. Nixie—my younger sister, that is—never appreciated how hard Dietlinde worked. Nixie thought Dietlinde was dull and stodgy.”

“Aunt Nixie is just a free spirit,” I said. I always liked her best. She gave me dolls and bikes and magic sets. Aunt Dietlinde gave me—socks. Aunt Nixie took me for rides in her motorboat and on her horse at her summer cottage. Aunt Dietlinde took me to knitting classes.

I always felt like a changeling in my own home. A splinter in my own family tree. Aunt Nixie was the only person who seemed to understand.

My mother sniffed. “Aunt Nixie was a troublemaker and a spoiled brat. She spent money like water, and never stopped to think where it came from. I can’t count the times, even now, that she borrows money from Dietlinde. Bah.”

Aunt Nixie borrowed money from Aunt Dietlinde? But…Aunt Nixie had all sorts of things, nice things. Aunt Dietlinde had next to nothing. It wasn’t fair for Aunt Nixie to take money from Aunt Dietlinde. I felt my brow furrow in a frown. I would have to rethink some more things, apparently.

“And your older daughter, Mrs. Schmeling? Will I get to meet her?”

“My older…where did you hear about Giselle?” My mother’s face went stark blank.

“You have pictures.” Julian indicated a shelf full in the next room, just visible through the doorway. Damn, he had good eyesight. He looked at my mother and his expression changed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize she had passed away.”

I felt my jaw drop. Julian had a good brain, too, if he read that from my mother’s blank face.

“Oh. Well. It was a long time ago.”

Gently, Julian took my mother’s hands in his. “That makes it harder, not easier.”

“You’re right.” My mother blinked rapidly, as if against tears.

“Please tell me,” Julian said, his voice warm with compassion.

It was a nice try, but I knew that was doomed. My mother never talked about my older sister’s death. I had asked, many, many times over the years. Mom never said a word, other than Giselle was a wild girl who had died of a drug overdose—and if I ever touched even a cigarette I would be grounded for the rest of my life.

My mother was just a tad overprotective of me.

“Giselle was sixteen.”

I stared at my mother in shock. But that really was her mouth moving. Really was my mother, talking…about my older sister.

“Only sixteen. And such a hellion.” Mother paused. Added, almost reluctantly, “So independent. Such an original.”

“How did she die?” Julian asked. It was less a question and more a breath; a whisper of acceptance and encouragement.

“She had an accident.” My mother’s reply was just as soft. “Giselle used to go joyriding, though I told her not to. Such an adventure, she would say. So exciting.”

“A car crash?”

“No. A boy took her up on his motorcycle. They were going too fast down a country lane and…and Giselle was not wearing a helmet. Neither of them were. But only my Giselle died.”

My jaw dropped. “Mom! You said she died of a drug overdose!”

My mother turned on me, her expression angry but her eyes suspiciously shiny. “I did not want you idolizing your sister! I did not want you taking off higgledy-piggledy with some man and dying…too…” My mother covered her mouth, realizing what she’d revealed.

All my life, my mother had swept Giselle under the rug. I thought it was because she hated Giselle’s independence.

Now I saw it hurt Mom too much. That she didn’t want me to end up the same way.

Wow. I would have to rethink more than a few things.

A small sob came from my mother’s chair. Any thinking or rethinking stuttered to a halt.

Oh, fizzle-shizzle! Mothers weren’t supposed to cry. Especially not my mother, stalwart, stifling, and never, ever sloppy. I tried frantically to think of something to keep her from going off the deep end.

I just didn’t know how to deal with Mom being vulnerable.

Julian came to the rescue. “Would you pour me some coffee, Mrs. Schmeling?” He picked up cup and saucer and held them out, matter-of-fact. So nice and normal.

It was the only thing that could have pulled Mom back from that scary emotional brink. “Why…yes. Yes, of course, Mr. Emerson.” My mother picked up the coffeepot, which clinked once against the tray. Then she had it under control and smoothly poured him coffee. Julian took a small, appreciative sip.

“Excellent coffee, Mrs. Schmeling.”

“Do you like it?” She set down the pot and wiped discreetly under her eyes. “It’s some of the fancy roast from the grocers,” she continued in a more normal tone. “Usually I don’t go in for those Vee-and-ease fancy-schmancy coffees, but…” And my mother was off and running again.