The Single Undead Moms(55)
“I can’t take store-bought cookies to the bake sale. I’ll be even more of a pariah among the other mothers than I already am!”
“Am I going to have to get out the spray bottle?”
“No!” I told her.
“I never get to have any fun,” she muttered. “Fine, you’re going to wash your face, because there’s bloody tears running down your cheeks, and that’s super-disturbing. And then we’re going to get Dick to bring by some of those gas masks they use on Breaking Bad, because I’m sure he has them, and we’re going to make some fricking cookies. We’re going to make so many cookies that those PTA wenches can’t refuse them without looking like jerks.”
“Thanks, Jane.” I sighed. “Did you have this many meltdowns when you were a new vampire?”
“More,” she told me. “Of course, someone was generally trying to kill me at the time, but I’d say your legal battle with your in-laws is comparable.”
“Thanks. My baking angst almost let me forget about my legal battle.”
“Well, I might have good news on that front.”
She handed me a legal-sized envelope marked with the seal of Marcus K. Holyfield of the local family court system. I ripped open the envelope, skimming the very official-looking letter at vampire speed. Judge Holyfield was issuing an order stating that there was to be no interference with my custody of Danny while it was under review, since I’d always shown myself to be a responsible parent. That meant that unless I’d given them written permission—which clearly I had not—Les and Marge were not to contact Danny’s school or doctor, and they were not to demand visitation or show up at the house uninvited, or there would be unspecified, but potentially scary, consequences.
“How?” I asked Jane, eyes wide. “How is this happening so quickly . . . and in my favor?”
Jane pursed her lips. “Apparently, Judge Holyfield was not impressed with some of the statements Les made about your ‘wanton and unholy state’ in his petition. I believe they got their notice two days ago. It took a while for your letter to wind its way through the Council office mail maze. Other than that, you probably don’t need to know which strings are being pulled and how. I’m just happy to be using those strings for good instead of the Council’s usual death, mayhem, and general evil tomfoolery. Now, feel better?”
“Much,” I said. Before I rose to wash my face at the sink, I sniffed and confessed. “I have something to tell you. My sire, Finn Palmeroy, was here the other night when I came home.”
“I know, but I appreciate your telling me,” Jane said. “He came by the shop to inform me that he’d made contact, despite my orders that he stay away. And I asked him again to keep his distance because of the custody case. Trust me when I say that if Les and Marge find out you’ve been spending time with Finn, it will not do you any favors.”
“Why do you hate my sire so much?”
“I don’t hate him. I just don’t trust him. I don’t trust anyone who will turn somebody for money. Frankly, he reminds me a little of Dick, back when I first met him, without Dick’s personal integrity. And you need to understand that I am trying really, really hard not to make Finn more attractive by forbidding you to see him and giving him the Romeo factor. So I’m trusting your judgment to stay away from him.”
“But you did forbid me to see him,” I pointed out, resisting the urge to tell her that Finn had not, after all, taken the money from my account in exchange for turning me.
“No, I forbade him to see you. I’m asking you nicely to take my advice into account. Totally different.”
“Fine, but I don’t see how you could make Finn more attractive,” I murmured.
“What was that?”
“Nothing.”
Jane and I obtained the gas masks from Dick’s questionable contacts and made several batches of brookies, a recipe Jane found on the Internet labeled “moron-proof.” It basically involved spooning brownie batter (from a mix) into a cupcake pan and dropping bits of premade cookie dough into the batter. The dough sank into the batter while it baked, and when it was done, you had perfect golden-brown bits of cookie baked into brownie cups. While they looked beautiful, the scent made my vampire senses revolt. We bagged the cooled brookies into packages of three and packed six dozen of them into my car just in time for me to skid into the school parking lot by eight.
I hauled the bags of baked goods through the front entrance of the school, past Happy the Howler Pup, and deposited them on the elaborately decorated bake-sale table. Blue and white and black streamers were twisted into bunting against a bright blue plastic tablecloth, bracketing a sign that read “SUPPORT THE HMHES PTA!” The table was chock-full of Bundt cakes and bags of brownies and cookies. A few mothers had been brave enough to try decorated cupcakes with spiky frosting creatures that could be either Howlers or . . . Scottie dogs?