Definitely Dead (Sookie Stackhouse #6)(12)
Author: Charlaine Harris

Portia was thinking wedding, and Tara was thinking money.

"I have to talk with Halleigh again, but I think we’ll need four hundred invitations," Portia was saying, and I thought my jaw would drop.

"All right, Portia, if you don’t mind paying the rush fee, we can have those in ten days."

"Oh, good!" Portia was definitely pleased. "Of course, Halleigh and I will be wearing different dresses, but we thought we might try to pick out the same bridesmaid’s dress. Maybe in different colors. What do you think?"

I thought I was going to choke on my own curiosity. Portia was going to be married, too? To that stick of an accountant she’d been dating, the guy from Clarice? Tara caught a glimpse of my face over the top of the standing rack of dresses. Portia was looking at the catalog, so Tara winked at me. She was definitely pleased to have a rich customer, and we were definitely okay with each other. Relief flooded me.

"I think having the same style in different colors – coordinating colors, of course – would be really original," Tara said. "How many bridesmaids are there going to be?"

"Five apiece," Portia said, her attention on the page before her. "Can I take a copy of the catalog home? That way, Halleigh and I can look at it tonight."

"I only have one extra copy; you know, one of the ways Isabelle’s makes money is charging an arm and a leg for the darn catalog," Tara said with a charming smile. Tara can lay it on when she needs to. "I’ll let you take it home, if you cross your heart you’ll bring it back tomorrow!"

Portia made the childish gesture, and tucked the thick catalog under her arm. She was wearing one of her "lawyer suits," a brownish tweedy-looking straight skirt and jacket with a silk blouse underneath. She had on beige hose and low-heeled pumps, and she carried a matching purse. Bo-ring.

Portia was excited, and her brain was cartwheeling with happy images. She knew she would look a little old as a bride, especially compared to Halleigh; but by God, she was finally going to be a bride. Portia would get her share of the fun, the presents, the attention, and the clothes, to say nothing of the validation of having a husband of her own. She looked up from the catalog and spied me lurking by the slacks rack. Her happiness was profound enough to encompass even me.

"Hello, Sookie!" she said, practically beaming. "Andy told me what a help you were to him, fixing up his little surprise for Halleigh. I really appreciate it."

"It was fun," I said, with my own version of a gracious smile. "Is it true that congratulations are in order for you, as well?" I know, you’re not supposed to congratulate the bride, only the groom, but I didn’t think Portia would mind.

Sure enough, she didn’t. "Well, I am getting married," she confessed. "And we decided to have a double ceremony with Andy and Halleigh. The reception will be at the house."

Of course. Why have a mansion, if you couldn’t have the reception there?

"That’s going to be a lot of work, setting up a wedding by – when?" I said, trying to sound sympathetic and concerned.

"April. Tell me about it," Portia said, laughing. "Grandmother is already half-crazy. She’s called every caterer she knows to try to book someone for the second weekend, and finally landed Extreme(ly Elegant) Events because they had a cancellation. Plus, the guy who runs Sculptured Forest in Shreveport is coming to see her this afternoon."

Sculptured Forest was the premier landscape planning center and nursery in the area, at least if you went by their omnipresent ads. Hiring both Sculptured Forest and Extreme(ly Elegant) Events meant that this double wedding would be the primo social occasion of the Bon Temps year.

"We’re thinking an outdoor wedding at the house, with tents in the back yard," Portia said. "In case of rain, we’ll have to move it to the church, and have the reception at the Renard Parish Community Building. But we’ll keep our fingers crossed."

"Sounds wonderful." I really couldn’t think of anything else to say. "How are you going to keep working, with all this wedding 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.

… 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."