My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding

"All Shook Up" P. N. Elrod

“Hey there, little sister, pull my pants down, would ya please?" Frankie halted cold in her tracks at the sound of the man's velvety, uncannily familiar voice, which originated somewhere above her, frozen in a "what the . . . ?" reaction. Normally she'd have blown off any guy daring such a line with her, but that voice.

She'd been raised on that voice.

Frankie looked up and, oh yeah, it was him—standing tall on the backstage platform getting ready for his opening set.

It couldn't have been, but it was; Elvis had just asked her to pull his pants down.

What the hell . . . ?

"The legs, darlin'." He pointed, a half smile curling the famous lips and a glint of mischief in his blue, blue eyes.

His knees were just at her eye level, and his pant hems were hung on the tops of his shiny black half boots. She stared, blinking, then gaped up at him again. He sure looked like the real deal, but it belat­edly registered in her harried brain that this was the special wedding singer the bride had insisted on. Dang. She had good taste.

"Uh, sure," Frankie said, abruptly aware she was holding a wide platter heavy with stuffed mushrooms. She owned the catering ser­vice hired for the wedding but pitched in with the rest of the staff when the heat was on. Things were in swelter mode tonight. She'd been forced to find an alternate way around to the buffet tables be­cause of a drinks spill. Her idea to take a backstage route hadn't been well considered; the cramped area was littered with sound equip­ment, cases for musical instruments, and lots and lots of trip-worthy electrical cables and little to no lighting. A bad choice on her part until now. She quickly edged the tray onto the platform and, hands free, yanked at the man's cuffs. Leather pant cuffs. He was Come­back Elvis from 1968, head to toe in black leather and at his absolute sexiest.

"Just a little harder, darlin'," he said, apparently in full character. Only Elvis could get away with it. But he wasn't really Elvis, just a damned excellent hunky substitute, built exactly the same, with a tight butt and wide shoulders stretching the limits of the leather jacket. Nothing fake there. Wow, they still made guys like that?

She pulled and the black leather rutched up the length of one of his long legs suddenly smoothed into a lean second skin. She did the same again for the other leg. Not exactly listed on her job descrip­tion, but. . . wow, no trouble, nope, none at all.

"How's that?" she asked.

He shot her the look—the one that had once caused her then twenty-year-old grandmother to scream and fall into a dead faint at one of his concerts in 1956. Gramma had been proud of that inci­dent, if ticked off for missing things while being revived by her friends.

Frankie suddenly understood what Gramma had felt. Knees go­ing, heart leaping, eyes bugging out a little with the shock of impact, but Frankie held her ground and looked right back. The view was great even if it resulted in the temporary loss of her higher brain and motor functions.

And that was from just a look. Wow. Again.

Then Frankie pulled herself together. Elvis was the hottest of the hot, but hey, he was hired help, too, just in a different ranking on the wedding industry food chain. No need to go all groupie-girl. He was the result of costume, makeup, and assumed attitude. He proba­bly had a dorky real name.

"What's your name, honey?" he asked, as though reading her mind. His smile wattage increased. The son of a gun was obviously aware of his effect on her and enjoying the moment.

"Yummy Catering," she blurted. It was the name of her tiny company, the name she proudly announced into the receiver each time the phone rang, and for the life of her she couldn't think why she'd said that.

On the other hand, it made him blink, a little startled. Then the eye-glint thing, happened again, and he flashed very white teeth. "Well, now, your momma 'n' poppa sure got that right. May I call you Yummy Cat for short?"

She felt a completely idiotic giggle trying to flutter out and firmly slammed it down. Frankie was a lot of things, but a brainless, gig­gling ditz was not one of them. "I mean, my name is Frankie Foster. I'm the caterer for this job."

"Pleased to meet you, then. Those sure smell good." He gave a nod at the mushrooms.

"Have one?"

"Not before a show, how about after? Save some for me and my crew?"

"Sure!" she chirped. Again without thinking. The food had been paid for by someone else; it belonged to them, but she'd yet to get through a wedding where they bothered about the leftovers.

And this was Elvis for crying out loud. Okay, Tribute-Artist Elvis. She heard they preferred that over "impersonator." But still. . .

He winked. "Well, that's all right. See you then, Miss Foster." He swept away, tossing her a last look—oh, that was another glint all right, but who was counting?—then went to consult with one of the technicians in his group.

Frankie sagged, suddenly drained. It felt like every muscle in her body had gone through a major workout. This was no surprise— she'd always had a weakness for performers. Their energy was unique, addictive, and not always good for her. Better to enjoy it from the safe distance of audience seating than up close and-and-and ... up close. She grabbed the platter of mushrooms and contin­ued on, picking her way forward over the junk on the floor. Breaking through to the other side of the platform, she made it to the buffet tables.

"I gotta stay away from the showbiz types," she muttered. They were exciting but more often than not came with baggage, or ex­pected her to know all the unwritten rules of their trade. Oh, and egos; don't forget egos. It was a very different world from hers, and the culture shock tended to mess with her head and heart too much.

She'd once wasted six weeks dating a gorgeous but terminally in­secure mama's boy. He'd finally picked one fight too many when she hadn't applauded hard enough for his performance as the second murderer in a community theater production of Macbeth.

The Elvis guy . . . devastatingly hot, but off her menu. She would appreciate his talent from a distance.

Catering was her speed and her life, and she was good at it. She could cook like a demon and calculate the cost (gross and net) for a sit-down feast for a hundred in her head and was able to guide the most nervous of brides through the complex process of planning a wedding supper. Yes, better to stick to what she knew best and not mix worlds.

Of course, it never hurt to peek over the fence at the guest talent now and then.

Frankie took an empty platter from the appetizers table, slipping her full one into place so quickly that the guests filing past hardly noticed. She checked the food levels at the various tables and was pleased (and relieved) to see she'd figured things right yet again. The salad bar was popular. The bridesmaids, all of them rail-thin maga­zine models like the bride, were chewing through the lettuce, veggies, and tofu like starved rabbits. That had been a clever call, to find out how many guests were vegetarians and allow for it. Raw green edibles were cheap, allowing one to get fancy with the meat dishes and still stay within the budget.

The prime rib (a costly but popular classic) was steadily shrinking along with the chicken and fish as lines of guests inched by filling their plates. Her second-in-command, Omar, had everything in hand. As the last of the rib vanished, he produced another, expertly carving it up with one of his big knives.

Except for the spill (sticky fruit juice, not pricey wine), this job was going exceptionally well. It was the bride's third time at mar­riage, so she'd known exactly what she wanted. Planning had been easy, though the numbers had staggered Frankie at first. She'd never done a wedding of this size before and was grateful the bride had opted for a buffet. Frankie didn't have the staff to deal with serving so many tables. Not with food, anyway. There were a number of fleet-footed temps rushing around making sure everyone had their drink of choice. If the staff had to serve food as well it would have been too big a job and Frankie would have had to turn it down altogether.

Which meant she'd have missed meeting the Elvis guy.

"What's he like?"

She tried not to give a start. The question had come from Gramma, who was in charge of the dinner rolls. A nicely preserved seventy, she liked to keep busy and loved helping out on weddings.

"He, who?" Frankie asked.

"The groom. You know—Santiago."

Because she had lots of practice, Frankie kept from making a face at the name she presumed the man had chosen for himself. He was a flashy TV wrestler, big and muscled through and through. Somehow the magic of a tuxedo (a custom extra-extra-large fit) had given so­phisticated class to his shaved head and the tattoos all over his scalp. "Not my type," she answered.

Gramma made a frustrated noise involving both nose and throat. "Wake up and smell the sweat, girl; he's awesome!" She quivered a bit, not from infirmity but adrenaline. The buckets of testosterone floating around the wedding party—as represented by the groom's many beefcake pals from the wrestling world—had its effect on her. She was fond of saying, "I'm old, not dead!"

"Still not my type." Frankie shrugged. Santiago put her off, and it wasn't anything to do with his fearsome outward looks. There was something inside him she'd picked up on but hadn't bothered to identify.

Regardless of what was hidden within, the man had netted him­self a beauty, a cover model for the slicks who was fast gaining inter­national recognition.

The bride had been on a photo shoot requiring she be in evening clothes surrounded by wrestlers, the tougher looking the better, and he was the toughest of the lot. Somehow they'd hit it off. Perhaps they'd found common ground—so to speak—with their geographi­cally inspired names. Hers happened to be Trinidad. Frankie won­dered if they would continue the tradition of place names for their kids. She had a mercifully brief mental picture of them posing for a Christmas card photo before the fireplace, Santiago with his beefy arm around Trinidad and on their laps little Tierra del Fuego and his sister, Peru.

But somehow Frankie knew that would never happen. Santiago . . . what was it about him?

Frankie had a clear view of him across the crowded room. She didn't do it often since it was sort of like invading another's privacy, but now she was curious. She focused and let it come to her. The smallest nuances of expression and body language took on pre­dictable meaning. Just a bare hint was all she got at this distance, but she had it. Oh, dear. This was bad. He would want Trinidad to stay home, wait on him hand and foot, have babies, and cheer nonstop at his wrestling bouts, her modeling days over.

That wouldn't work with her; she loved her career and had left two ex-husbands (a minor rock star and an accountant) in her wake to pursue it.

Well, darn. Frankie grimaced. The split, and there would be one, would start within months of the couple's return from the honey­moon. Any warning Frankie gave wouldn't be believed. They were both past the age of consent, hitched, and happy for now. Matters would take their course.

No one liked a Cassandra, as Frankie had figured out during pu­berty when her talent for reading people first manifested itself. She didn't always get a handle on a person's future, but she could tell friend from foe. It came in very handy for her business. She could accurately determine who would bounce her check and who would not, thus booting a number of mystified deadbeats out the door long before they ordered anything.

But sadly, she wasn't all-knowing. There was the hormone factor. If a man hit all her buttons at the same time, then her talent seized up and stopped working. Like what happened with the actor.

Like what had just happened with the Elvis guy.

No regrets there, and no big problem, since Frankie wouldn't be dating him even if he asked. A nice meal on the leftovers and maybe some shop talk would be the limit. Gramma would get a big kick out of it, though. She adored Elvis and had volunteered to help at this reception as soon as she heard an impersonator—er—tribute artist had been hired as the wedding singer. This man's resemblance to the original was uncanny—at least when seen backstage in low lighting. Maybe a picture or two of Gramma with him could be arranged. He had seemed a friendly sort. . . unless that was just part of his act. Until she could mentally settle down, Frankie wouldn't be reading him.

Hoping to catch a glimpse of him again, Frankie looked across the wide reception hall toward the platform stage. It glittered with gold tinsel and Mylar balloons. A girl in a maroon coat with wide padded shoulders that marked her as one of the musicians was messing around with the drums, while two guys in matching maroon T-shirts checked the microphones and soundboard. A second musician had both acoustic and electric guitars in place onstage and was making sure the latter were hooked up to power. This promised to be more like a concert than wedding entertainment. She caught the group's name from the front of the bass drum: "Coop's Cool-Cats." The three Cs were linked to one another in a fiftie's-style font. Very retro. No sign of the star, though.

"How's it going?" asked a girl who eased up next to her.

"Pretty good, but I don't want to jinx things," said Frankie. The question had come from Aleen, one of the bridesmaids. She actually looked good in her special dress, though tradition held that such things had to be walking eyesores. On Aleen it worked. She went in for piercings, lots of piercings: ears, tongue, and other places that didn't bear thinking about, soot black hair, and tattoos. So what was a little purple satin with flounces against all that? Like Trinidad, Aleen was a professional model. She was very popular for the more edgy fashion layouts. She and Frankie had been best friends since grade school, and she'd suggested Yummy Catering to the bride, for which Frankie was still thanking her. Trinidad had taken quite a chance bestowing her trade on an unknown.

"Trini was so nervous before the ceremony," said Aleen. "Didn't show one flicker of it when she went down the aisle. What a pro."

"Nervous? Five hundred guests, bodyguards, and the tabloid press to juggle, why should she be nervous?" Frankie shook her head.

"The usual. Third time's supposed to be the charm. She really wants this one to work."

"Then she picked the wrong guy," said Gramma, who had leaned sideways from the bread tray to listen.

"Oh, don't tell me your vibe twanged again." Aleen looked dis­tressed. Of course, it was hard to tell, as her trademark chalk-white-and-gray-toned makeup made her look distressed all the time.

"Like a guitar with a bad string." Gramma pronounced.

"Frankie?"

She nodded agreement. Gramma had picked up on Santiago's in­ner man, just chosen not to mention it. " 'Fraid so."

"You guys are just spooky with that."

"A blessing and a curse," said Gramma, raising her gaze briefly to the ceiling as though to apportion blame; then she resumed dishing out rolls with a smile.

"What's going to happen?"

Frankie haltingly gave what few deductions she'd drawn concern­ing Santiago.

Gramma backed her up on it, then added: "It won't necessarily turn out that way Things can change."

"How?" Aleen demanded.

Gramma shrugged. "That's up to the happy couple. Maybe Trinidad will suddenly go all domestic; maybe Santiago will join the twenty-first century and back off from pushing her into being some­thing she's not. The key to any solid relationship is seeing your part­ner for what he or she is, not for what you've projected onto them. Projections always disappoint."

"But poor Trini," said Aleen. "I feel I should warn her or some­thing."

"Never works. Trust me, it's been tried."

"Is your vibe ever wrong?"

"Never. But it's handy. Helped me pick the right man. Helped Frankie's mom do the same. Hopefully she'll have the same good luck if and when she takes a crack at it."

Frankie rolled her eyes. "Just not tonight. I'm too busy." So say­ing, she hurried to another part of the serving line that was about to run out of potatoes. Aleen remained with Gramma, probably hoping to find a way to save Trinidad's marriage.

"Vibe" had always been Aleen's word for whatever-it-was that ran in the distaff side of Frankie's family. Way back when, the women might have called it the Sight or the Eye, if they called it anything. Gramma never made a big to-do about it, no more than one would for a birthmark, and just as well. Frankie had grown up with a min­imum of trauma attached.

The initial assault of hungry guests was over, with everyone but a few table hoppers seated. The big hall echoed loud with simultaneous conversations, the clink and clank of utensils on plates, the noise visually punctuated by the official photographer's flash unit. Weddings ran more or less on a schedule, even one this large. Next would come the second-helping crowd, and sure enough, some of the wrestler types were already in line again.

Those were pretty big guys. Frankie hoped she'd allowed enough food for them. Coop's Cool-Cats might be out of luck for a post-show meal otherwise.

Everything was under control, though, and running smoothly. The bride would be pleased, and might recommend Yummy Cater­ing to her friends. It wouldn't hurt to have a picture of Trinidad's wedding up in the front office, either. Status-wise, this wedding was a hell of a good windfall for the business.

Frankie was in the kitchen supervising an early start on the cleanup when the loud twang of a very much in tune electric guitar thrummed through the walls, announcing the show. She wiped her wet hands and rushed out for a look. The catering line for the main meal was shut down and cleared. Nothing to do but clean until the cake cutting began. She was allowed a break.

Twa-a-a-ng again; then the drummer began thumping a vigorous beat, building for the star's big entrance. Frankie could guess that Gramma would find the best view for the show, spotted her, and stood next to her. They had a clear field to the stage.

"This is sooooo cool," said Gramma, who was able to get away with teen-talk simply because on her it was cute, not forced. The glow on her face and spark in her eyes showed that she'd not changed much from that swooning twenty-year-old of fifty years past.

"Totally cool," Frankie agreed, having to raise her voice to be heard above the rising fanfare. The group had saxophone and trom­bone players, both instruments adding to the tapestry of sound, en­riching it. She loved live music, done well; tonight would be a treat. She craned her neck, looking for the first sign of the Elvis guy com­ing onstage.

" 'Scuse me, pretty ladies."

The voice.

Frankie gave a jellied-knees start, for the man was behind her and had bent to speak almost in her ear.

Gramma also jumped, gaping, then mouthing a silent oh, my good­ness at the sight of him. What big eyes she had.

Elvis smiled down at both in turn and winked. " 'Scuse me. Gotta take care of business." Clearly he was intent on a grander entrance than simply stepping out from behind a partition onstage.

He passed between them. Frankie caught a whiff of a clean, sharp aftershave mixed with the black leather; then he was gone and on the move. The drums and guitar cut loose in frenzied earnest, and a spot­light flashed bright in her eyes before it centered on Elvis.

The guests gave a collective gasp. Many must have known the specifics of the entertainment but were clearly unprepared for the quality Spotlights were merciless and could pick out every flaw, only in this case none were to be found. He was perfect from every an­gle. He moved easily through the crowd, pausing at tables, throwing the look, and collecting squeals of reaction from dozens of stirred-up girls. Hands reached for him; he brushed at a few, grinned as though sharing a secret joke, and steadily made his way to the stage. The audience began to spontaneously applaud as though for the real deal. Frankie was surprised to find she'd joined in, caught up by the phenomenon.

He took the two steps up to the stage, plucked a cordless mic from a stand, and paused, his back to the house, feet apart, legs braced. His shoulders shifted, settled, and the ovation increased. Then he held up his free hand, fingers spread, and pointed to the ceiling. The music cut off, and as though by magic so did the applause. The whole place went utterly silent.

He slowly turned, head tilted and shoulders slightly hunched, arm still high. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath.

He brought the mic to his lips. The deep "huh-huh-huh" that came forth boomed through the room, and everyone, Frankie in­cluded, roared in response. The show could have ended right then and been considered a success, but the drummer resumed her driv­ing beat, the guitar player joined in, and Elvis launched into "Hound Dog."

The voice was the same one Frankie had heard on Gramma's rec­ords, then her CD collections. The timbre, tone, and range were identical, but this was no lip-sync performance; the man onstage was belting it out himself and throwing everything into it. He had the moves and mannerisms nailed so accurately it was as though he'd in­vented them himself. The blast of raw energy rolled from him to the audience, and though it was not the time for it, several stood up and danced in place, unable to hold still.

"What do you think, Gramma?" Frankie asked. The noise levels were such that she had to bellow to be heard. "We're feeding them afterward. Does that work for you?"

Gramma stared, still wide-eyed, at the man onstage and made no reply. Something was off. Maybe she didn't like impersonators, after all, but she'd never once said anything against them.

"Gramma?"

She only shook her head. Not now, she mouthed, and flapped her hand at the show.

Okay, fine, Frankie wanted to enjoy it. If Gramma had a problem, they could tackle things later.

The opening number over, Elvis took a bow. Frankie scanned the crowd, noting amazement on some faces and blatant hero worship on others. The older folks who had memories of the real man seemed the most stunned. The rest, born years after his passing, were apparently realizing what their parents and grandparents had seen in him. She was willing to lay down money that they'd be at a music store the next day looking to add to their CD collections.

He was timeless, and she was suddenly glad Gramma had instilled an appreciation for him in her from an early age.

The man onstage thanked everyone—yes, his speaking voice was the same, too, right down to the melting accent—and launched into the master-of-ceremonies part of his job. He introduced the bride and groom, poked gentle fun at their unique names, and made it seem as though he were close personal friends with them and their respective families.

"Now bachelorhood isn't everything it's cracked up to be, isn't that right, Santiago?" he asked. "That's right; some of your pals have been tellin' tales, tellin' me what it was like for you before you met that pretty lady you're sittin' next to. . . ."

The music swelled and he began singing "Are You Lonesome Tonight?"

The groomsmen hooted—at the groom, who was grinning and nodding agreement to the words. Then he cocked his shaved, tat­tooed head, listening as though he'd never heard them before. He al­most looked somber as the song ended.

"Of course," Elvis continued, "you've had plenty of dates, you're a popular guy, but when you don't find that special gal, there's only one place you can go . . ."

He sang "Heartbreak Hotel."

The small band was inspired; it was as though he had a full or­chestra backing him instead of just a few players and a lot of amps. Frankie had seen her share of wedding singers, but nothing came close to this.

When the applause settled, he continued, "And then one day, if you're real lucky, out of the blue she's there, right next to you as though you've known her your whole life—that one woman you can love forever. And she's precious, man, precious."

Santiago, nodded, looking at his bride as Elvis sang "I Can't Help Falling in Love." Before he'd gotten halfway through, the bride's mother broke down into tears. Her husband put his arm around her. There was a general shifting of several couples as they also reacted to the music and the voice. Frankie felt her own throat getting a lump and glanced around for a glass of water she'd put on the serving table earlier.

"Gramma? You okay?"

Her grandmother was openly crying, a wad of paper napkins in one hand for her tears. She shook her head and waved Frankie off, clearly having a wonderful time.

Said Elvis: "But it's one thing to love a woman, and another to ap­preciate her. You think about it, Santiago: Out of all the handsome men in this whole wide world"—he gave a sly smile—"and I'm sure one of 'em . . ."

The cheering and whistling took up a few moments.

"... Out of all of those guys this beautiful, wonderful lady picked you. Now why do you think she did that?"

Santiago shook his head. His expression had gone serious, as though he truly needed to have the answer.

" 'Cause she loves you, man. You don't ever want to take that for granted. You respect her, you love her, you be there for her, and . . ."

"Love Me Tender" came next, and it was the softest, sweetest ren­dition of the ballad Frankie had ever heard. Elvis came down from the stage so he could sing directly to the couple at their table.

Frankie's lump in the throat came back, and Gramma tore through another stack of paper napkins. Everyone in the place, from the guests, to the servers, to the hard-faced bodyguards keeping out the uninvited, seemed deeply moved by it.

"This guy is beyond amazing," Frankie whispered to Gramma.

"Sweetheart, you don't know the half if it," Gramma whispered back.

When he finished, the couple kissed. It wasn't a planned thing, it just happened, and they weren't the only ones. Frankie abruptly wanted someone to kiss and this Elvis counted for at least twelve slots on her top-ten list for that experience. Yes, he was an illusion, but damn—he was a good illusion, a hot illusion.

He'd returned to the stage, accompanied by the sounds of sniffles and the occasional goose honk as someone blew their nose. Unbe­lievable. The big, tough groomsmen were doing most of it.

"You've found her and she's picked you—now what happens?" Elvis asked, and in reply he sang "One Night" so plaintively, his whole heart so clearly into it, that Frankie had to quell the urge to shout, Yes! and charge the stage to jump on him.

The song proved a showstopper. The guests were wild now, and needed settling. Frankie couldn't make out what he said through it, but the next number was "Hawaiian Wedding Song."

Perfect. The man, whoever he was under the hairstyle and makeup, was a genius. There wasn't a dry eye in the house. They'd remember this wedding for years to come.

"Now I want the new mister 'n' missus to come out on the floor. Don't be shy; we're all friends here."

The couple's first dance was to a reprise of "Can't Help Falling in Love," and Elvis encouraged the audience to sing the chorus with him. Other couples got out on the floor. Frankie was sorry she wasn't a guest as well.

Someone tapped her shoulder. She expected a kitchen crisis, but it was Omar, his arms wide in invitation. In his late fifties and wholly devoted to his large family, he was just playing the polite gentleman with an offer to dance, but apparently the music had touched him as well. She laughed, accepted, and they did a couple of dignified turns in a clear area behind the tables.

Another shoulder tap—this time from Gramma, who wanted some of the action.

"C'mon, kid," she said. "Share."

Omar bowed gravely and took her hand. She liked younger men; she claimed they were the only ones who could keep up with her.

Frankie was delighted. She was drawn back to her catbird view of the dance, getting there in time to see the newlyweds finish out with another kiss. The whole room cheered.

It was wonderful. A bona fide Moment, with a capital M.

And . . . there was something odd about them . . . no . . . changed. What the hell . . . ?

She stared, but there was no mistaking that they were different now. Yes, it was still Santiago and Trinidad, ridiculous names for anyone, but the two people who bore them were giving off a wholly different vibe. They were together, really together, two adults on the same page with common goals and a rock-solid love that would last, truly last. That hadn't been there half an hour ago. Frankie had known that for a fact. Gramma had seen it, too.

Frankie looked at the Elvis guy, her jaw dropping.

Oh no ... no way. That kind of thing only happened in the movies. Someone sings a song and makes everything all better? Sweet, but never in the real world. No way. No freakin' way. . . .

Elvis looked at Frankie across the space, seemed to fix on her de­spite the fact that she was in the dim background of a huge hall. She opened up a little, thinking to catch his vibe and be able read him this time, but it wasn't working the way she expected. She felt his gaze locking on to hers like a searchlight.

Make that a cruise missile.

Her breath caught, her heart leaped again, and every light in the room suddenly flared up too bright to bear.

All the strength left her knees, and her brain spun. She grabbed a chair for balance, but it wasn't enough and down she dropped, taking the chair with her. They made quite a crashing clatter.

Startled cries and an instant later she was surrounded by con­cerned voices and helping hands. By some miracle she'd not cracked her head, nor had she fully lost consciousness, but she'd swooned away like a schoolgirl.

Gramma was there, dribbling water on her face from a dishcloth. Ugh. "It's all right, honey."

When she tried to get up it didn't work. Omar held her shoul­ders, and someone she couldn't see had her feet raised comically high. She was damn-for-sure glad she'd opted for pants instead of a skirt tonight.

"I'm fine," she rasped, struggling. "Lemme up."

"No," said Omar. Firmly. It was his don't-even-think-it tone, usually reserved for inept kitchen help about to be fired.

Okay, she could lie here for a bit longer if it made him not-mad. She would work on making the dizziness go away.

Can I be any more mortified? Frankie thought.

The answer wasn't just yes but hell-yes. Elvis was now one of the people leaning into her view.

Arrgghh. She couldn't think how he'd gotten over here so fast through the crowd, and wished he'd stayed away. Lying sprawled with her legs in the air . . . oh yeah, that would make an impression.

"Lemme through," he said. "I had a little first aid in the army."

No one argued with that soft voice. People parted and he checked her over. She squeezed her eyes firmly shut, hoping that when she opened them this would all be done. Embarrassing as it was, she couldn't help noticing his aftershave again {oh yeah, and the leather), and how gentle he was, murmuring questions on whether this or that hurt. This would have been a fine time for him to cop a feel, but he remained a perfect gentleman.

He ascertained her skull was intact and nothing broken. That pro­nounced, she was ready to get up again, her dizziness gone now that she'd caught her breath.

More embarrassment. As soon as she was helped to her feet a cheer went around the hall. She hung on to Elvis's arm for dear life and wanted to throw a grenade at the genius who had swung the spot square on them.

"You've got that deer in the headlights look, Frankie," Gramma urgently whispered. "Smile and wave like an astronaut."

Those instructions were her solution to a wide number of life's disasters, major and minor. Frankie did as she was told. It worked. Another round of cheers. The best man had shouldered his way over along with the father of the bride, who looked justifiably nervous, probably worried about lawsuits. She smiled, gave them a thumbs-up, still holding on to Elvis with her other hand. He was pretty dang solid under that leather.

Gramma ran interference for her, God bless the woman, saying that the kitchen had been too warm and Frankie had been working too hard. While she held their attention Frankie glared up at Elvis.

"Just what the hell did you do to me, buster?" she snarled.

He returned her gaze, steady, with no excuses, no denials, no what-are-you-talking-abouts. "I'm sorry about that, truly sorry. I'm as surprised as you. I didn't know that could happen."

" What could happen?" She was furious.

"Well—uh—maybe we could talk later? I am truly, truly sorry." He started to pull away.

She held fast. "Who are you?"

An odd expression whipped over his face and was gone, a touch of sadness, a hint of sly charm, then the smile, the shy, sweet smile ex­actly as she'd seen in the movies. "Why, Yummy Cat, I think you know already. No need for me to say."

Frankie's grip went slack as her fingers lost feeling, and he went away to finish his set.

She'd have been happier if the rest of the evening had passed in a nice, foggy haze, but everything was crystalline sharp and seemed to take far too long.

Speeches were made, the cake cut, photographs taken, video shot. The bride tossed the bouquet; the groom tossed her garter, inspiring a violent shouting match and scuffle among four of the groomsmen. It looked ugly for a moment, then turned out to be a wrestling gag they'd cooked up. They all shook hands and did the macho slap-on-the-back/shoulder thumping thing, laughing.

And Elvis sang. They couldn't get enough of him.

The unexpected pause in the proceedings had no effect on the show. Coop's Cool-Cats kept the energy high and moving. Every song was a hit you could dance to and so well done that Frankie felt her anger vanish after just a few bars. That annoyed her. She'd wanted to hang on to her mad so as to have it in reserve for the talk he'd promised. The music wouldn't let her keep that particular kind of momentum.

He had been genuinely contrite. Her vibe still wasn't up to full speed and now cut out entirely when she turned it on him, but she was sure he'd been sincere on the apology.

Elvis got the bridesmaids lined up before the stage, requesting their help with the next number, "Rock-a-Hula Baby." Considering that none of them really had much in the way of hips for the hula, they made a game effort. He had better luck with one of the wrestlers who turned out to be Hawaiian and had remarkable muscle control, much to the delight of the ladies, especially when he took off his coat and shirt, leaving only the bow tie in place, like a Chip­pendales dancer.

But no one came close to matching the star's moves and sheer raw sexiness.

Frankie marveled that the leather stood up to what he put it through. Damn, but he looked fine. Hips, shoulders, long legs, all working perfectly, thank you very much. No hint of exaggeration or parody here. The man had talent.

It was kind of sad.

For the sake of her own sanity Frankie chose to conclude that the Elvis guy was one of those who had let the persona take over. That was it. That had to be it. She'd seen it when dating the actor. One of his friends couldn't drop character after the curtain rang down. Long after a play had closed he was still playing his part, improvising until called out on a new audition for a new play. Even the other actors gave him space and suggested therapy. She'd fervently hoped he never got cast as Jack the Ripper.

Clearly the man onstage had the same problem.

She felt bad for him, but it was his life, and he seemed to be en­joying it. Heck, there were worse people to be than Elvis.

The cake serving marked the beginning of the end for her cater­ing job. Frankie saw to it that the gigantic confection's top part was boxed and saved, sent the temps around the tables to gather dishes and cutlery, and made sure the cleaning and packing up was thor­ough. They had access to the hall until 3:00 A.M. but she had no intention of hanging around that late. It had been a horrendously busy night, with or without the fainting incident, and weariness was creeping up on her.

Sticking to her promise, she reserved more than enough leftovers for Coop's Cool-Cats. Usually those were divided among her own crew, but no one minded when they found out the band would be coming back for a meal. Her crew was apparently starstruck. Omar, who wasn't one for much talk, nodded and took over organizing the pending feast, keeping the dishes warm. There was an anticipatory smile lurking under his bush of a mustache. Gramma helped him, re­lating the story of the concert where she'd fainted. Omar good-naturedly pretended that he'd never heard it before.

The bride disappeared to put on her traveling clothes and pack her wedding gown. Aleen had let slip that the simple white sheath had cost more than the whole reception. Good grief. All that on a dress? A one-time-only dress? That would be—in the fashion world—out of style in two days or less? Yikes.

Elvis kept the party going until it was time for the big departure. He got a signal from the best man, then launched into the finale, "Viva Las Vegas," the couple's honeymoon destination. On what they leaked to the tabloids. Aleen had the real skinny: They were go­ing to Niagara Falls, then taking a road trip through Canada. Who'd have thought it?

Gramma was tired but refused Frankie's suggestion to catch a ride home with one of the temps. "I want another gander at that stud," she said, and found a chair at a folding table they'd set up in the kitchen. No need to ask which stud.

The band had their own routine to follow as they broke things down and packed them into a van parked at the loading dock. Everyone had their area of expertise, and there was little conversa­tion. They rolled up wires, shut instruments into shockproof carri­ers, and took it away. Soon all that was left was drooping tinsel and a few Mylar balloons not snagged by guests as souvenirs. The hall's resident staff would clear things for the next event, a class reunion or political rally, whatever. Frankie might even see the place again for another big wedding.

Aleen came from somewhere or other, the purple dress on a hanger and cocooned in plastic, a big purse hanging from one slim shoulder. She'd pulled on black jeans and a tight red tank top. As al­ways, she looked like she'd not eaten since grade school, which was the result of genetics and a dedicated fitness routine.

"Where's the dead-hound-dog party?" she asked brightly.

Gramma must have passed the word to her. It was a miracle more people hadn't heard and lingered.

"Kitchen." Frankie felt a reluctance to go back there and had been hanging around the main hall, putting things off. When still mad she'd wanted to get in the guy's face for that explanation; now it was no longer important. She'd figured things out on her own and further contact with him would only be uncomfortable for them both. He was welcome to his method-acting musical fantasy, and she would stick to the weirdness-free zone that was catering.

With a slightly bruised vibe.

Have to be more careful with that, she thought. The fainting inci­dent . . . maybe that's what hit Gramma fifty years back. The real Elvis had that raw power, and like many girls of the time, Gramma had a mad crush on him. She might have had her vibe tuned to him at the concert, he hit her with a flash of his energy, then boom, an­other fan fainting in the aisles.

In Frankie's case it was an Elvis impers—tribute artist but no less real for the energy. He'd been pouring that out on the stage, flinging it at the audience, revving them to the max; you couldn't fake it.

But he'd known something.

"Yo. Zombie-girl." Aleen nudged her. "Kitchen? Par-tay?"

"Yeah, okay-fine."

"That was massively well done. Your first really big job. You im­pressed the hell out of Trini."

"I just underbid the competition."

"Actually, they overbid you. Soon as they knew it was Trinidad they doubled their prices. You charged her the same as you would a nonfamous person and that got you on her good side."

"I'll keep it as company policy then." Frankie hadn't known about the other catering services and their price gouging. Well, good for her; playing fair had paid off.

Her absence from the kitchen hadn't impeded the feeding of the band. They'd apparently eaten their fill and were kicked back and re­laxing with the Yummy crew. The plates were cleared, and only soda cans remained on the table. Everyone looked content.

The Elvis guy was saying, still in his Elvis voice, "Omar, that was the best I've had in a long time. I'd be pleased to kiss the cook, but your mustache is mighty in the way."

Laughter, everyone in a great mood. He was the star back here as much as he had been out front. Gramma had a chair right next to him and looked impossibly pleased with herself.

Omar nodded once with much dignity "I and the mustache are very relieved to hear that, Mr. Presley." He was utterly serious, as though speaking to the real deal. Maybe they were all just being po­lite by playing into the man's fantasy . . . out of respect for his talent. That was nice of them.

Elvis spotted Frankie and Aleen and stood up. Still the gentleman. "Ladies. It sure is pleasing to have you join us. Miss Foster, on behalf of my poor starvin' group I want to thank you for a doggone good meal."

For a second Frankie didn't know what to say. Smiling and wav­ing like an astronaut didn't suit this one, so she cut the waving part and kept the smile. "You're welcome. Anytime." Arrgh. Why had she added that? "Everything okay, then?" she asked the others, and got approval all around. No one seemed inclined to go home just yet, which was strange. "Anybody ready to leave?"

"They're still coming down from the show, dear," said Gramma. She looked about to say something more, then shut her mouth and smiled.

Okay, Gramma, what's the subtext here? There was something on her mind, the whatever-it-was that had bothered her when the show first started.

But Gramma only picked up a canned lemonade and sipped from it.

Elvis guy hadn't resumed his seat and stepped sideways to get out from the middle of the crowd. He came up to Frankie, who was sub­jected to another nudge from a grinning Aleen.

"Oh—this is my best friend, Aleen Nuutzenbaum."

"Pleased to meet you," he said, shaking her hand. "German name?"

"Dutch. No cracks about nuts, okay?"

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Frankie bit her tongue, so as not to say anything about nut crack­ing. She didn't know him well enough to make that kind of joke, and—damn it!—his gentlemanly manner made her want to behave.

"Did you get teased about your name at school?" Aleen asked.

He flashed her that half grin and shook his head. "Not much. It was about me carrying a guitar all the time. I was kinda shy. But I don't think about that stuff anymore."

Frankie went cold inside. Aleen had fallen for it, too?

Okay, enough. Everyone out of the pool; it was reality check time. He was just an actor, singer, what have you, scratching a living by cashing in on another man's fame. Running around after the show was over and pretending to be that man was just an insult to his memory

She drew a deep breath to speak, feeling the anger building up fast and furious . . . then looked up into his eyes.

Something there stopped her. Stopped her hard. That something asked her not to shatter the moment, not to spoil the good time everyone was having.

They were enjoying the illusion, loving every minute of it.

She couldn't strip that from them with harsh words, especially not from Gramma. For their sakes Frankie made herself slowly deflate and pull back. She'd been damn close to the edge. Common sense and common courtesy had saved her from putting her foot into things.

He smiled at her as though he'd been inside her head just then, as though he'd known every thought that had whipped through her brain in the last few seconds.

She went beet red, and knowing that she had a blush on only made it worse.

Okay, then ignore it, girl. She went to an ice chest, got a cold soda, and held it to her forehead to cool down.

"You feeling all right, Frankie?" Gramma asked.

"I'm gonna get some air. I've been smelling this food all day and need a break."

They all understood that. She pushed out the back door. Her catering van was backed into the loading dock area right next to the band's vehicle. The latter bore the same retro logo as the bass drum: "Coop's Cool-Cats."

Her car was parked farther out, as were those of her crew—and one other. She'd not expected it, but yeah, it was definitely there, a pink 1955 Cadillac Fleetwood—her eyes bugged—in cherry condi­tion. White sidewalls, white roof, chrome gleaming like new under the parking lot lights . . . good God, but the man was thorough.

She popped the soda open and chugged, not tasting it, just relish­ing the icy, tickling fizz clearing her throat.

"Take you for a spin, Yummy Cat?"

She sputtered and choked. Recovered. No one else was here, so she rounded on him. "Stop that!"

Again, no denial, no asking what she was talking about. He did look troubled and kept a respectful distance from her body space. "I am sorry, Miss Foster. I don't blame you for being creeped out. Is that what they call it? That's the last thing I want."

She chugged more soda to give herself time to think, only she couldn't think of anything, which was annoying. She was usually faster than this, but as she had never been in such a situation before, it was hard to be brilliant. "Look, it's fun to pretend, but sometime you have to drop character."

"I hear ya. It's just that I get wound up for a show and it takes a while to let go."

Frankie nodded. "Okay. Just so you know, I did enjoy it; you're fabulous. It was an incredible show. At least until I hit the floor. You wanted to talk about that?"

"And apologize again. I was all opened up, and then I looked at you and you were lookin' back an' . . . well, it was like my whole world stopped."

World stopped? What the hey? "Opened up?"

"Gotta do a little of that for every show, just part of the gig. It's what I do to get everyone goin'. But this one ... I could tell that couple was heading for trouble. They needed a push in the right di­rection or there'd have been all kinds of misery down the road."

It took her a moment to digest. "You've got the vibe, too?" And he could actually influence people? Ye gods.

"That what you call it? Never did have a name before. Never could talk to anyone about it, not 'til you came trottin' along back­stage. Soon as I laid eyes on you I saw you were different, that you had something more than those good looks you're carryin' around."

"Whoa, you laying a line on me?"

"No'm. Just fact. You're one cute head turner."

Her face worked hard to project and maintain a calm facade. Now was not the time to go all girlie and break out in a big smile. "Well. . . thank you . . . but the other thing. The vibe?"

"If that's your name for it, then that's what I got. I can tell a lot about people without ever askin'. The stuff just comes to me. Some­times too much."

She'd never heard of a guy having the talent, but why not? It wasn't anything she or Gramma talked about much with others, so why should anyone else?

"You know of a way of shutting it off?" he asked.

Shutting it off? "Uh, not really. What, you get stuff twenty-four/seven?"

"Sometimes, when I'm around too many people. I use the music. It's a buffer between me and the world. And I use the getup."

She presumed he referred to the Elvis gear. "How?"

The shy grin flashed. It was a nice grin. "Well, everyone loves Elvis. I get mostly positive stuff coming at me then. If I went around too much as Rick Cooper I'd be crazy. I'd be picking up all kinds of misery otherwise, and a body can only take so much."

"So . . . you impersonate Elvis to keep from going crazy. That's. . . crazy."

"I guess so, but it sure works."

"Your real name's Rick Cooper?"

"That's what's on the drivin' license." He gestured at the van. "Originator of Coop's Cool-Cats."

"Do they know about your vibe?"

"They're like my family; they know everything. No one seems to mind. We do good, too. Like tonight. We kept something fine from breakin'."

"I saw that. I never knew things could be changed."

"It takes some work, an' I don't do the changing. It's the music going out of me that does it. If I sat down in front of those two an' gave 'em a talkin' to it wouldn't have done a lick a good. But music can come out of one soul and touch another in amazin' ways. I see it all the time and it still gets to me. Pretty humblin'."

"Look, uh, Coop?"

"Coop's fine. Rick if you ever get the notion for it."

"Okay, Coop, maybe you and my gramma should talk. She knows more about this stuff than I do. She's got the vibe, too."

"Oh, I could tell that. She is one sweet little lady. I'd be pleased to call on her and you both, any day you name."

"In what persona? I don't mean to be rude, but—"

"I know. If it's just the two of you I can shed the getup. I can't change the face or hair, though. This is what the Good Lord gave me, so I have to live with it."

Wow. "It's amazing."

"Uncanny?"

She nodded.

"Yeah, I've heard all that. Seemed only right to just take it and run. It's worked out. I got a good life."

"How did it start?"

"You won't believe it."

"Try me."

"Well, when I was beginnin' my teens my folks took me on a tour of Graceland."

"Me, too! Gramma took me."

"Then you know how that place is; everything's so well cared for and clean and just plain loved. When we were going through the rooms I couldn't shake the feeling that Elvis would walk in at any moment. It is like he's still there. That's about when I first started perceivin' things. And what I perceived first was him!'

"You saw his ghost?"

"No, nothin' like that. It was . . . like a presence . . . only it wasn't him so much as the love everyone who'd ever crossed that threshold had for him. It was love for him, for his gifts, for all that he gave the world. That's a mighty powerful lot of energy, and it's permeated into every square inch of the whole place. That's how he's there. I don't hold nothing about ghosts, but I do believe a place can pick up...

"A vibe?"

"Surely. What I think is maybe some of it got into me and found a home. And if any of that has even a single atom of himself inside me, then I'm pleased and honored to carry it."

She liked his attitude. "And you spotted the vibe in me?"

"Right away."

"But I didn't see it in you. I shut down."

"You saw the getup, is all. Give it a while. Maybe you'll get past it."

No time like the present. She decided to risk another faint; she had to know.

Frankie opened up . . . and . . . wow, again. Now she was able to see the guy who was Rick Cooper, and something more. The Elvis energy. Dampened down quite a lot, but it was as much a part of him as his skin and went far deeper. Very reassuringly, it wasn't the least bit scary but rather comforting, like a piece of Elvis truly did live on. This must have been what Gramma had seen, and it had thrown her, virtually two guys sharing the same space.

She would have also figured that it was all right, though. Had it been bad, Gramma would have had nothing to do with him.

Damn, but the universe was a strange place to hang out. Strange, but never boring.

"You got it, didn't you?" he asked.

"I did." She really liked what she'd seen, too. Of Rick Cooper, that is. Elvis was mighty fine, but so was Rick. He looked just as in­teresting; for one thing, he'd also made it to adulthood with an odd­ball gift and not gone raving nuts. He'd opted for a unique way of dealing with it, but hey, whatever worked. Frankie wanted to see more of him, on a lot of levels.

"Uh, about me talkin' to your gramma?" he began.

"Yeah?"

"I shouldn't like to impose unless I could . . . well, I know of this diner where they do the old-fashioned burgers an' milk shakes an' have a real jukebox with forty-fives. If you think she—"

"She'd love it. Tomorrow for lunch?"

"I'd be mighty pleased with your company Yummy—oh, sorry."

"You can call me Yummy Cat. If anyone else does, I'll bust 'em."

"Well, that's all right, then. There's just one more thing, an' it's been on my mind all evenin', but. . ."

She didn't have to read his vibe to have seen that in his blue, blue eyes. She tossed her soda can away, grabbed the black leather lapels of his jacket, and pulled him toward her.

Oh. My. God.

Rick Cooper or Elvis, it didn't matter; he, they, whoever, was a world-class kisser. He knew exactly what to do and how much to do it and the breath went right out of her for a third time that night, and it felt great.

Better than great.

Oh yeah, baby ... he had her all shook up.

P. N. ELROD is best known for The Vampire Files, featuring her wise­cracking undead gunshoe, jack Fleming. She's written over twenty novels and twenty short stories in the paranormal genre, edited sev­eral collections, and branched into fantasy and mystery. You can check out all her projects at www.vampwriter.com. Yes, she really does love Elvis, huh-huh-huh!