Abigail Primrose sat nervously in her car trying to build up the courage to go in. She looked in the rear view mirror for the umpteenth time that night and adjusted the lock of brown hair she always wore draped over the scar on her forehead. It was always so hard to meet new people. She hated it. But being undead sort of made it a necessity. People always noticed when you didn’t age. They always commented on how you managed to keep your looks – after ALL these years. And if you stayed too long in one place they’d eventually start to suspect there was something wrong with you. So every few years you moved on. You changed your name and started again – having to meet new people.

Maybe she should just give it up, she told herself. Maybe she should hide in a crypt like other zombies and resign herself to a non-life of loss and loneliness. But with an involuntary shudder Abigail answered her own question. Abigail Primrose was not a monster. She was a fighter. If she could dig herself out of her grave to avenge her own murder then gosh darn it she could go to a Halloween party. Maybe she’d meet a nice man at this party – somebody sensitive and open-minded. Maybe she’d have some fun. At the very least she’d get out of the house. Besides, she told herself, she couldn’t go home just yet -- she’d made a roast.

Looking on the seat besides her she stared at the covered dish she’d prepared for the occasion. She just hoped the others at the party would like it. She’d tinkered with the recipe a bit. Paula Deen, celebrity chef, cookbook author, and blue-eyed belle of southern cooking had been very clear that one should only use apple cider vinegar in curing one’s meat but Abigail preferred balsamic vinegar. It was a taste she’d picked up on her Grand Tour of Italy. Wine, even sour wine, she felt made everything more special. But, admittedly, it was an ingredient that wasn’t always to everyone’s taste.
And then there was the question of the meat. It wasn't fresh. She couldn't . . . bring herself to acquire fresh meat but the accident on the interstate had been fairly horrific and nobody was going to miss this piece. So, it was practically the same thing. So, Paula Deen's opinion not withstanding, she felt it was a good dish and one she would be proud to serve. With a sudden surge of adrenaline at having silenced her imaginary critics, Abigail threw open the car door before she lost her nerve. She was going to that party.

The inside of the bar wasn't too off putting. It didn't smell bad and the lighting wasn't too low. The music was loud. When, she lamented, did the idea of music you could just listen to go out of fashion? The hooded DJ in the corner was so over the top that when she tried to ask the young lady taking the entrance fees where to put her roast, the girl frowned and pointed at the bar. At first Abigail was taken aback but then she reminded herself that this wasn't the 1850's. There wasn't anything wrong with a lady approaching a bar by herself.

Walking up to the bar her heels made a distinctive clicking sound on the wooden floor. She had a real June Cleaver air about her -- right down to the starched blouse and pearl necklace. But it was a Halloween party so felt reasonably sure that nobody would look twice at her. "Excuse me," she said to the portly, slightly balding, man behind the bar. "Where should I put this?"

The man looked at her with beady little eyes. "What?"

Abigail took a deep breath. "Where should I PUT this?" She pointed at her dish.

"What!"

Obviously the poor man had been there too long and the music had affected his hearing. "WHERE . . . SHOULD . . . I . . . PUT --"

The man held up a beefy hand. "Hold on, hold on, it's the music." He reached up and pulled an earplug out of his right ear. "Ok, try it now."

Abigail stared at the man. "How do you tend bar wearing ear plugs?"

The man gave her a shrug. "I read lips. I mean, I don't READ lips but I can tell if somebody says Scotch, Whiskey, or beer. I read them sort of lips. So, what can I get you?"

Abigail accepted this for what it was and didn't dwell on the subject. "Um, where do I put this dish? It's for the pot luck dinner."

The man pointed to a table against the far wall. "Just put it wherever you can find some space. I'll give you a card and you can write down what's in it." He began rummaging beneath the bar for the card.

"NO! Um, I mean, no, this isn't for the general public."

The bartender stopped and looked at her from beneath his beetle brows. "Not for the general public? What, you mean it's like snails or something?"

Abigail began to feel heat on her face. There should have been some color too but it had been over a century since she could muster enough blood to blush. "No, no, nothing like that. It's just, well, I'm not sure it would agree with everyone."

The bartender reached over and lifted the lid to the pot. "Looks like a roast to me." A brief cloud of steam rose off the still simmering juices. "Smells like a roast too."

Abigail's hand shot out to close the lid and she found herself touching the bartender's calloused paw. "Please, it's just that . . . well, I'm new in town and . . . I do so want to make the right impression . . . and --"

The bartender eyed her suspiciously. He was still sniffing the air. "Is that?" He asked with a frown. "Did you use?" He fixed her with a steely glare and lifted the lid again. She seemed powerless to stop him. He sniffed the pot. "Did you use . . . balsamic vinegar in here?"

Abigail let out a nervous laugh. "Why, yes, yes, I did. Paula Deen says you should never use anything but apple cider vinegar but I think balsamic vinegar gives meat an added sweetness."

The man behind the bar stuck out his lower lip as he considered the statement. "Yeah, well, Paula Deen thinks a lot of herself. I don't buy all that southern charm she doles out. I don't think she's nearly as genteel as she pretends."

Abigail had to admit that hearing the bartender say that sent a certain thrill of satisfaction coursing through her veins. Paula Deen might be what the 21st century saw as the epitome of southern charm and hospitality but in Abigail's day even the non zombies would have eaten her alive. Perhaps it was because she'd allowed herself this one spiteful moment that she never noticed that the bartender had obtained a plate and fork.

"Mind if I help myself," he said as he dipped into the pot. "I don't get out from behind the bar till after midnight and by the time I get there, the buffet is usually wiped out." Abigail watched in horror as he speared a few chunks of meat and began to eat. "You know," he said as he wrestled with a bit of gristle, "the balsamic vinegar does make a difference." He chewed thoughtfully. "Long pork can be stringy if not prepared correctly."

Abigail wasn't sure she'd heard him right. "Long pork?" The term was familiar to her but she wasn't sure that's what he meant. "You, you know of long pork?"

The bartender spoke through mouthfuls of the still warm meat. "I was in the Navy," he said, holding out a tattooed forearm. "Every sailor, even if he's never had it, knows about long pork." He avoided looking her in the eye. "I, ah, I have had occasion to try it."

Abigail suddenly felt like she was being made privy to a secret and she felt honored. "And, and you liked it?"

He shrugged. "When you're lost at sea for over sixty days, you don't complain about the meals. In any case," he said finishing off the plate. "Yours is the best I've ever had. You, if I don't say so myself, are one heck of a cook."

Abigail brightened. He understood and he didn't judge. "Why, thank you. Thank you very much, Mr . . . ?"

"Al," he said, "just Al."

"MISS Abigail Primrose," Abigail said in return.

Al nodded his head. "I suppose you're here for the Sunset Acres Homeowners Association meeting?" Abigail nodded. That was the code. Sunset Acres was a cemetery. The Homeowners Association was a very small club. "Too bad," he said with a frown. "Those guys are a bunch of stiffs. The real party is out here. You know," he said, looking at his shoes, "with me."

Abigail could feel the heat in her face again but this time she thought she'd managed a blush. "Well, the meeting doesn't start till midnight," she said, attempting to sound casual. "I suppose I could stay here till then."

Al began to smile nervously. "Nice. I mean, that would be nice. Hey, I bet you haven't had a decent Mint Julep since you got into town."

Abigail laughed. "I haven't had a decent Mint Julep since . . ." Abigail stopped herself. It was way too early to be telling Al her age. "Well, let's just say it was before the LAST administration left the White House.

"Then you're in for a treat," he assured her. "I make the best Mint Julep north of Charleston. The secret is good bourbon, and fresh mint leaves. You gotta have fresh mint leaves." Al busied himself getting the ingredients.

Abigail felt a shiver of pleasure run through her body. Meeting new people could be so exciting. And Al did seem very nice. A bit coarse but undoubtedly a man of . . . taste. And how could you not like that? Yes, Abigail told herself, how could you not like that?