Night of the Living Deb (3 page)

My mother would doubtless describe me as a stubborn girl who tended to color outside the lines and who’d always picked up strays (animals and people).

And she’d be right, too.

I saw a slogan on a T-shirt when I was at Tom Thumb several weeks back:
well-behaved women don’t make history
. Something I’d adopted as my personal motto, despite being a lifelong student of the Dalai Cissy and her mantra of “good girls don’t,” not to mention having graduated the Little Miss Manners classes she’d insisted I attend when I was in kindergarten.

In my mind, misbehaving sounded perfectly suitable for someone who’d worn camouflage pants (courtesy of Goodwill) and pink high-tops to a debutante tea.

Not that I needed a slogan as an excuse to be who I was, which had always seemed the antithesis of what my mother had wanted, i.e., a miniclone of herself: Hockaday and SMU alumna with an impeccable nose for designer labels, the sense to marry well and marry young, and an

eye toward philanthropy.

I had failed on all counts but the first. The Hockaday School was also my alma mater, though I was hardly their poster child.

A prissy little debutante, I wasn’t. But I was a pretty good daughter, not perfect by far, but my heart was in the right place. Those weren’t mutually exclusive, or so I thought, although Cissy might have a different take entirely, as was often the case.

Despite being flip sides of the same genetic coin, I loved my mother very much, and I understood that she loved me. We just had a wee bit of trouble showing it sometimes. But that was another familial trait we shared:

lack of gushiness.

After being with Brian for four months, I still couldn’t get out those three magic words, had I wanted to. I’m not sure I was ready for that yet. Maybe I just hoped he’d say them first, so I wouldn’t have to deal with a crushing response, like, “That’s nice.” Which would surely kill me.

What I did know was that I trusted him.

What I was less certain of was if he trusted me.

Did he feel as sure about me as I’d begun to feel about him? That, perhaps, I was Ms. Right, and I belonged with him?

Dang it.

Where was he?

What was he doing right this minute? Did he have a stripper in his lap? I sure as shooting hoped he didn’t have one with her legs wrapped around his neck.

Oh, boy.

I was too tired to be asking myself such heavy questions.

I could hardly keep my eyes open, and I knew I should blow out the candle and hit the sack.

But my limbs were too heavy to move. Getting swung around by that Chippie must’ve worn me out. Let that be a lesson. Never dangle from the neck of a male stripper unless you’ve had your Wheaties.

I could only summon enough energy to lean toward the coffee table and blow out the candle before I fell limply back onto the couch.

I curled up beneath the throw and listened as my breathing turned slow and steady, the darkness creeping softly into my head, turning off my dimmer switch.

Chapter 3

Tweet.

Tweeeeet.

My eyes flew open, and I found myself bound mummy-style in the crocheted throw. I wiggled and

kicked to unwind my body from the yarn cocoon as the telephone rang again, sounding way too much like a demented bird. Couldn’t anyone invent a soothing tone for landlines, more akin to waves lapping on a beach than a cockatoo gone berserk?

Tweeeeet!

I snatched up the handset and uttered a groggy, “Hello?”

“Andrea! Where in God’s name have you been?” The flutter of hope that it was Malone fast died when I heard my mother’s drawl, and not the honey and molasses voice either. The impatient tone. Her version of Scarlett O’Hara pissed off.

“I left you several messages,” she went on, “which you never returned. Didn’t I train you better than that?”

“Well-behaved women rarely make history,” I murmured.

I don’t think she saw the same merit in those words that I did.

“Well, ill-behaved daughters tend to get written out of their mothers’ wills. So you’d better shape up.”

“Leave it all to the Humane Society,” I told her and yawned, wondering what time it was and realizing I’d slept with my contacts in. The plastic had stuck to my corneas, so I blinked double-time to loosen them up.

“Well, if you’re going to be like that, maybe I’ll just split everything between the NRA and the Young Republicans,”

she drawled, clearly trying to torment me.

“What time is it?” I asked to change the subject, and because I couldn’t make out the clock on the mantel and didn’t want to get up to look. The phone cord didn’t

stretch that far. Darned landlines.

“It’s eight-thirty, darling, so rise and shine. You’ll need to shower and dress before you join Stephen and me for brunch.”

“Would you mind too much if I passed?” I attempted, futile though it was.

“Don’t be silly. We need to talk about your birthday party. Besides, it’s my treat, so you can have whatever you please.”

On cue, my stomach growled, and I realized I had nothing more appealing than Pop-Tarts for breakfast. And they weren’t even the iced kind. Poo.

Buck up, Kendricks,
I urged myself.
It’s only brunch.

“You sound tired, darling. Didn’t you sleep well?”

“I had a late night,” I told her, though I didn’t explain
where I was and whose shoulders I’d been slung around.

“If I go, I can’t stay long, okay?”

I planned on spending most of the day with Brian. Well, as soon as he regained consciousness, whenever that would be. He’d been so wrapped up in work lately that I’d hardly seen him. I explained this to Mother, praying it might get me a reprieve; but no such luck.

“Mr. Malone is invited to come, of course.”

I figured he’d rather be dipped in a vat of boiling tar.

Okay, I’m exaggerating, but I was sure he’d rather sleep in than endure a prissy brunch with Her Highness of Highland Park the morning after his boys’ night out.

“That’s sweet of you, Mother, but I’d wager he’s not fit for linen napkins and mimosas, not after the bachelor party.”

“Bachelor party?” I envisioned her perfectly arched blond brows lifting. “For whom? Anyone I know?”

“Not really a party.” I scrambled to fix any damage caused by my loose lips. “Just him and a pal from the firm.

Someone junior. I’m sure you’ve never met him.”

Though she might have. ARGH handled my mother’s legal affairs, had worked out the sale of Daddy’s drug company to a pharmaceutical giant, on whose board Cissy sat to keep an eye on things. Mother was quite chummy with J. D. Abramawitz—old Abe—one of the founding fathers, and stayed current on all the ARGH gossip.

“So Mr. Malone isn’t . . . with you?” she asked, like I hadn’t seen that one coming from fifty yards back.

I sat up straighter, rubbing my forehead. “No, Mother, he didn’t stay here last night. I haven’t heard from him since before he went out.”

“Well, then don’t bother him, darling. Let him sleep as late as he wants, and you can join us for brunch. There’s something Stephen and I want to tell you besides, and it would be best if you were alone.”

Okay, that stopped me in my tracks.

Something to tell me? Best if I was alone?

My heart caught in my throat, jumping to a hefty conclusion that shook me to my daddy’s girl core. “Please, don’t tell me you two have gone and done anything rash?”

Like getting hitched, I nearly asked, but Cissy too quickly jumped in.

“I’ll see you at ten, sweet pea, and, please, don’t wear a ratty T-shirt or jeans with holes in them. Kiss kiss,” she cooed, before I heard that telltale sound of her hanging up.

I sat stunned, phone still clutched to my ear, the dial tone humming tunelessly until I set the handset back in its cradle and stared into space, numbed by what I imagined.

Had Stephen proposed to my mother?

They’d only been dating for a month. But then, they were both in their sixties. Maybe they figured they didn’t have a moment to lose.

No matter that I liked the guy, in what little time I’d spent around him, the mere idea of Cissy remarried to anyone unsettled me. She’d been alone the past twelve years, and I’d grown accustomed to that, after finally digesting my father’s death (yeah, I’m slow with closure).

Stop it, Andy,
I told myself.

Maybe it was something else entirely.

Like Stephen had agreed to co-chair the Boot Scoot to Stamp-Out Hunger Hoedown this year. A former IRS agent might know a few tactics to pry money out of tightfisted blue bloods.

Which meant I had to go to brunch, didn’t it? There was no skipping out if I wanted to find out Mother’s secret.

Rats.

Foiled again.

Amazing how Cissy could get me to do what she wanted with barely a twist of my arm. She was a master in the art of coercion.

With a groan, I dragged myself from the sofa and to the shower.

It was nine-thirty before I had my hair dried, minimal makeup applied, and my nicest pair of khaki pants on, topped by a long-sleeved cotton sweater since it was supposed to be downright chilly this fine fall day.

Lower seventies were forecast.

Brrrr.

I wondered if the ladies at the Mansion would bring their fur out of storage so they wouldn’t freeze to death.

Before I left the house, I called Malone’s apartment, let the phone ring six times before his voice mail clicked on.

“Hey, it’s me,” I said. “You’re incredibly lucky that I’m so generous and letting you sleep, instead of forcing you to join me at the Brunch from Hell with Mother and her boyfriend. I should be back by noon, and I want to hear how things went. So give me a buzz then, if you’re up, or I’ll call and wake you.”

Just for sport, I tried his cell, too, which clicked over to his messages immediately.

Interesting.

That meant he had that phone turned off, pretty atypical for him, as he was always worried about his boss being able to reach him 24/7. Still, it could just be that he wanted to get some shut-eye after partying with Matty.

Good for him.

If I’d been smart enough not to answer the phone this morning, I wouldn’t have to trek down south to brunch with Mummy Dearest.

I left a brief “Call me” note on his cell for good measure, then locked up the condo and prepared to head down to Highland Park and its posh environs, or “Cissy Land,”

as I liked to call it. It was like a very upscale Survivor Island, where the motto was “Out-Shop, Out-Bitch, Out-Class.”

Not surprisingly, I had been booted off the island long ago, after I’d decided not to go through with my coming out, about as severe an infraction as existed, second only to marrying down or attending Texas A&M.

I started the Jeep, cranked up Def Leppard’s “Rock of Ages,” and said a little prayer along the lines of, “May the Force be with me.”

When I pulled up at the Mansion on Turtle Creek and turned over my keys for the valet to park, it was ten o’clock on the nose.

At least I wasn’t late. The less ammo I gave my mother to use against me (even at a future date), the better.

Despite its snooty clientele, I did love the Mansion’s gorgeous architecture and design. Its Old World ambiance made me feel like I was walking into another century:

cathedral doors, stained glass, molded ceilings, carved columns, and plenty of antiques.

As an artist, such things of beauty lifted my spirits.

Mother had apparently reserved one of the private rooms situated off the main dining area, and I followed the maitre d’ past tables filled with big-haired blondes adorned with loads of diamonds and older men who paid a pretty penny for their trophy wives’ upkeep. It felt like the gentle clinking of silver on china and the hum of conversation paused as I walked past; but it was probably just my

imagination.

I put on my big-girl smile as coiffed heads turned to give me the once-over—resulting in a host of disapproving frowns, and I wasn’t even wearing my ripped denim— though I didn’t let them get to me. Still, I considered what a release it would be to stick out my tongue or blow them a raspberry.

But I refrained, for Cissy’s sake.

These were her people, after all. I surely wouldn’t want her embarrassing me in front of my friends (although she had done that plenty of times in the past, come to think of it).

“Rise above, pumpkin,” as my daddy liked to say.

Though there were times when it would sure feel good to get down in the sandbox and play dirty.

I didn’t need that kind of karma.

Not with my stomach already knotted up, worried about what Mother had to say. I squared my shoulders at the first breath of Cissy’s familiar Joy perfume, preparing myself for the worst before I entered the room where my mother and Stephen waited.

Or Mother, anyway.

“Good morning, sunshine,” she said, glancing up as I approached. Her chin-length blond bob shined gold beneath the fixtures. The rose of her Chanel suit matched the blush on her face. Whatever was up, she looked happy.

“Morning.” I went to her side and bent down to air-kiss her cheeks.

I took the seat beside her, unfurling the napkin in my lap. I hadn’t yet seen hide nor hair of Stephen Howard, though the chair across from my mother’s was slightly pushed back, the napkin a bit rumpled, as if someone had been there and gone already.

“He’s getting some air,” my mother explained, following my eyes and sensing the direction of my thoughts. “He wanted to give us a moment alone.”

Jesus Crust,
as a friend’s preschool-age daughter liked to say.

“This sounds serious,” I got out, reaching for the goblet of ice water, taking a generous gulp, and managing to dribble some of it down my chin. I used my sleeve to wipe away the drops.

“It’s not so much serious as, well, adventurous,” she assured me and patted my arm.

Adventurous?

If she’d imagined that would soothe me, she was wrong.

I noticed she still wore the diamond engagement ring and wedding band Daddy had given her, smack-dab on the third finger of her left hand. So if Stephen had popped the question, perhaps Mother had declined. Could be their wild adventure amounted to little more than a trip to the