Read Online The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club by Susan McBride - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Susan McBride
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decided to embrace their anxiety with grins and guffaws.
Still. . . .
The Big Band soundtrack. The bubbly. The laughter. The bell-like clink of crystal. The colorful décor.
If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve sworn it was a birthday party. Only the guest of honor wasn’t around to blow out the candles on the cake.
I scanned the dozens present and realized something else: not a person, beyond Mother and myself, was actually wearing black or gray. Annabelle was in navy, but the rest of the Belle Meade folks gathered in the dining hall wore breezy outfits in summer pastels and prints—I saw plenty of Lilly Pulitzer—though no white, of course, as it was after Labor Day and this was Dallas, not Miami. Of the paltry handful of men congregating with the overwhelmingly feminine crowd, one had donned a plaid shirt and kelly-green golf pants, like he’d strolled in off the fairway.
After the solemnity of the morning’s service, that seemed . . . I don’t know, too festive. Too cheery. Where were the tears? The glum faces?
“Stop looking so disapproving, Andrea,” Cissy scolded. “Bebe wanted a bash, not a wake. So that’s what she got. She lived a wonderful life, and that’s what we promised to celebrate. Now, go on and get some food, while I look for Sarah Lee and say ‘hello’ to some of the others I know from bridge.”
“So long as you tell me where you’re going, so I can keep tabs on you.”
“Keep tabs on me? Pish!” She sniffed. “Sweetie, I ran your daddy’s company for six years after his heart attack, until I sold it to a global giant in pharmaceuticals whose annual profits are larger than most countries’ gross national products, and I still sit on the board with some very high-powered gentlemen and hold my own very well, thank you very much.”
“I realize that, but . . .”
“Andrea Blevins Kendricks, stop being so over-protective. I can manage my life perfectly well without your direction.” She tsk-tsked me. “And I certainly do not need a babysitter.”
“Can’t you please just . . . ?”
“No, I can’t. So shoo.” She waved me off and glided away to mingle.
I considered stalking, still fearful she’d do something rash before I could stop her. But before I could follow, a slender woman with short frizzled gray hair and a bright pink pantsuit sidled up and had me cornered.
“You look like you just got your teeth kicked in, sister,” she said and winked. She had a dandy set of false lashes. “You grieving over the dearly departed, or did you eat one of those raw oysters that Chef Jean’s so fond of serving, like they’re part of our essential food pyramid?” She leaned toward me, pulling a face like she’d swallowed a bad egg. “They’re supposed to aid the libido, you know, but they send me running for the Pepto-Bismol. You looking for a drink of the pink? I don’t have any on me.” She patted her pockets. “But I could make a run to the pharmacy. It’s just a few steps over that way . . .”
“No,” I said, stopping her. “I haven’t had any oysters, and the only thing I’m looking for is my mo . . .”
“Ooh, speaking of libido”—she cut me off and gestured broadly at the silver-haired dude in the plaid pants. “Hellooo, Henry,” she cooed and primped at her wiry pin curls. “How were the greens this morning? Fast, like you, I hope.”
The fellow flashed a half-hearted grin and scurried off.
Wish I’d been as quick on my feet.
“Ah, sister.” The woman nudged me. “Now, there’s a man who still has a hot putter, if you get my drift. If you had the time, I could tell tales about Henry and all the conquests he’s made in this ritzy henhouse.” She gave a low whistle. “Oh, boy, oh, boy, how the worm has turned since the invention of Viagra and its brethren. My, my, did I say that? The worm has turned?” She chortled merrily. “Get it?”
Yo, Dr. Ruth! Too much info.
“Yeah, I get it.”
I almost lost my
Still. . . .
The Big Band soundtrack. The bubbly. The laughter. The bell-like clink of crystal. The colorful décor.
If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve sworn it was a birthday party. Only the guest of honor wasn’t around to blow out the candles on the cake.
I scanned the dozens present and realized something else: not a person, beyond Mother and myself, was actually wearing black or gray. Annabelle was in navy, but the rest of the Belle Meade folks gathered in the dining hall wore breezy outfits in summer pastels and prints—I saw plenty of Lilly Pulitzer—though no white, of course, as it was after Labor Day and this was Dallas, not Miami. Of the paltry handful of men congregating with the overwhelmingly feminine crowd, one had donned a plaid shirt and kelly-green golf pants, like he’d strolled in off the fairway.
After the solemnity of the morning’s service, that seemed . . . I don’t know, too festive. Too cheery. Where were the tears? The glum faces?
“Stop looking so disapproving, Andrea,” Cissy scolded. “Bebe wanted a bash, not a wake. So that’s what she got. She lived a wonderful life, and that’s what we promised to celebrate. Now, go on and get some food, while I look for Sarah Lee and say ‘hello’ to some of the others I know from bridge.”
“So long as you tell me where you’re going, so I can keep tabs on you.”
“Keep tabs on me? Pish!” She sniffed. “Sweetie, I ran your daddy’s company for six years after his heart attack, until I sold it to a global giant in pharmaceuticals whose annual profits are larger than most countries’ gross national products, and I still sit on the board with some very high-powered gentlemen and hold my own very well, thank you very much.”
“I realize that, but . . .”
“Andrea Blevins Kendricks, stop being so over-protective. I can manage my life perfectly well without your direction.” She tsk-tsked me. “And I certainly do not need a babysitter.”
“Can’t you please just . . . ?”
“No, I can’t. So shoo.” She waved me off and glided away to mingle.
I considered stalking, still fearful she’d do something rash before I could stop her. But before I could follow, a slender woman with short frizzled gray hair and a bright pink pantsuit sidled up and had me cornered.
“You look like you just got your teeth kicked in, sister,” she said and winked. She had a dandy set of false lashes. “You grieving over the dearly departed, or did you eat one of those raw oysters that Chef Jean’s so fond of serving, like they’re part of our essential food pyramid?” She leaned toward me, pulling a face like she’d swallowed a bad egg. “They’re supposed to aid the libido, you know, but they send me running for the Pepto-Bismol. You looking for a drink of the pink? I don’t have any on me.” She patted her pockets. “But I could make a run to the pharmacy. It’s just a few steps over that way . . .”
“No,” I said, stopping her. “I haven’t had any oysters, and the only thing I’m looking for is my mo . . .”
“Ooh, speaking of libido”—she cut me off and gestured broadly at the silver-haired dude in the plaid pants. “Hellooo, Henry,” she cooed and primped at her wiry pin curls. “How were the greens this morning? Fast, like you, I hope.”
The fellow flashed a half-hearted grin and scurried off.
Wish I’d been as quick on my feet.
“Ah, sister.” The woman nudged me. “Now, there’s a man who still has a hot putter, if you get my drift. If you had the time, I could tell tales about Henry and all the conquests he’s made in this ritzy henhouse.” She gave a low whistle. “Oh, boy, oh, boy, how the worm has turned since the invention of Viagra and its brethren. My, my, did I say that? The worm has turned?” She chortled merrily. “Get it?”
Yo, Dr. Ruth! Too much info.
“Yeah, I get it.”
I almost lost my
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