Night of the Living Deb (4 page)

theatre to see—
hush my mouth
—Tony Bennett on his “I’m Not Dead Yet” Tour!

That perked me up.

“Go on,” I urged her, feeling vaguely less afraid.

“All right, Andrea, I won’t keep this from you any longer, as you’ll find out sooner or later.” Her pale blue eyes settled firmly on mine, her smile verging on nervous.

Odd, because I so rarely ever saw Cissy nervous about anything. She reached for the strand of gray Mikimoto pearls at her throat and fiddled with it. “Stephen and I will be taking a trip together,” she started haltingly.

“A trip together?” Was that my voice? It sounded horrified.

“What does that mean?”

“What do you think it means? Packing a suitcase, getting on a plane, and going to some prearranged destination.”

Thank you, Mr. Rogers. I
knew
that. I just didn’t
get
it.

“When?” I asked.

“Next weekend,” she said without a pause for a breath.

I blinked at her. So much for early warning. I gulped,

wet my lips and croaked out, “Where will you stay?”

“Oh, it’s all on the up and up,” she rushed to say with a flutter of eyelashes. Then she set about rearranging her silverware, no longer looking at me. “We’ll have separate bedrooms, of course, though it appears we’ll share a large suite. Stephen got an upgrade at the hotel. Isn’t that wonderful?”

Sharing a suite? How was that wonderful?

That meant bedrooms accessible through connecting doors. Confines too close for comfort.

My
comfort.

“Mother, don’t you think that’s moving a little too fast—”

“Listen to me, sweetie,” she cut me off, surely knowing where I was going with this. “It’s perfectly innocent.”

“Flitting off with a stranger to a hotel suite is innocent?”

“He’s hardly a stranger, darling. He practically saved my neck, if you’ve forgotten.”

Okay, so maybe Stephen had helped out when Mother had gotten herself into trouble at an old folks’ home—I mean, retirement village—but it wasn’t like he’d given her the breath of life or anything.

Still, did that qualify him as a proper suitemate for Cissy? A woman who revered Amy Vanderbilt and Emily Post, the Patron Saints of the Properly Behaved?

“I don’t know about this,” I murmured. My cheeks felt warm, I was so uncomfortable with the whole idea of my mother gallivanting off with this man I hardly knew. Hell, a man
she
hardly knew! She’d always made it clear how she’d dated my daddy for a full year before they’d become engaged, and it was another year still before they’d married (and clinched the deal, if you get my drift, which is why I was forever getting the “milk for free” lecture with regard to Brian Malone). Yet she planned to share a suite with this fellow she’d met a month ago under rather strange circumstances (don’t ask).

“It’s Stephen’s annual reunion with some of his buddies from the Navy,” Cissy spelled out for me, her drawl sweet but firm. “He wants them to meet me, and me to meet them.”

“Can’t they come to Dallas?”

“No, darlin’, they congregate elsewhere.”

I drew in a deep breath and let it out before I asked, “So,

where exactly is this reunion going to be held? Please, tell me it’s at least on this continent.”

If she answered, “Paris,” I’d have to nip this puppy in the bud.

“I won’t even need a passport,” she quipped, and her blue eyes fairly crackled. “We’re booked at the Bellagio,”

she said in a conspiratorial whisper.

“Isn’t that in . . . ?”

“Vegas,” she popped off before I could finish.

Las Vegas? Aka Sin City, Glitter Gulch, the Strip?

Where what happened there stayed there? Where a dude dressed like Elvis married people at one of the many quickie wedding chapels? Where my mother could overindulge in champagne and awaken with a tattoo on her fanny that declared, “Navy Seals Do It Better.” Egads!

“You’re shacking up with this guy in Vegas?” I blurted out, loudly, and suddenly I realized why she’d reserved a private room at the restaurant. Otherwise everyone brunching at the Mansion this morning would have witnessed my meltdown.

I could picture the headlines in the
Park Cities Press
:

debutante dropout detonates
! (See the Society page for details.)

“My gosh, Mother, Vegas is so . . .
tacky.
I can’t believe you’d want to spend time there,” I threw at her. “Besides, what would Daddy think?” I added for good measure, no matter that it was hitting below her fashionably slim crocodile belt. I didn’t care.

“Andy, I’d expected more from you, I really did.” She sniffed, pale eyes clouding. Her rosy-cheeked exuberance of moments before disappeared as fast as the sun behind a storm cloud. She gently shook her head, dropping her hands into her lap. “Your father has been gone for years and years, and he wouldn’t want me to be lonely, not when there’s a fine man like Stephen to keep me company and

make me smile.”

How was I supposed to respond to that?

She wasn’t finished. “I honestly imagined you’d be happy for me. Aren’t you always the one who says life is too short not to take chances?”

“But I meant . . .” The protest died on the vine. Because I’d meant
me,
not her.

Well, crap.

Trapped by my own words.

There was nothing more I hated than Mother being right.

Maybe it was appropriate that it was brunchtime, since I clearly had egg on my face. It was as if I were possessed, not my usual nonconformist self. I was acting like all those tight-assed, judgmental, disapproving heiresses I’d gone to prep school with and had sworn I would never resemble.

And just last night I’d had my legs wrapped around the neck of a male stripper.

Holy cow, I was a hypocrite.

I had no cause telling my mother what to do any more than she was justified in directing my behavior.

We were both grown-ups (one of us more grown-up than the other).

And I’d always hated when she judged me, or acted like the decisions I made were less than wise.

It was like
Freaky Friday,
where the mother and daughter switched bodies, and I didn’t like it one bit.

I sighed, tucking loose hair behind my ears and biting back any further argument. “I’m sorry, Mother,” I murmured.

“Of course, you should go with Stephen to Vegas, if that’s what you want. You’re old enough to make your own decisions.”

“My, how big of you,” she said dryly and shot me a look that made me feel like a knock-kneed twelve-year-old who’d burped in front of company.

I raised my chin, an idea taking form in my head.

“However you want to conduct your private affairs is up to you. Just as my relationship with Malone is no business of yours.”

Her finely plucked brows arched. “Is that so?”

“Yes, it’s so.” My realization that her burgeoning, um, friendship with Stephen had leveled the playing field had me feeling suddenly brave. “So no more digs about loose cows and free milk, and call off that nosy Penny George, too. Stay out of my business, and I’ll stay out of yours.
Capisce?
”

“I’m not sure what you’re talking about, Andrea. Penny George is in my Bible study class, that’s all. She doesn’t spy for me.”

Liar, Liar, Chanel tweed on fire.

“Is it a deal, Mother, or not?” I asked and extended my right hand to prove I meant business.

Mother warily eyed my proffered palm as if it were slathered in grease. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, if it’ll make you happy.” She wrinkled her nose. “I still don’t quite understand this need for a moratorium on motherly advice, but I’ll do my best,” she said and started to lift her hand from her lap just as Stephen strode through the doorway.

He was a tall man, slim with faded ginger-colored hair and a smattering of freckles on sun-weathered skin.

Mother visibly perked up at the sight of him. Had to give her credit. He had a Robert Redford outdoorsy edge to him, not the polished metrosexual appearance of so many Dallas men. Nope, no ambiguity there.

“Everything okay in here, or do I need body armor to safely enter?” he remarked, and went over to Cissy, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze and exchanging a warm glance before he settled into his chair.

I scrunched up my face in the semblance of a smile.

“Did they teach you bad jokes in the Navy or the IRS?”

“Who was joking?”

Ho ho
.

My mother had hooked herself a regular comedian.

“Oh, Stephen, no body armor’s necessary, truly,” my mother assured him, and her hand settled into her lap.

“Andrea’s
thrilled
with our plans,” she drawled in gross exaggeration. She focused her steady blue gaze directly on me, vaguely challenging. “Aren’t you, sweet pea?”

“I’m positively giddy,” I said and gave Cissy the evil eye in return, not particularly pleased that our deal had gone unsealed. Which meant Penny George was still on nosy duty, and Mother could harp on the fact that Malone hadn’t yet coughed up an engagement ring despite the intimate state of our relationship. Yet I apparently had no power to dissuade her from taking a trip with this man

who was not her husband.

It wasn’t fair.

“So where’s Brian?” Stephen asked, filling in the pregnant pause. He turned to me. “Is he on the golf course?

Beautiful day for a round.”

I started to respond, but Mother beat me to it. “Apparently, Mr. Malone went to a bachelor party last night and is sleeping off the ill effects somewhere other than Andy’s apartment.”

Geez, she made it sound as though Brian were snoring on a park bench, an old newspaper draped over his body for warmth; a regular alcoholic recovering from a recent bender, not a mild-mannered lawyer out for a simple night of fun.

“A bachelor party, eh? I’ve been to a few of those in my lifetime. Can’t blame him for skipping out on us. He’s probably got one heck of a headache this morning.”

Stephen sent a wink my way.

“It wasn’t a party exactly, and Brian isn’t much of a drinker,” I began, instinctively wanting to defend my boyfriend, but Malone
had
gone to The Men’s Club with Matty to kiss his friend’s bachelor days good-bye, and I had no doubt he’d put down a beer or two . . . or three. So I pressed my lips together and let it go.

I stared at the condensation on my water glass, contemplating going home to my Pop-Tarts, because I wasn’t having any more fun than I’d imagined.

“How about we eat, hmm?” my mother said, like food was some kind of peace offering. “Then we’ll discuss my plans for your birthday.”

“So long as they don’t include salmon or chocolate soufflés,” I told her, and not just to be contrary.

For nearly a full minute, Cissy and I locked gazes, neither willing to budge and look away first.

Stephen cleared his throat and nudged my hand, causing me to glance over and ending the starefest. “Hey, Andy, those flapjacks with banana topping calling your name like they’re calling mine?”

Oh, they were calling all right.

Mummy wins again!
I envisioned those buttermilk boys chortling.
Looks like you got the short end of the stick, or is that
stack?

Damn them.

Nothing I hated more than smart-ass pancakes.

Chapter 4

I felt grumpy and defeated as I retrieved my Jeep from the valet and steered that sucker

away from the driveway at the Mansion.

I checked my cell for messages as soon as I escaped the Brunch from Hell—leaving Mother and Stephen exchanging moony eyes over decaf—but my voice-mail box showed zip.

Why hadn’t Brian called back yet?

It was already noon. Was he in some kind of poststripper- induced coma?

I dialed his landline from my cell en route to safety (i.e., my condo), only to get his voice mail again.

What was up with that?

It unbalanced me, not being able to reach him when I needed to. I wanted someone who’d sympathize when I ranted about Cissy’s menu choices for my birthday dinner (shouldn’t she at least serve food I
liked
?) and how she was running off to Vegas with an ex-IRS agent, when I

heartily disapproved.

Since Brian wasn’t picking up his phone, preventing me from letting off steam, I felt all bottled up and tense.

I had an ache in my chest, drumming at my temples, and my skin was crawling like I was getting a virus but it wasn’t full-blown yet.

Wherefore art thou, Malone?
I thought, not happy in the least that he was hiding out from the world. Sheesh, hiding out from me.

Just to make myself feel better, I started going through all the horrible, dreadful explanations of why Malone couldn’t pick up the phone on his end. I devised a simple multiple choice test, like so:

(a) A thief had broken into his apartment, tied him up and gagged him.

(b) He was lying unconscious in a ditch.

(c) He was dead.

(d) He’d drunkenly gone home with a stripper, only to wake up with her panties wrapped around his

head, and he was too embarrassed to talk to me.

I shuddered at the last one, figuring it had better be one of the other three or I would personally put Malone in a coma and/or kill him with my bare hands, and no jury in the State of Texas with even one sympathetic woman seated on it would ever convict me.

Lucky for me, I knew that murder wouldn’t be necessary.

My boyfriend was no slime ball.

Brian Malone was a good guy, reared by parents who were still alive and happily married and who lived in St. Louis, smack-dab in the honest-to-God Heartland.

(Though that was pretty much all I knew about them.) He had an undergrad degree from Washington University and a J.D. from Harvard, and did pro bono legal work for Operation Kindness, a humane animal rescue organization and one of my pet nonprofits (no pun intended).