Night of the Living Deb

by Susan McBride

  I thought of my legs wrapped around that black-haired Chippie’s neck and imagined Brian viewing it on his PC at the law firm on Monday morning while he dribbled hot coffee on his tie.

  Oy.

  With a sigh, I stabbed my key in the lock (wishing it were Allie’s black heart), telling myself I didn’t care if Brian saw the minivideo on Blondie’s cell phone. He knew where I’d gone. Heck, he’d practically insisted. So what if things had gotten a tad crazy? Wasn’t that what was supposed to happen on a girls’ night out?

  Besides, he couldn’t get on my case when he’d spent the evening at a strip club doing the “boys will be boys”

  thing, could he?

  All’s fair in love and bachelor parties, right?

  I tossed my purse and keys onto the kitchen table, thought about getting something to eat, but nixed the idea.

  It was nearly morning—well, technically it was morning— and I was out of Häagen-Dazs besides.

  So I went into the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth, before donning a worn pair of flannel pajamas.

  I plugged in my cell to charge it then cut the lights, lit a caramel-vanilla candle, curled up in a corner of the sofa and dared to check my landline for messages.

  As I suspected, I had awaiting me a prolonged monologue from Cissy aka Her Highness of Highland Park née Mother Superior Attitude:

  “Andrea, darlin’, please, don’t forget about brunch tomorrow.

  Stephen and I have a reservation at the Mansion, and we’re expectin’ you and Mr. Malone to join us. I’ve got a few ideas for your birthday dinner, which I know you asked me not to do, but you’re my only child so forgive me if I want to throw you a little party at my house. I thought we’d have salmon, perhaps, with spinach orzo and a nice chocolate soufflé for dessert. . . .”

  Salmon?

  Mother knows I detest any food that’s remotely fishy, except when it comes in shells. I do love crab cakes.

  As for dessert, I rolled my eyes at the idea of anything but layer cake for my birthday. Chocolate with buttercream frosting, like I’d had when I was a kid. How could you put over thirty candles in a soufflé? Wouldn’t they sink?

  “. . . I thought I’d take you shopping at Stanley Korshak for a special outfit, because I know what’s in your closet. . . .”

  Oh, boy, Stanley Korshak at the Crescent, where Mother made sure they had my measurements on file in the bridal salon, “just in case.”

  “I’ll expect a ring before ten, so I know if you’re both coming, or if it’ll just be you—”

  I hit Delete, knowing it was too late to call her back now, telling myself to remember to phone in the morning by the anointed time or I’d never hear the last of it.

  Yawning, I leaned deeper into the sofa cushions, wishing that I had a good excuse for skipping brunch, as I’d rather stay burrowed beneath the covers and sleep in tomorrow after spending tonight with Allie and the Chippies.

  I wagered Brian would be keen on sleeping off his evening, too.

  Besides, the Mansion on Turtle Creek was Mother’s turf, not mine. A five-star hotel and restaurant where shirts and shoes (and coats and ties) were required, preferably couture and not off the rack. Though they did have moanworthy pancakes with banana topping, and I tried to focus on that.

  As long as I was done by noon, so I could spend the rest of Sunday alone with Brian as opposed to playing “double date” with Cissy and her new boyfriend.

  Oh, no, she didn’t call him her boyfriend, but I did.

  Behind her back.

  His name was Stephen Howard, and he was a former IRS agent with a military background. Admittedly, a standup guy, though it was hard to imagine my mother with anyone but Daddy. My father had died a dozen years ago, right before I was set to debut (and had bailed, to Cissy’s everlasting chagrin). Mother’s loyalty to my daddy might give her pause about what to call her new relationship. But Stephen was her beau, just the same. Sent her flowers, took her out to dinner, escorted her to the symphony; even coughed up big bucks for tickets to ritzy charity functions.

  If anyone asked me—and they didn’t—I’d say the man was smitten.

  Cissy enjoyed his company, I knew that much. Beyond that, I wasn’t sure where my mother stood, and I wasn’t any more certain I wanted to know. As an only child and a daddy’s girl, it was difficult to imagine my sixty-year-old, Chanel-wearing mummy had a love life.

  Sometimes it was best to be left in the dark.

  As I was—literally—that very moment.

  My eyes soaked in the dim of the room, so soothing after the assault of laser lights. My ears enjoyed the solitude, too.

  I watched the candlelight flicker, casting pale shadows on the walls of my tiny living room. I tipped my head so my gaze fell upon an oil painting I’d hung on the wall above the fireplace, one I’d finished not long ago and had framed. The brilliant slashes of color appeared darker in the absence of a bright light, but I smiled as I studied it through the flickering flame. I thought about an offer made by a friend who had opened a gallery in a newly gentrified area of Oak Cliff, and I considered saying yes, as I’d always wanted to see one of my works on display.

  Though I wasn’t inclined to sell.

  I spent so much time on the computer these days, designing Web sites for foundling or struggling humanitarian organizations that often couldn’t foot my bill. That’s when my trust fund came in handy, so I could survive and make time for the thing I loved most: my art.

  I had experimented over the years, trying to find my own voice, my unique style with pen and ink, and finally brush and canvas.

  Resting my chin on my knees, I stared at the abstract some more, at the way the heavy strokes of gold seemed to dance in the wavering candlelight, at how deep the blue seemed, how truly crimson the red. When Brian had asked what I would call the painting, as wild as it was, I laughed

  and said, “Andy’s Brain.”

  “I like it,” he’d told me, and I couldn’t tell if he was

  teasing or not.

  I pulled the throw from the sofa arm and drew it over me, feeling an ache for him and deciding I’d try to stay awake for a while more, see if he called. Closing my eyes, I pictured the boyish face I knew so well, the bright blue eyes behind the wire-rims, the tousled hair that tempted a thorough brushing; though I liked the unruly way it fell onto his brow. It was the only thing about Brian that was unruly.

  He was so clean-cut, such a straight-arrow, not the kind of guy I was normally attracted to, which, in the past, had translated into mostly unemployed artists-cum-bartenders.

  Definitely not lawyers who went to work in suits, collected regular paychecks, and paid their own rent.

  So, in an odd way, Brian Malone was a breath of fresh air.

  He reminded me so much of my father, the calm he wore like a mantle, the sense that everything would be all right. He had the confident demeanor of a Boy Scout who knew how to start a fire with a stick and wore a face of calm even when trouble simmered below the surface.

  The only way I could sense something was wrong was when he started to stammer the least little bit. That spoke volumes.

  I was still learning to pick up signals from him.

  Malone could be hard to read at times. He didn’t feel the need to talk unless he had something to say. He was a great listener, balanced out my tendency toward yakking with a quiet reserve. But there were moments when I sensed he was holding back from me, keeping things bottled up rather than opening up. Maybe that was a common genetic deficiency in all men—at least, the straight ones—

  still, it bothered me, like he didn’t trust me enough to share.

  He never spoke of his job much, except to sporadically complain about the hours, or the drudge-work dumped upon him as a junior associate. Once in a blue moon, he’d spill a few details about a case. In the beginning, I’d asked more questions, out of curiosity if nothing else; but I’d stopped doing that, as I d
idn’t want to pry. If he needed to communicate, I figured that was up to him, right?

  It was a tug of war between a Left Brain (him) and a Right Brain (me).

  The rational vs. the temperamental.

  Analytical vs. emotional.

  Honestly, when I mulled over how diametrically opposite we were, it seemed amazing that we’d come together at all, and we wouldn’t have, strangely enough, had Cissy not interfered. Though, lately, she’d been downplaying Brian’s and my relationship, not sure she liked the idea that her unmarried daughter had a boyfriend who stayed overnight without the sanctity of marriage to bind him to me, to ensure he came home at night (like a wedding ring had that much power). Unfortunately, Mother got regular reports on the subject from Penny George, my nosy neighbour and member of Cissy’s Bible study group at Highland Park Presbyterian.

  Was there a place in Heaven reserved for tattletales? I wondered.

  Compared to Brian’s reserve, I was an open book. I wore my heart on my sleeve. Said what was on my mind without a pesky internal censor. Whatever Malone didn’t know about me—like my past relationships, which were part of my “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy—wasn’t worth knowing.

  My life in a nutshell: prep school grad, debutante dropout, art school not Ivy League, jeans not couture, paint over pearls.

  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 a
ffairs, 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.