Night of the Living Deb Read Online Free

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