Night of the Living Deb Read Online Free Page B

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