The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club Read Online Free Page A

I’d never inherit in a million years.
    I might not be a carbon copy of either, but I couldn’t deny where I came from, despite my yen to be different.
    I stared at Bebe’s portrait as the pews cleared, and I wondered if she’d missed out, despite all the good deeds she’d done through the years. It certainly had to be an incredible feeling to have your name on the side of a building, but bricks and mortar didn’t share your DNA.
    Because, once you were gone, you were gone.
    And wasn’t the point to leave behind more than a memory?
    “You okay, sweetheart?” Cissy said and brushed a loose strand of hair from my face. “You look so sad.”
    “We’re at a funeral,” I murmured. “Sad is part of the dress code.”
    But she wasn’t buying it. “What is it, Andrea?”
    I wasn’t about to tell her what I’d been thinking about, namely procreation, continuing the thread of life, passing on your bad habits to another generation. Babies was a subject I didn’t voluntarily broach with my mother, not with my thirty-first birthday looming so near, and her itching for me to tie the knot and bear her a grandchild while she was still spry enough to shop till she dropped and shower the kid with unnecessary things.
    “I’m really missing Daddy today,” I admitted instead, because it was true, and a little “hic” caught in my throat.
    She made a soft “hmm” sound and touched her forehead to mine, brushing noses.
    “I miss him, too,” she said. “Today and every day.” She pressed a dry kiss to my cheek and passed over her handkerchief. “Now wipe your eyes and blow your nose, before we say our goodbyes.”
    I did as she asked, feeling a little better after.
    Mother laced her fingers with mine, holding onto my hand and tugging me along with her as she paid her respects to Bebe’s sole surviving relatives: two cousins from London who slipped Cissy their calling cards and admitted having to dash off to a lunch meeting with Bebe’s lawyers before catching an evening flight back to Heathrow.
    Then Mummy Dearest was off to the races, working the narthex of the church like a thoroughbred, greeting friends with air kisses and shared condolences.
    I saw more than a few familiar faces, girls I’d gone to school with, now grown women with husbands and children; soccer moms who carpooled in their fuel-inefficient Hummers, lunched at Café Pacific in Highland Park Village, and bronzed year-round at Palm Beach Tan. Not exactly my crowd, though Cissy made sure I politely addressed each, keeping me in line with an occasional well-placed elbow to the ribs. Part of her still dreamed I’d end up chums with them someday, pushing strollers around NorthPark Mall and doing car pool to Hockaday or St. Mark’s Academy.
    Not that there was anything particularly wrong with either of those things—if that’s what floated one’s boat—but it’s not what I wanted. If I never had to worry about choosing silver patterns from Reed & Barton, I’d be perfectly content.
    “Don’t ever burn your bridges, darlin’,” she whispered in my ear. “You never know when you’re gonna need to get over the water.”
    “If that should ever come up, I’m counting on you to pull some strings so I can walk across,” I whispered back.
    Mother gave me one of those “what am I going to do with you?” looks that felt strangely reassuring.
    I needed no such encouragement to exchange warm hellos with a pal of mine, Janet Graham, society columnist for the Park Cities Press , the colorful rag that covered posh Highland Park and neighboring University Park, mostly boasting stories about the designer duds Mrs. Hoity-Toity wore at this gala or that, whose pedigreed daughter was marrying which pedigreed son, and other such vital tidbits.
    “Would chat, but can’t,” Janet confessed, as she was on the clock for the paper and had to skedaddle. She had her bright orange-red hair trapped beneath a black cloche hat, and her olive-green pantsuit was