The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club Read Online Free Page B

vintage 1940s. It was almost shocking to see her looking so subdued, when she usually wore clothes bright enough to glow in the dark.
    Janet also had on a pair of black-framed glasses—nearly identical to those Katie Couric sported during her more serious morning show interviews. Out of sheer quirkiness, Janet had adopted that particular affectation and donned hers when she wrote her more serious features. So I’d venture to guess her ode to Bebe would be far more solemn than her last column, “The ABCs of Dallas Society,” starting with “A is for Ashton Bradford, the most eligible bachelor in Big D!”
    When there appeared to be no one left that Cissy and I hadn’t addressed, including the minister, the choir director, and the coat-check girl, we were finally able to pull an Elvis and leave the building.
    Normally, I would have slipped out as soon as the fat lady warbled—or, in this case, a very thin, dark woman with a Met-worthy contralto—but I didn’t want to desert my mother until she was ready. Sitting beside her, passing back and forth her increasingly soggy linen kerchief, had been the closest to a bonding moment that we’d shared since Daddy had passed away. The child in me wanted to milk it for as long as it would last.
    I was hoping for another five minutes.
    As we descended the steps toward the sidewalk, a blast of a car horn drew my attention to the street.
    The mass exodus of mourners had turned into a bottleneck on University Boulevard, horns honking as waiting limos held up traffic. I recognized the Bentley that had once belonged to my Paw Paw double-parked, smack in the midst of the congestion. Though I couldn’t see his face beyond the tinted glass, I knew Fredrik sat behind the wheel. He was Mother’s part-time driver, a young married man whose wife had a high-powered PR job in the city. He played Mr. Mom when he wasn’t hauling Cissy around on days when she didn’t feel like handling her champagne-hued Lexus or my father’s boat-sized, perfectly preserved Cadillac Brougham that rarely left the garage.
    Cissy waved at Fred, giving him a finger—not the finger—and letting him know she’d be another minute.
    “Well, I guess this is where I exit stage left,” I said and summoned a smile, squeezing her hand, proud of her for having made no cracks whatsoever about my unfashionable dress, lack of pantyhose, missing slip, or bad hair.
    I was proud of myself, too, for surviving the long morning and all the memories it had dredged up, for lending my mother support when she’d needed it, and for avoiding any public arguments. It was definitely one for the books.
    “I’m parked in the lot off Vassar,” I told her, as I untangled our fingers, though she seemed reluctant to let go. “I think I’ll grab a bite somewhere and then head home.”
    I’d promised myself a stop at Bubba’s at Snider Plaza before I drove back to North Dallas. I had my mind set on slipping into one of their old-fashioned booths and clogging my arteries with their legendary fried chicken and mashed potatoes. I might’ve invited Cissy along, but I knew how much she liked getting her fingers greasy. (About as much as she liked watching NASCAR or shopping at the Dollar Tree. Ha!)
    “I’m really sorry about Bebe.” I breathed the words against her hair as I leaned in for a hug, inhaling the cloud of Joy that always clung to her. Then I pulled away. “I’ll see you later, okay? You call if you need me.”
    She caught my wrist, something close to panic in her eyes. “But, sweetie, you’re coming along, aren’t you? They’ll have something for you to nibble on there, and I really don’t want to go alone.”
    What was this “alone” business again? As if that had ever bothered her before. I’d always thought of my mother rather like Amelia Earhart, never afraid to fly solo. Clinging just wasn’t her style. So what was with the death grip she had on me? Her fingers wrapped around my wrist like a