Read The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club Online
Authors: Susan McBride
Tags: #Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Mystery & Detective, #General
The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club
DedicationThis book is dedicated to mothers and daughters everywhere.
And to the memory of my grandma, Helen Meisel,
who just wanted a hand to hold.
The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club
A
gain, thanks to Robin Waldron, M.D., for answering my crazy questions; also to pharmacist Ethel Neal for confirming that my method of murder was not too farfetched for fiction.
I’ve said this before, but it’s worth repeating: working with Sarah Durand is an absolute joy. I’m also extremely fortunate to have found my way to Andrea Cirillo and Maggie Kelly this past year. Here’s to many fun and fruitful days ahead!
To the rest of my friends and family who keep me smiling even when things get nuts. If not for you, I would have to be medicated. (I’m kidding. Sort of.)
“It is never too late to be what you might have been.”
—George Eliot
G
etting old was murder.
Make no mistake about it.
Sarah Lee Sewell tugged on the loose skin of her cheeks and frowned at the mirror, wondering if it wasn’t time she got a little nip and tuck. Every woman her age in Dallas—and not a few of the men—had been doing it for years. But, as long as Eldon had been alive, Sarah Lee hadn’t put too much stock in her faded appearance.
“I love you for what’s inside, honey pie, not for the gift-wrapping”—his blue eyes had twinkled as they’d looked her up and down—“though I’ve got no complaints about that, either.”
The smile that formed on her lips at the memory fast died, and she sighed at her tired reflection.
“Oh, Eldon,” she said, to no one but herself. “How I miss you.”
She missed his wit.
Missed his scent, of tweed and pipe tobacco.
Missed having a hand to hold. That, most of all.
After five decades of marriage, two years seemed a long time to go without the touch of a man. Maybe some women could stand it, but Sarah Lee couldn’t. It was a slow death in itself, like being starved or suffocated. Even cats needed to be stroked now and then.
Sarah Lee was only human.
Which was why she’d gone and done what she had, something she never in her wildest dreams imagined she’d do and still wasn’t too all-fired sure about.
She’d started dating.
She hadn’t told any of her friends what she was up to and wasn’t certain she’d stick it out, but she’d promised herself she’d give it a decent shot before she chucked the idea as pure insanity.
She’d been out to dinner twice already with several different gentlemen, the conversation pleasant if not a little awkward. They had asked if they might call on her again, and Sarah Lee hadn’t objected. Though getting used to being courted at this point in her life gave her butterflies as big as B-2 bombers.
She fumbled with a silver tube of lipstick, swiping her thin mouth one last time with a well-used crimson. Then she pinched her cheeks and nodded, knowing she’d done the best she could with what she had.
Which is when her legs began to tremble.
Dear God, why on earth was she doing this?
Because you’re lonely
, a tiny voice reminded her.
Because Eldon’s been gone for years, and you don’t like to be alone.
It wasn’t even sex. She merely wanted to be held in the snug circle of a man’s arms. Was that such a terrible thing?
She sighed and steadied herself against the marble counter.
Before her recent outings, the last real “date” she’d been on was back in high school, and her suitor had been a sixteen-year-old Highland Park football star named Eldon Sewell. Sarah Lee had been top of her class at Ursuline Academy, smart enough to know a catch when she’d hooked him. At eighteen, they’d married, living in off-campus housing in Fort Worth as they’d worked their way through TCU, building a foundation that had lasted “till death do us part.” They’d still be together if that damned cancer hadn’t chewed Eldon’s life away from the inside out.
She’d never been with anyone before him, nor since. Not in the biblical sense. Which made her something of a freak in these fast and loose times, didn’t it? She was an eight-track tape in a digital era, and the way her friends kept dying off, pretty soon they’d all be extinct.
You’re morbid, Sarah Lee
, she thought and laughed at herself.
But death scared her far less than the dating game she’d been playing.
She patted her hair, styled in the same teased and sprayed coif she’d worn for too many years, and she figured it was time for a change. She was a different person than she’d been: more self-assured and assertive.
Maybe she’d try that fellow at the Plaza Park Salon about whom her terribly chic friend Cissy Kendricks had been raving lately. She’d get his name when she saw Cissy Wednesday at bridge, because it wouldn’t be appropriate to inquire at the church service for Bebe Kent the next morning.
Ah, poor Bebe.
With bent fingers, she reached for her brush.
The doorbell chimed.
Startled, the brush dropped from her hand, clattering into the bowl of the sink, and she turned toward the hallway, her heart zigzagging in her chest, it beat so loudly.
Who could that be?
she wondered, because she’d arranged to meet her date at the restaurant, as she’d done with the two before him. A neutral spot, because she didn’t want strangers in her home, not at night when she was by herself, despite the relative security of her surroundings.
Probably just a neighbor, or one of the staff come to sweet-talk her into submission. You’d think for all she’d paid to live in this highbrow retirement home, Housekeeping could come more than twice a week, her toilets would flush properly, and they could keep the damned squirrels out of her attic. No matter if it was the director herself, panting like a puppy dog and begging to please, Sarah Lee wasn’t letting her in. They could discuss her complaints at
her
convenience or she surely would drag in her lawyer.
Oh, dear
, she realized, smoothing the hem of her dress. She had to leave in fifteen minutes flat if she wanted to be on time for the dinner reservation.
She took a deep breath and shut off the bathroom light as she stepped into the hallway.
The bell chimed again.
“Coming,” she trilled and hurried toward the noise, passing the photographs of herself and Eldon hanging on the walls, not seeing them, too curious about the visitor who waited for her on the other side of the door. She seriously hoped it wasn’t her date, to whom she’d stated quite plainly that she preferred to drive herself; but some men of her generation found the idea an affront to their chivalry.
Pulse skipping, she put an eye to the peephole and squinted.
Hmmm.
This put her in a pickle.
She unlocked the door and pulled it wide. “Well, goodness, I wasn’t expecting to see you.” She stared at the visitor who stood on her welcome mat, unsure of how to handle things except to put on a polite face and mind her manners. “Oh, dear, I can only spare a minute or two.” She forced a smile and stepped back, making way. “But, please, won’t you come in?”
It was the last question Sarah Lee Sewell would ever ask.
I
only had one funeral dress.
My closet wasn’t exactly equipped for death.
If I’d been the proper Dallas debutante my mother had reared me to be, I would’ve owned uncountable black outfits, enough styles to accommodate any social occasion, from cocktail parties to gallery openings to saying
sayonara
to the dearly departed.
But I wasn’t a debutante, much less a proper one.
I’d never debuted at all, much to Mother’s everlasting chagrin. She’d blamed it on my grief over my father’s death when I was eighteen, a sudden stroke of temporary insanity, while I regarded my refusal to “come out” (and I’m talking socially) as finally coming to my senses. Defying Cissy Blevins Kendricks over something so important to her—and so meaningless to me—felt like the unveiling of the real Andy Kendricks. I’d been born-again, only not in any religious sense. It had more to do with my desire to be a regular human being, regardless of how desperately Cissy wanted me to follow in her Ferragamo-heeled footsteps.
I would no more be a society maven—like her—than a brain surgeon or a rocket scientist. It just wasn’t in the cards, no matter how she tried to stack the deck. I cherished my independence after growing up alongside far too many Step-ford children who seemed perfectly willing to follow the rules, such as they were, so as not to be disenfranchised by their wealthy parents. Any acts of rebellion on their part were carefully exorcised in the bars and on the beaches of Cabo on spring break.
Thank God my father had encouraged my free spirit. Unfortunately, it had taken his death to release it completely. I’d spent the better part of the last decade channeling his strength in order to beat back my mother’s attempts to corrupt me with invitations to the city’s most exclusive grand openings and galas, or the latest from Escada or Fendi.
So far, I’d done a passable job resisting.
Despite Cissy’s best efforts, she’d failed to turn me into a fashion plate, though my brain was still wired to recognize a Pucci when I saw one. I’d been a deb-in-training from the moment I’d left the womb, and those lessons were ones I couldn’t shake from my system, not unless I developed amnesia or had a lobotomy (and I wasn’t planning to do either).
Regardless of Cissy’s influence, these days I was more about comfort than couture. I’m sure the salesladies at Chanel in Highland Park Village would shudder and shoo me out the door were I to walk in wearing my uniform of paint-spattered jeans and faded
SAVE THE RAINFOREST
T-shirt. While my perfectly put-together pearl-wearing mother had them salivating like Pavlov’s dogs the moment she set off the door chime. I didn’t doubt they had the digits on her Platinum MasterCard memorized. They had her number, regardless.
There was little chance of my winding up beside Cissy on the
Park Cities Press
’s annual “bestdressed” list. My tastes didn’t go much beyond bargain hunting at vintage and resale shops, when I did shop at all.
A fashionista, I was not. I was an artist and web designer, doing lots of pro bono work, primarily for underfunded charities. Most days I lived in sweatpants and wrinkled button-downs left behind by Brian Malone, my current squeeze who happened to be an attorney. Though dating a man with a steady job and clean-cut appearance wasn’t my norm, Malone made my heart skip in a way that no free-spirited poet-cum-bartender had before him. And he never complained about the sorry state of my wardrobe, which scored huge points in his favor.
Particularly because he had good cause to complain, I decided, clearheadedly taking in the contents of my small walk-in closet, which more closely resembled donations to the Goodwill bin than the racks at Saks. Full of well-worn jeans, cotton T-shirts, and sneakers, everything—or most of it—made of natural fibers, none branded with a high-class label.
There were times, despite myself, when I wanted to call my Fairy Clothes-Mother to wave her magic wand and fix me up.