I thought of the carbohydrate-packed grub at Bubba’s that I wouldn’t be eating for lunch, and still I caved. “All right, I’ll go.”
“Marvelous.” Cissy looked pleased as champagne punch. She took my hand and led me along as she had all morning.
Ah, well. Doing my dutiful daughter routine for a few hours more surely wouldn’t kill me, would it?
Chapter 4
I perched on the edge of the leather bench in the back of the Bentley, strangely eager to see Belle Meade and my long-lost camp comrade who’d built this alleged Shangri-la for seniors.
Although it was rather difficult to imagine that the wannabe Greta Garbo with whom I’d shared a cabin—“I just . . . boo hoo . . . want to be alone”—had turned into the Donald Trump of old folks’ homes . . . excuse me, independent retirement living.
Mother’s babble about Annabelle’s miraculous transformation reminded me of the lesson I’d learned on my first trip to Tiffany those many moons ago, about how an iridescent pearl grew from a tiny, irritating grain of sand. Annabelle had been quite irritating herself when she hadn’t gotten her way. She was an only child with older parents who hadn’t seemed at all involved with their late-life offspring. I’d never even met them, and she’d never talked about them much.
I shrugged, because one never knew, right? The schoolyard bully could grow up to be an opera singer, or the neighborhood klutz, a prima ballerina. And look at Bill Gates. A total geek who’d grown up to be . . . well, a billionaire total geek.
Like Doris Day used to sing, “Qué será, será . . . whatever will be, will be.”
Which was not a bad mantra, actually.
I listened as Mother gave Fredrik directions to our destination, which apparently sat off Forest Lane, west of Preston Road, a spot I recalled used to have a sprawling antiques mall in the middle and a consignment store on the corner. As we came closer, I pressed my nose against the window, my mouth open and breath steaming up the glass. The antiques mall and consignment shop had vanished. So had the surrounding parking lot.
Instead, tall perfectly trimmed hedges served as a privacy fence, stretching along the entire block. We passed yards and yards of green before we reached an opening and entered through a pair of enormous rock slabs topped with huge carriage lanterns.
Very Stonehenge chic.
Juxtaposed with the Fred Flintstone posts was a very contemporary pair of raised cameras focused on the drive and a discreet sign that let visitors know Big Brother was watching.
But where was the sign announcing, BELLE MEADE: LUXURY LIVING FOR THE GOLDEN YEARS or something to that effect? I’d half-expected a Times Square-worthy billboard or Las Vegas-style neon lights after Mother’s glowing descriptions. There wasn’t anything of the sort, not in plain sight.
Maybe it wasn’t actually a retirement community for well-to-do widows and widowers. Maybe it was really an insane asylum for women who’d cochaired one Big Steer Ball too many and had gone over the edge.
If that were the case, I’d have to book a room for Cissy.
Ha ha. Sometimes I cracked myself up.
“Is somethin’ funny?” my mother asked, and I realized I’d chuckled out loud. Maybe I was taking that stress book too seriously. Or else I was becoming delirious from the lack of food in my belly.
“Not a thing,” I said and closed my mouth, still staring out the window.
Mature trees that must’ve cost a bundle to transplant bowed above a lengthy brick drive that made for slow going, but didn’t give me whiplash the way speed bumps would have. Beyond the tunnel of branches, I could see an enormous pillared mansion, and I felt as though I’d been transported to Twelve Oaks from Gone With the Wind. I could easily picture us arriving for a barbecue with Ashley and Melanie Wilkes.
Fredrik slowed the car further as we reached a security checkpoint beside which was parked a golf cart with BELLE MEADE painted on its side in scripted letters. Hmm, how fast could that baby go in a chase? Five miles per hour? Ten?
A white-haired fellow in a tan uniform ducked his head out the window to nod us through, which made me wonder if all chauffeur-driven Bentleys were allowed to pass, or if they had Mother’s license plate recorded in their system.
“I believe that was Bob,” Cissy murmured. “Or was it Sam? I can’t keep them straight.”
So they had real-live security guards on duty? I was already impressed, and we were just on the driveway.
It stunned me to think that this was something Annabelle Meade had created, after establishing another such site in Austin, according to Mother.
Nope, it hardly seemed possible; but then I hadn’t seen her in years. After our camp days, for a while, there’d been an occasional phone call or letter before we’d left our respective prep schools and headed in different directions (she, to the University of Texas in Austin, and I to Columbia College in Chicago). The last time I’d actually laid eyes on her, we’d barely been teenagers, and we’d hardly discussed our ambitions for the future much beyond the end of camp. She must’ve changed a lot from the insecure girl I’d known, and I realized I was looking forward to our impromptu reunion, for curiosity’s sake, if nothing else.
My daddy used to say that life was a circle, and that seemed to fit in this case. The death of my mother’s lifelong friend was about to lead to my reacquaintance with my former Camp Longhorn cabinmate.
But then despair and joy were just flipsides of the same coin, right? (No, not another of my father’s sayings. I’d plucked that gem from the broken belly of a fortune cookie when Malone and I had ordered takeout a few nights back.)
Mother started pointing things out as we approached the pillared façade: the wing on the right that housed the salon, spa, and gym, and the streets lined with minimansions to the left, which she informed me were private townhouses with attached garages. The landscaping was lush, lots of flowering shrubs and plantings that doubtless required a team of green thumbs to tend.
“Bebe could let down her guard here,” Cissy remarked, and I shifted my gaze to her, watching the play of emotion on her face. “After living alone for years, albeit with a devoted staff, she loved being in the midst of a community like this. She was enjoying herself, truly coming into her own without Homer. Now she’s gone, and it isn’t fair.” She expelled a weighty sigh and sagged against the leather seat. “It was too soon for her, Andrea,” she said, and I noticed the faint track of her tears in the powder dusted on her cheeks. “Much too soon. I wasn’t ready to give her up yet.”
“We’re never ready, are we?” I asked, remembering how unprepared I’d been when Daddy had his fatal heart attack.
She pursed her lips before she answered. “No,” she said, “we never are.”
Beneath the swept-back blond of her hair, the perfect oval of her face seemed to crumple. I’d never thought of my mother as “old” before. Maybe old-fashioned, but never any of those awful words to describe someone who qualified for the senior discount, like “past her prime” or “dried up” or “out to pasture.” She was prettier than I’d ever be, always so perfectly made-up, so expertly coiffed, so stylishly dressed.
Timeless.
That was the word for her. She was my comic book Wonder Woman come to life—or the Highland Park version, anyway—using her diamond tennis bracelets to ward off bullets and her Gucci belt to shackle her enemies. I’d always imagined she’d live forever. Despite how she drove me nuts sometimes, I wished she would stick around, as long as I was here. I couldn’t imagine my life without her, though I told myself she was ornery enough to make it to a hundred, piece of cake.
But, in the filtered light of the tinted windows, she looked worn out.
My chest hurt to see it.
“You’ve still got me,” I said and nudged her, wanting to cheer her up—and maybe myself, just a little.
For an instant, a spark flickered in her eyes. “Thank God for that,” she drawled and lay her cool palm flush against my cheek. It was as close to spilling her guts as C
issy ever got. Her way of telling me she loved me.
I closed my eyes.
Suddenly, I was five years old, stuck in the backseat of the Bentley between Mother and Daddy, their thighs pressed against mine, so that I was in my own private cocoon, so safe and adored.
The Bentley’s wheels rolled to a stop, gently rocking us. She dropped her hand away, and I opened my eyes, the moment lost.
Mother waited as Fredrik came around to open her door; then she accepted his proffered hand and gracefully slid out.
Wanting to leave my hands free for some two-fisted eating, I left my handbag on the floor mat, scooted across the seat and disembarked, standing on the drive as Fredrik shut the door. He tipped his cap—Mother liked him to wear it—before he got back into the Bentley and moved it to a shady spot where he’d stay until Mother beckoned.
Though I didn’t see any other Bentleys clogging the drive, I figured that, at the very least, Belle Meade had a fleet of Town Cars to haul around the chi-chi residents to the shopping malls or Symphony Hall. Across the brick road, the sun glinted off cars neatly parked in a row marked for visitors.
“Andrea?”
Mother’s voice tugged at me, like a leash on a puppy.
She was already ascending the front steps, and I caught up with her, taking in my surroundings, the pillars that stood like grinning teeth, holding up the portico as we passed beneath. Unlike in the Old South, however, the architecture of Belle Meade had modern conventions that flowed into the setting seamlessly, like wheelchair ramps that sloped gently toward alternate entrances and artfully designed metal rails for support.
Cissy appeared to know where she was going, so I followed on her heels, sticking behind her as she approached an enormous door painted a shiny black like the window shutters. I noticed a tiny camera placed above the doorframe, aimed right at us and doubtless beaming our images to a carefully watched monitor.
At the threshold, Mother paused and rummaged in her handbag and emerged with what looked like a credit card. Only she used it to slide through a mechanism beside the jamb in the fashion of a hotel key. Within seconds, a light flashed green, and I heard the lock click free.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked her.
“It’s Bebe’s spare,” she said and tucked it back into her purse. “She put me on her list of regular visitors, which just made things so much easier, since we play bridge every Wednesday”—she caught herself, and her already faltering smile vanished. “Since we played bridge every Wednesday,” she corrected and drew in a steadying breath. Then she palmed the brass handle to push the door inward.
The faint strains of music floated toward us, too faint to make out more than the bass line, and I picked up the murmur of voices as well, from somewhere down the hall, not so far away.
As I turned to shut the door, there came the quick taps of shoes on marble, before they stopped abruptly.
“Ah, bless your heart, Cissy Kendricks, there you are!”
The squeal reverberated through the terra cottacolored cavern of the foyer, but I couldn’t see much beyond the glass-topped table and its centerpiece of wildflowers, obscuring my vision like Shaquille O’Neal with his arms spread. I glanced up to the Austrian chandelier that was every bit as large as the floral arrangement and produced so bright a light I found myself blinking, like I’d stared into the sun itself.
I caught the blur as a body rushed toward us, and a rush of jasmine-scented air swept past as a curvy woman in navy swallowed my mother in a bear hug. Not exactly the delicate air-kisses Cissy’s friends practiced.
“Oh, it’s awful, just awful,” the woman cried, the words partially muffled as she hunched over to bury her head in Mother’s shoulder.
“There, there, dear. I know it’s going to be hard without Bebe, but we will survive,” Cissy reassured her, a small hand patting a broad blue shoulder, before she deftly detangled herself and stepped a safe distance back. “We just have to pull ourselves together. N’est-ce pa?”
“Yes, yes, you’re right, of course. I’ll try not to be so weepy.” The woman wagged her chin and composed herself, fussing at her hair and smoothing the lapels of her jacket.
Boy, I thought, watching her, Mother wasn’t lying about AB coming into her own.
Annabelle Meade had grown up indeed, her ample figure no longer confined by ill-fitting cotton camp shorts and T-shirts. I’d wager the tailored linen suit she wore—and the pointy-toed pumps—had cost a pretty penny and fit her shapely form like a kid glove.
Her brown eyes and pug nose were exactly as I remembered, though her glossy dark hair had expensive streaks in it. Her tentative mouth, painted fire engine red, quivered as she finally realized I was there, standing in the shadow of my mother.
I smiled at her, gave a wiggle of my fingers.
“Oh, my gosh!” Her pupils widened, and her mouth fell open as pale pink hands fluttered to her face.
“Hi, Annabelle,” I said.
“Great balls of fire!” She came at me like a running bull in Pamplona, catching me in the same tight bear hug she’d given my mother; only she drew me off my feet for an instant before she set me down again and back-tracked so she could look at me and shake her head. “I’m not hallucinating, am I? It’s really you, Sparky, isn’t it?”
“Sparky?” my mother repeated, eyebrows arching.
Yipes. That was definitely a memory I’d suppressed.
Does a person ever get too old to blush?
My guess would be “no,” because my cheeks flamed like I’d swallowed a jalapeno pepper.
I opened my mouth to respond, but not-so-shy-anymore Annabelle Meade beat me to the punch, explaining in a rush, “Well, bless her heart, they were on about the fifteenth verse of ‘Kumbaya,’ after we’d climbed up the darned hillside and it was late and dark, so it’s no wonder Andy was so tired she nodded off and toppled over toward the campfire. Her ponytail went up like a sparkler, and Counselor Dave had to dump his canteen on her head to put it out. Remember that, Andy?”
Oy.
I winced, thinking, how could I ever forget?
“Uh, yeah, a little.” Truly, amnesia was highly underrated.
“Well, isn’t that interesting.” Cissy frowned, tapping a finger against her cheek. “Andrea, sweetie, didn’t you tell me that Cinda Lou Mitchell spit gum in your hair, and the counselor had to cut it out with pruning shears? So that I made her mother drag her over to our house and apologize once you were both home, though the poor girl swore she’d done nothing wrong.”
Why did her disapproving tone still get to me? Wasn’t that something you were supposed to outgrow before you hit thirty?
“For Pete’s sake, I was ten years old”—I started to defend myself, but Annabelle cut me off again.
“Really, Cissy, don’t be such a stickler. Who cares about a little fib? I don’t know what I would’ve done without your daughter all those years.” She clasped her hands between her breasts, and her dimpled chin trembled. “She was a lifesaver, truly. I tried and tried, but I never felt like I fit in. If it wasn’t for Sparky, I would’ve never gone back to face my fears, and I wouldn’t have made one of the best friends I’ve ever had in my whole life.”
Me?
My cheeks warmed, and I felt suddenly immeasurably guilty, for losing touch and for not realizing the importance she’d placed on our friendship, as we’d grown up and away.
“Closest pal” wasn’t a title I’d done much to earn, except for giving Annabelle whichever bunk she preferred and sharing my bug spray with her for four years straight. I’d always divided Sandy Beck’s care packages with her, since she’d never received any of her own. Annabelle Meade was the only girl I’d known who’d actually cried when she had to leave camp, rather than weeping from homesickness after arriving. What I recalled most was that she’d been a terrific storyteller, making up fantastical tales shared via whispers in the dark. I’d imagined she’d become a novelist or a playwright, not a nursing-home magnate.
�
�You put more stock in me than I did, Annabelle,” I told her, and her mouth broke into a goofy grin.
“Stop that!” She clapped me on the shoulder, hard enough to sting. “Quit being so modest, you silly goose. We were blood sisters, right? Pricked our pinkies and promised loyalty through thick and thin. The only soul I trust more than you is my guardian angel.”
Pricking pinkies to pledge our sisterhood?
I think not.
The sight of blood made me woozy.
That scene sounded right out of a movie, and I decided Annabelle the Storyteller had reshaped some camp memories to better suit her, because her real life had been so much more unpleasant. I couldn’t blame her a bit. She’d put up with a lot, that’s for sure, pretending she didn’t know that I’d become her bunkmate because no one else had wanted to sleep in the lower berth beneath her sagging cot; ignoring the muffled “oinks” when she’d passed, always refusing to rat out the offenders. Preferring to keep the pain tucked inside, even when I’d suggested nefarious pranks to get them back, like tossing all their underwear in the lake or putting frogs in their beds.
We’d shared a sense of being lost and out of place amidst the children of privilege who had all seemed cast from a mold, superficially perfect.
“Camp was a long time ago,” I said, hoping to shift the subject onto something more pleasant for us both.
But Annabelle hadn’t finished with me yet. “You haven’t changed much, have you? Still wear that same old ponytail and you’ve only got on a smidge more makeup than you did when we were twelve. I’ll bet your heart’s every bit as big as it was back then, too, am I right? I’ll wager she’s still picking up strays and taking them home, isn’t she, Miss Cissy?”
She turned to wink at my mother, who assured her that I was, noting that the latest “stray” added to my collection was a Yankee lawyer from Missouri.
“Oh, my, is that so?” Annabelle said with a wink. “Why didn’t you bring him with you, Sparky, so I could take a peek? I’ll bet he’s cute.”
The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club: A Debutante Dropout Mystery Page 4