anyone.”
I pushed my hair off my neck. “She didn’t say that, did she?”
“Her very words.”
“ Oh, my gawd ,” I groaned, thinking the “didn’t kill anyone” bit would probably end up in a headline. But I was proud of her, in a warped kind of way.
“Cissy said she likes Dr. Taylor very much . . . Beth’s her name . . . her husband Richard is an investment banker . . . so much so that she’s asked her over to the Dallas Diet Club meeting on Saturday afternoon.”
“You’re kidding?” I said, because that was a headline-maker in itself.
The Dallas Diet Club wasn’t anything like it sounded. It had nothing to do with calorie counting, exercise, or weight loss. Several times each month, a small group of my mother’s friends gathered at the house of one, where cards were played, gossip shared, and decadent desserts devoured; goodies prepared by the finest pastry chefs in Dallas, usually called “Death by Chocolate” or something equally lethal-sounding. Cissy and her pals rarely let a new member in, so this Dr. Beth Taylor didn’t know how privileged she was. There was practically a waiting list of women who wanted to join. Had Ethel Etherington’s demise opened up a spot? Because it pretty much took a member’s death for that to happen.
“So Mother’s hosting?”
“Yes.” Sandy didn’t exactly look thrilled. “Which wouldn’t be any more bother than usual, except I’m told that Marilee Mabry wants to bring her cameras and film the Diet Club meeting for a segment on her show. She’d like to feature some of the recipes, and your mother thinks it’s a grand idea.”
“You’re joking?”
“I wish I were.”
Marilee was bringing a crew to tape at Mother’s?
I sat with my mouth open, already envisioning the chaos sure to ensue.
Marilee bossing around women who took orders from no one. People tromping on Cissy’s priceless silk rugs, sitting on her antique furniture, setting up lights, and rearranging rooms in order to get the best shot.
It was a disaster waiting to happen.
Oh, to be a fly on the wall . . . .
“Would you like sit on the sidelines with me, sweet pea?” Sandy asked, and a slow smile tugged at her lips. “I might need help with crowd control.”
“You know, Sandy, I just may do that,” I replied, returning her grin.
Might just take some of the sting out of having to attend the party this evening. Speaking of which—I checked my watch—I had to get rolling.
So I thanked Sandy for the lemonade and the reassurances, picked up the bags from Escada and headed home before my Jeep turned into a pumpkin-shaped BMW.
Chapter 5
A better part of the day had vanished by the time I parked in front of my condo and walked through the front door.
So much for a quick trip to Beverly.
My goal to return empty-handed hadn’t exactly panned out either, I mused, as I hung up the cocktail dress in its zipper bag on my closet door. I plopped down on the edge of my bed with the shopping bag and spent the next few minutes plucking out scads of tissue paper before unearthing the slingbacks and trying them on. I stared down at my feet, dangling over the edge, and a drawn-out sigh escaped me.
At least I wouldn’t have to repaint my toenails. No one would see the chipped green while I was wearing these babies. I didn’t even want to think of how much they’d cost. Nope, I wasn’t going to dwell on how many bags of Iams I could donate to Operation Kindness with what Mother had spent to dress me up as the proper little heiress, suitable for public consumption.
It would be a completely guilt-free evening.
I’d spent the drive back to my condo convincing myself that, as long as I was going to have to suffer through this damned party, I might as well look good. Or as good as I got without being dragged to the salon with Mother, which was definitely not on my agenda this afternoon or any afternoon in the foreseeable future.
If I needed a trim, I either paid $9.99
I pushed my hair off my neck. “She didn’t say that, did she?”
“Her very words.”
“ Oh, my gawd ,” I groaned, thinking the “didn’t kill anyone” bit would probably end up in a headline. But I was proud of her, in a warped kind of way.
“Cissy said she likes Dr. Taylor very much . . . Beth’s her name . . . her husband Richard is an investment banker . . . so much so that she’s asked her over to the Dallas Diet Club meeting on Saturday afternoon.”
“You’re kidding?” I said, because that was a headline-maker in itself.
The Dallas Diet Club wasn’t anything like it sounded. It had nothing to do with calorie counting, exercise, or weight loss. Several times each month, a small group of my mother’s friends gathered at the house of one, where cards were played, gossip shared, and decadent desserts devoured; goodies prepared by the finest pastry chefs in Dallas, usually called “Death by Chocolate” or something equally lethal-sounding. Cissy and her pals rarely let a new member in, so this Dr. Beth Taylor didn’t know how privileged she was. There was practically a waiting list of women who wanted to join. Had Ethel Etherington’s demise opened up a spot? Because it pretty much took a member’s death for that to happen.
“So Mother’s hosting?”
“Yes.” Sandy didn’t exactly look thrilled. “Which wouldn’t be any more bother than usual, except I’m told that Marilee Mabry wants to bring her cameras and film the Diet Club meeting for a segment on her show. She’d like to feature some of the recipes, and your mother thinks it’s a grand idea.”
“You’re joking?”
“I wish I were.”
Marilee was bringing a crew to tape at Mother’s?
I sat with my mouth open, already envisioning the chaos sure to ensue.
Marilee bossing around women who took orders from no one. People tromping on Cissy’s priceless silk rugs, sitting on her antique furniture, setting up lights, and rearranging rooms in order to get the best shot.
It was a disaster waiting to happen.
Oh, to be a fly on the wall . . . .
“Would you like sit on the sidelines with me, sweet pea?” Sandy asked, and a slow smile tugged at her lips. “I might need help with crowd control.”
“You know, Sandy, I just may do that,” I replied, returning her grin.
Might just take some of the sting out of having to attend the party this evening. Speaking of which—I checked my watch—I had to get rolling.
So I thanked Sandy for the lemonade and the reassurances, picked up the bags from Escada and headed home before my Jeep turned into a pumpkin-shaped BMW.
Chapter 5
A better part of the day had vanished by the time I parked in front of my condo and walked through the front door.
So much for a quick trip to Beverly.
My goal to return empty-handed hadn’t exactly panned out either, I mused, as I hung up the cocktail dress in its zipper bag on my closet door. I plopped down on the edge of my bed with the shopping bag and spent the next few minutes plucking out scads of tissue paper before unearthing the slingbacks and trying them on. I stared down at my feet, dangling over the edge, and a drawn-out sigh escaped me.
At least I wouldn’t have to repaint my toenails. No one would see the chipped green while I was wearing these babies. I didn’t even want to think of how much they’d cost. Nope, I wasn’t going to dwell on how many bags of Iams I could donate to Operation Kindness with what Mother had spent to dress me up as the proper little heiress, suitable for public consumption.
It would be a completely guilt-free evening.
I’d spent the drive back to my condo convincing myself that, as long as I was going to have to suffer through this damned party, I might as well look good. Or as good as I got without being dragged to the salon with Mother, which was definitely not on my agenda this afternoon or any afternoon in the foreseeable future.
If I needed a trim, I either paid $9.99
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