Free The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club by Susan McBride Page B

smile.
    “Hello, Andrea. So you know our Annabelle from camp? You’ll have to tell us all about that,” she chirped. “I’d love to get the dirt on our beloved boss woman.”
    “The dirt, huh?” I repeated and shook my head at Annabelle, hoping she wouldn’t share my long-buried nickname or the sordid “Kumbaya” campfire story with them, much less the made-up bloodletting. “Suffice it to say, neither of us was much of a nature girl. I remember one time when we sat in the same patch of poison ivy on a hike and ended up splitting a bottle of calamine to cover our . . .”
    “Assets,” Annabelle jumped in, her cheeks flaming to fuchsia.
    “Ticks and mosquitoes liked us, too. Guess we were just special.” I grinned, and Annabelle gave a shy smile back.
    “I’d have to disagree, Miss Kendricks.” Dr. Finch hooked his thumbs into his trouser pockets, rocking on his heels in the way that some men did when they were about to pontificate. “When you consider that over 90 percent of people on the planet are allergic to the urushiol oil in poison ivy and sumac plants, it doesn’t make you special at all. Just very ordinary.”
    Well, thank you, Dr. Know-It-All.
    I glanced at Annabelle, my tongue itching to retort something about 90 percent of the world population being allergic to pompous jackasses, but her eyes went wide, and she shook her head, warning me off.
    “So you’re an expert on poisonous flora, Dr. Finch?” I asked, an innocent enough question.
    “No, no, not an expert. Though I am well versed in general medicine, of course. My expertise is geriatrics.” He crossed his arms over his chest, puffing out his lower lip. “Which is why Annabelle lured me here from my clinic.”
    “Arnold has such a deep understanding of the aging process.” Patsy touched her husband’s sleeve. “He’s devoted his career to prolonging the lives of others. We both have.”
    Then it was a shame that they couldn’t help Bebe Kent so Cissy would still have her friend, not to mention all her marbles , I wanted to say. I opened my mouth, ready to let loose.
    As if anticipating my reaction, Annabelle reached for my hand and gave my arm a painful jerk. “Oops, gotta dash. I promised Andy a tour of Belle Meade, so I’ll catch up with you later, Patsy . . . Arnold.”
    Then she dragged me away, past the champagne-sipping, oyster-eating, brightly dressed mourners and out the rear dining room doors to a blissfully empty courtyard.
    She closed the French doors snugly behind us, drawing me around wrought-iron furniture toward a fountain with burbling waters that glinted in the midday sun, far away from any prying ears.
    “I thought you were gonna clobber him, Sparky,” she said with a chuckle, releasing me to unclip a tiny cell phone from her waistband, hidden by her short-sleeved jacket. Palming it, she sank down onto the limestone bench that circled the fountain.
    I plunked down next to her, sighing as I settled onto the sun-warmed stone. “He would’ve had it coming. ‘Blah blah blah, it doesn’t make you special at all. It makes you very ordinary,’” I mimicked. “How do you stand him? After you finished your undergrad degree, did you take special training in massaging overblown egos?”
    “I know, I know, he’s a little full of himself,” she agreed. “But he’s good to his patients. The ladies adore him.”
    “Seriously?”
    “He might’ve flunked cocktail chatter, but he’s got a great bedside manner. He’s very sweet with them. Gets them to take all their medicine without having to add a spoonful of sugar.”
    “Go figure.” I slipped out of my shoes, setting them on the bench beside me. I stretched my toes on the Mexican tiles, still cool underfoot, while I half-turned to trail a finger in the water. Uncountable pennies glittered underneath the surface, and I thought of all the wishes they must represent.
    My gaze wandered around us, beyond the edges of the patio, toward paths that extended