The Lone Star Lonely Hearts Club by Susan McBride Page A

as she did right that minute, and I figured it was long overdue.
    “With Belle Meade, I finally realized who I was,” she admitted, luminous with the sun at her back and the fountain gurgling merrily behind her. “After all the rejection, and my parents always griping that I’d amount to nothing, I’ve proved them wrong.”
    “Good for you,” I said, remembering her complaints about how hard on her they were and realizing how great it felt to accomplish something on your own, no matter what it was.
    “Worst part is”—she cast her gaze down and plucked at the buttons on her jacket—“they never saw any of it.”
    The news blindsided me. “I’m sorry, Annabelle. I had no idea. When was this?” I wondered, so surprised that Cissy hadn’t mentioned it; because I couldn’t believe she hadn’t heard. Mother’s grapevine worked better than Ma Bell ever had and was faster than any Internet connection.
    “Before I even started thinking of the first Belle Meade, about six years ago.” She exhaled, looking away, her eyes misting. “They were at their lake house in Austin, when it burned to the ground. They were both asleep. The fire investigators eventually ruled it was an accident. They said a burner had been left on the stove, and a potholder or dishtowel must’ve been lying too close. Their smoke alarms must not have gone off. My father was always forgetting to replace the batteries.”
    “Oh, geez, I don’t know what to say.”
    What could I have said to that?
    She turned and gazed directly at me, taking my hand and squeezing. “It’s when I decided to do this, Andy. To build a place where people could enjoy life and be safe as they grow older. I wanted to watch over them, so they could live their lives to the fullest, not lacking for anything.”
    Though she wasn’t exactly helping the indigent, her aspirations seemed more admirable than many of the goals I’d heard from girls with whom I’d gone to prep school, most having to do with marrying well and producing sons to carry on the family crest.
    “You’ve done that, Annabelle. I’m sure your parents would be proud to see who you’ve become.”
    “Maybe.” Her chin trembled. “I feel just horrible about Bebe,” she said, swiping her sleeve at the glisten of tears on her lashes. “I wish I could’ve done something differently, so she’d still be alive today.”
    “But it wasn’t your fault,” I reminded her. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault. You can’t stop someone from dying, if it’s her time, right?”
    “I know,” she said and tugged at her jacket, seeming to pull herself together.
    “Is Mrs. Kent the first of your residents to”—how could I put this delicately—“check out?”
    “No, of course, not.” She sniffed. “We’ve got community members anywhere from sixty years old to Miss Myra Bentwood who just turned ninety-five. If they’re too sick for assisted living, we move them to a chronic-care facility near Presbyterian. Which means our rate of loss is relatively low, but still . . . every once in a while, it happens.” She puffed out her cheeks. “Look, I see where you’re going with this, Andy, but it doesn’t make it any easier to accept. I get to know them so well. Despite everything, it hurts when I lose a member of our family.”
    I watched her as she poured her heart out, wondering if this could really be the same Annabelle Meade from Camp Longhorn. I remembered the girl who’d cried herself to sleep, who’d hated competitions, who’d never liked herself much, and who’d tried hard to live by the credo of “sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me.” (As though that ever worked for anyone.)
    That girl seemed a faint shadow of the woman who sat beside me on the lip of the limestone fountain—her fountain, her everything.
    I suddenly felt very glad that Cissy had twisted my arm into coming. I liked this Annabelle far better than the younger version I’d known.
    A slow smile