Nowhere but Home Page 5

  “How long are you back for?” Dee asks, her arms folded across her chest. She looks like an adult. A grown-up I’d see in public and think would certainly have nothing whatsoever in common with me. She looks healthy and vomit-inducingly happy. Her dark hair is more styled than it used to be. That’s probably because she’s the lowest stylist on the totem pole here and everyone’s experimental head of hair. She’s wearing flowery capri pants and a light pink sleeveless blouse to go with her usual (not today apparently) sunny outlook.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I say, my smile quickly fading.

  “But not long though, right? You’re already planning to go to some other big city, right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Okay, well . . .” Dee’s face is tight. She starts to move for the shampoo again.

  “If you’re not Dee Finkel anymore, who are you then?” I ask, trying.

  “I’m sorry?” Dee asks.

  “If you’re not Dee Finkel anymore, who are you?”

  “I married Shawn Richter almost six years ago. You remember Shawn? He was a defensive lineman?”

  “Sure . . . sure. I didn’t even know you guys were dating?” I ask, glad that she’s no longer trying to escape to the shampoo rather than talk to me.

  “Yeah, we started dating a little after you left. His mom comes in here to get her hair done, so . . .”

  “Sure . . . sure . . .”

  “We have three little boys. I still want that little girl,” Dee says, pointing to an array of framed photos at one of the stylist stations out in the salon.

  “So you’re trying to say that while I have come back to town low down and broken down, you—the former Ms. Dee Finkel—have gotten everything you ever dreamed of,” I say, nodding and trying to smile.

  “You could say that, yes,” Dee says, her face flushing.

  “I’m so happy for you,” I say.

  We are quiet. Terribly awkward and quiet.

  “I’m so sorry for being rude before, but I just couldn’t stand getting all friendly with you if you’re just passing through. You and this town are like outta sight, outta mind. I guess I just miss you, is all,” Dee says, speaking quickly, her face growing blotchier and blotchier as she speaks. Dee was always way too nice to be friends with me.

  “You weren’t rude, seriously. I don’t know why I expect people to forget that I was terrible when I left here,” I say, breathing a bit easier.

  “You weren’t terrible,” Dee says.

  “You’re just too nice to say I was, but . . . I definitely was.” We fall silent again. I hear cackling laughter from the front of the salon. Fawn. I’d know that laugh anywhere.

  “I’m glad you’re back however long you’re staying,” Dee says, her eyes darting around the room.

  “You want to hug again, don’t you?”

  “You know me too well, Queenie Wake!” Dee pulls me in for a hug. A real one.

  “I’m cooking tonight for everyone. I’d love it if you, Shawn, and the boys could come over,” I say, knowing Merry Carole is always comfortable with a thousand people in her house. The realization that she gets to actually put the leaves in her dining room table will be like Christmas come early.

  “Oh, you’re sweet, but I don’t think you really want our entire brood in your house. I barely want them in mine,” Dee says.

  “I certainly do. Six?”

  “That sounds perfect. Means I don’t have to figure out what to cook. That alone,” Dee says, exhaling. I notice the salon has gotten quiet; so does Dee. We both look into the front of the salon.

  Laurel Coburn. Or as I like to call her, that bitch Everett married. I hate that she’s perfect. Her lemon yellow sundress, her leather sandals and pedicured toes. Her sunflower hair exists in its own bubble. Apparently it’s not a slave to the humidity as everyone else’s is. She is everything I’m not.

  The door to the salon opens and Whitney McKay bursts through. Short black hair and elegant in that kind of way others, myself among them, might describe as “icy.” Laurel Coburn and Whitney McKay, along with Piggy Peggy, are North Star’s resident mean girls.

  “So the rumors are true,” Laurel says, taking off her sunglasses and staring right at me.

  “Did y’all have an appointment today?” Fawn asks from behind the front desk.

  “Oh, no thank you. We just had to see it for ourselves,” Whitney says.

  It.

  Laurel and Whitney wait. I don’t move. Merry Carole thanks her customer as she hurries out and then walks over to the women.

  “I’m so glad you decided to pop in for a visit,” Merry Carole says, her voice forced and high.

  “How’s Cal? I heard he has quite the appetite,” Whitney asks.

  “He’s home napping, saving up his energy for the second practice,” Merry Carole says, puffing up.

  “Coach says he looked tired today,” Whitney says, pulling her compact out of her purse.

  “He certainly didn’t say anything like that to me,” Merry Carole says.

  “Probably just the heat,” Whitney says, touching up her face in the tiny mirror. I’m half surprised the mirror doesn’t break from the pure evil staring into it.

  Whitney used to be Whitney Ackerman before she married Wes McKay. Wes McKay is North Star’s golden boy, former all-star quarterback and Cal’s biological father. At seventeen, Merry Carole made the mistake of thinking Wes loved her. When she told him she was pregnant, he renounced her and the as yet unborn baby. Merry Carole was branded a gold-digging harlot, just like her mother, and Whitney took her rightful place as the long-suffering Lady of the McKay Manor. Merry Carole vowed never to make the mistake of trusting a man again.

  “I hear West is doing well,” Merry Carole offers, her voice painfully anxious. I settle into my stance, waiting to hear what Whitney will say of her “little brother,” West Ackerman. West Ackerman was born just months after Cal. Coincidentally, West looks exactly like Whitney and Wes. Yet she’s passed him off as her “little brother” for years. Whitney and her parents spent a year at her grandparents’ house in Houston before West’s birth. And oh, look at that, her postmenopausal mother brought back a little surprise! Even West’s name is a blend of the two actual parents’ names! But this is a lie North Star allows. The Ackermans are a respected family who wouldn’t dare be deceitful, whereas the Wakes are just a bunch of slobbering animals.

  “West is the pride of North Star and of the Ackerman family name. He’s got quite an arm, and he can catch,” Whitney says, tucking her compact back into her purse. It dawns on me that West Ackerman is probably the kid Cal was talking about this morning. Of course he is. It makes sense that the powers that be in this town would want West to take over the quarterback position made famous by his father. Of course, Wes McKay is Cal’s father, too. The citizens of North Star seem to keep conveniently forgetting that.

  During Whitney and Merry Carole’s little banter, everything comes rushing back. I can’t believe I was so naive. There is no coming back to North Star on my own terms. I may be older and wiser, but we are still the villains. We are still the unwanted. We are still the ones parents point to and warn, “Don’t brush your teeth and you’ll end up like poor Merry Carole and Queenie Wake. Let a boy get to second base and you’ll end up like poor Merry Carole and Queenie Wake. Cheat on that final and you’ll end up like poor Merry Carole and Queenie Wake.” Being Brandi-Jaques Wake’s daughters means being branded a pariah.

  We are North Star’s very own bogeymen.

  I hate that Cal has been dragged into all this history. He seems unaffected by it. Although I know from personal experience that outward appearances can be deceiving. Take right now, for instance. I look as though I haven’t a care in the world. My face wears a breezy smile. My entire body is a testament to the yogic pose mountain—balanced and rooted to the earth. I sigh and breathe as if I’m not about to explode across this room and rip Laurel’s hair out while screaming, “YOU STOLE MY MAN, YOU SOULLESS BITCH!” a
t the top of my lungs. Nope. I am a practice in calm. I breathe in for the first time in minutes, hours maybe. I snap out of my trance. Laurel’s eyes are still fixed on me. I love it. I love that I’ve always gotten under her perfectly moisturized alabaster skin. I steady my breathing—like a sniper focusing his target in the crosshairs.

  “We’d better get going. I’ve got to get supper on the table for Wes and the kids,” Whitney says with a particularly giddy undertone.

  “Great seeing you guys! See you at the Fourth of July festival!” Merry Carole calls out as they leave the salon.

  The door closes. I begin to speak—

  “Don’t say a word, Queen Elizabeth. Not. One. Word,” Merry Carole says, retreating to the bathroom.

  The bathroom door slams behind her.

  6

  The Number One

  Mom ran her restaurant out of an eight-by-eight-foot shack connected to the Drinkers Hall of Fame, the one bar in town. The restaurant was an old storage shed on a small corner plot of land and the only thing the Wake family ever owned. Almost as an afterthought, Mom nailed a board by the take-out window with the word WAKE branded into it. She kept the same hours as the bar and her entire staff consisted of Fawn, Merry Carole, and me. No matter what anyone in North Star thought of my mom, everyone agreed on one thing: she was the best cook in the Texas Hill Country. She was known for her barbecue and fried pies. But she was most famous for one particular dish. The dish people would drive hundreds of miles for was simply called the Number One. I imagine Momma was going to make a list of specials. The trouble was, she never got past the Number One. So there it sat at the top of the menu, alone, all by itself.

  The Number One:

  Chicken fried steak with cream gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans cooked in bacon fat, one buttermilk biscuit, and a slice of pecan pie

  With Brad’s words ringing in my head about my vague culinary vision, I decide to make the Number One for tonight’s supper. After leaving the salon, I drive to various farm stands, grocery stores, and butchers. I handpick the top-round steak with care, choose fresh eggs one by one, and feel an immense sense of home as I pull Mom’s cast-iron skillet from the depths of Merry Carole’s cabinets. My happiest memories involve me walking into whatever house we were staying in at the time to the sounds and smells of chicken fried steak sizzling away in that skillet. This dish is at the very epicenter of who I am. If my culinary roots start anywhere, it’s with the Number One.

  As I tenderize the beef, my mind is clear and I’m happy. I haven’t cooked like this—my recipes for me and the people I love—in far too long. If ever. Time flies as I roll out the crust for the pecan pie. I’m happy and contented as I cut out the biscuit rounds one by one. I haven’t a care in the world. Being in Merry Carole’s kitchen has washed away everything I left in New York, along with everything that’s happened in the whirlwind of being back in North Star. Laurel’s little tantrum at the salon is a distant memory. However dramatic and ridiculous she is, she also gets to go home to the man I’ve loved since I was in kindergarten. I focus back on the cooking. It’s almost time for supper. The front door opens and closes.

  Merry Carole walks into the kitchen with a bouquet of Texas yellow bells. I can see the emotion on her face as she approaches me. With everything warming in the oven, the last thing to do before the guests arrive is fry this steak.

  “I know,” I say, taking her hand.

  “I can’t believe you’re cooking the Number One. I haven’t . . . I haven’t walked into a house with that smell in years. It smells exactly the same.” Merry Carole dabs at her mascara.

  “Let’s face it, toward the end there I was in that kitchen more than she was,” I say, lifting the steak out of the skillet.

  “The kitchen is a lot cleaner than I thought it was going to be,” Merry Carole says, scanning the already set dining room table and spotless kitchen.

  “I guess that’s the one positive by-product of working in all those fancy kitchens. If you don’t have a clean workspace, there’s hell to pay,” I say, quickly swiping at the counter.

  “It’s like you were shipped off to the culinary army,” Merry Carole says, setting the flowers on the counter and pulling a vase down from one of the upper cabinets. She arranges them quickly and sets them in the middle of the table.

  “That’s certainly what it felt like,” I say, pulling my arm away from the splattering lard. The front door opens and slams.

  “Whatever that is I smell, bless you,” Cal yells as he walks through the front room.

  “Chicken fried steak, my dear. Now go take a quick shower and put on something presentable. We’re having company,” Merry Carole says, reaching up to fuss with his bangs. She continues, “I wish you would let me cut these. Just a touch . . . You have such pretty eyes, sweetness and light.” Merry Carole calling her varsity-football-playing son sweetness and light damn near melts my heart.

  “Is that—” Cal stops. I’m sure he’s heard the stories. Merry Carole sighs and drags her gaze away from Cal’s overgrown bangs.

  “It is, in fact, the Number One. You’re in for a treat,” I say, turning away from the stovetop briefly.

  “I didn’t think it really existed,” Cal says, gazing into the kitchen.

  “Oh, it exists, but if you don’t shower up, it’ll become a myth,” Merry Carole says, pushing him toward the bathroom. He obliges, his gait quickening as he realizes what’s in store.

  “Tired, my ass. That boy is amazing,” Merry Carole says, her voice breaking.

  “She was deliberately messing with you,” I say, taking the last chicken fried steak from the lard.

  “West Ackerman is the pride of North Star,” Merry Carole mimics.

  “Does Cal know?”

  “No!” Merry Carole shushes me, checking to see if he is out of earshot. The guests are due in minutes.

  “He’s in the shower,” I say, washing the last of the dishes. I squeeze out the dishrag, take my apron off, and hang it back up. The kitchen looks just as I found it.

  “He has no idea who West really is to him, so please, you can’t breathe a word of it.”

  “Honey, I have no intention of telling him, but I do think you’re kidding yourself if you think he hasn’t heard the rumors. He’d heard about the Number One. Do you honestly think he hasn’t heard about Wes McKay fathering not one, but two children illegitimately before his marriage to the Ice Queen lobotomized him?” I ask, giving the pitcher of homemade lemonade a quick stir.

  “It was hard enough when Wes disowned us; I’m certainly not giving Whitney and her people the opportunity to do it again,” Merry Carole says.

  “You have a point,” I say.

  “I know I do. West is a good kid. Cal likes him. Maybe someday . . . ,” Merry Carole says. She offers a small smile as the doorbell rings.

  “Maybe,” I say.

  Fawn and Pete are loud and happy to be here. Fawn introduces me to Pete as Merry Carole waits by the open door greeting Dee and her brood as they mosey down the long driveway.

  I offer Fawn and Pete some beer or lemonade. They mill around the kitchen as I pour them their glasses. Everyone is a bit taken aback. I don’t know if it’s because this is Momma’s dish or that I’m making it. Fawn looks like she’s seen a ghost as she breathes in the scents coming from the kitchen. Yes, it’s the Number One, I say, trying to lighten the mood. Yes, Momma taught me how to make it. Yes, she finally admitted I made it better than she did toward the end there.

  Then the entire house is alive and loud with bursting energy. I imagine it’s Dee’s brood. I excuse myself from Fawn and Pete and head to the front room. Shawn is a big man, barrel chested and powerful. I recognize him vaguely from high school. I doubt our paths would have crossed. Matter of fact, I don’t think he and Dee really knew each other in high school, either. Football players tend to keep to themselves. Today, he wears a denim shirt tucked into khaki pants and a heavy gold chain with a cross. He’s smiling and wrangling children as he
steps inside Merry Carole’s house.

  “Queenie, this is Shawn,” Dee says, keeping an eye on an errant child. We shake hands and my hand is lost in his.

  “And who might you guys be?” I ask, looking at the little stair-step boys barely containing themselves.

  “You asked for it,” Shawn says, smiling.

  “I certainly did,” I say, laughing.

  “Queenie, this is our oldest, Shawn Junior, and Chance is in the middle there, and the little one is Austin.” The little boys are all under the age of six and wearing exactly the same outfit: khaki shorts and a short-sleeved denim shirt with sandals. Apparently, all of the Richter men dress exactly the same.

  “Come on in, supper is ready,” I say, just as Cal comes back from his shower. He joins us at the table.

  “Sit, sit!” Merry Carole says as Fawn and Dee offer their help, clearly unaccustomed to being waited on.

  Our guests sit and Merry Carole and I bring out the dishes one by one. The chicken fried steak, the cream gravy, the mashed potatoes, and the green beans cooked in bacon fat. I bring over a tea towel–lined basket filled with biscuits. Merry Carole asks if anyone needs a beer or some lemonade. Cal says he’ll have a beer. Merry Carole brings him lemonade. Dee’s boys think Cal is hysterical.

  Merry Carole and I sit. I hold my hands out to Cal and Shawn for grace. Everyone looks to Merry Carole. We close our eyes and bow our heads.

  “Thank you, Lord, for the feast you have provided us with and for your continued love and guidance. Thank you for blessing me with a strong, healthy boy who any mom would be proud of. Thank you for blessing us, oh Lord, with friends and loved ones who are with us at our table and with you in your blessed kingdom. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

  “Amen,” we all say in unison. Merry Carole and I are both fighting back a confused muddle of emotion as we pass plates, serve ourselves, and tell people we’re fine. We laugh, recount stories (leaving out all of the messy details) of our childhood, and talk about football. It’s a beautiful night.

  “Dee says you’re going to be in town for a while,” Shawn says, as the meal winds down.