Nowhere but Home (23 page)

“Why does she come in here then?” I ask, as she pulls the shoulder of the sundress straight across my shoulders.

“Because I'm the best,” Merry Carole says.

“They're all nothing if not vain,” Fawn adds under her breath.

“I love that they have to come here,” I say.

“Oh absolutely. You can talk smack all you want, but if you want your hair to look its best, you've got to do some groveling,” Merry Carole whispers, through her giggles.

“Funny how there's always a bit of a wait whenever they're trying to make those appointments,” Fawn says.

Merry Carole's eyes widen, and I know without having to look that Hudson has pulled up in front of the salon. My stomach drops. I feel nauseated. No. Remember. I feel invigorated . . . and nauseated.

“I am excited,” I say, my voice robotic.

“You need to get it together, is what you need to do,” Merry Carole says, her hand on my shoulder grounding me.

“Holy shit, Queen Elizabeth,” Fawn says. I turn to see Hudson walking toward the salon.

He's parked his dark gray Audi and is beeping it locked as he hops up on the curb, his pace quickening. He's wearing a dark blue polo tucked absently into the front of a pair of khakis, his leather belt visible. His black hair is still wet from the shower and it looks like he hasn't shaved in a few days, the black stubble outlining his ridiculous jawline all the more.

“Everett
who,
” Dee whispers, her mouth hanging open.

“Okay, let's all get it together,” Merry Carole says, walking over to the front desk as if on urgent business. She just stands there, not knowing what to do with herself. She flips the appointment book open with a flourish. Fawn and Dee look around the salon, not unlike a couple of kids looking for a hiding place. I don't take my eyes off Hudson, but I can feel Piggy Peggy watching this entire scene from under her hair dryer. Hudson opens the door and bursts into the salon.

We are all staring right at him when he enters.

“I know my hair needs a trim, but . . .” Hudson runs his hand through his damp hair. I can smell the shampoo from here.

“No, no . . . ,” I say, laughing. I walk up to him and usher him into the salon. Piggy Peggy's dryer whirs on in the background. I continue, “Hudson Bishop, this is my sister, Merry Carole Wake. This is Fawn Briggs. And this is Dee Richter,” I say, introducing each of the women. They shake hands and I can see them all blush a bit as he greets them.

“So you guys all know about Delfina's then?” Hudson asks, stuffing his hands in his pockets. I can't stop smiling.

“That sounds an awful lot like you're looking for confirmation that such a place even exists,” Fawn says, her husky voice adding to the allure.

Hudson laughs, nodding in agreement. We say our good-byes and just as we're leaving I turn to see Piggy Peggy, staring. Her entire face filled with amazement and disbelief. I turn and walk out the door that Hudson is holding open for me and feel somehow cleansed. They may rule this town and control the gossip, but tonight?

Tonight I won.

18

Barbecued pork ribs, coleslaw, white bread, and a slice of peach pie

“Queen Elizabeth Wake, get your bottom in this house,” Delfina says, tugging me inside by the arm.

“Yes, Mrs. Delfina,” I say, while being squeezed and crunched to death by a tiny woman pushing seventy. She pulls me close, wrapping her arms around me and reaching up to kiss me on the top of my head. She's always been a tiny woman, not an ounce of fat on her. And the way she cooks, she should be as big as . . . well, as the people who eat her food.

“And who's this fine-looking man you've brought with you?” Delfina shunts me aside and takes Hudson's hand, acting like a schoolgirl.

“Mrs. Delfina, this is Hudson Bishop. He's not from here,” I say.

“You're telling
me
he's not,” Delfina says.

“Ma'am,” Hudson says, his face coloring.

“Get on out back now. Pansy will bring y'all a plate,” Delfina says, shooing us out into her backyard. I nod and oblige her. We walk out the back door and onto the patio.

“We don't order?” Hudson whispers.

“Delfina brings you what she's cooking and you say thank you,” I say, whispering.

“This night just keeps getting better and better,” Hudson says, taking my hand and squeezing it tight.

Delfina's Place is known only to locals and apparently patrons of a particular B and B in Evans. Delfina Mack is part of the DNA of North Star. She started cooking at her momma's side as soon as she could walk. I used to hang around here a lot as a kid, picking up whatever I could. Delfina knew I didn't have much in the way of a home life, so she obliged me. Although, sometimes she would try to wheedle Mom's recipes out of me and vice versa. It's hardly an understatement to say that the two women were competitive.

We walk out into the backyard; swamp coolers clunk and boom on the edges of the potholed lawn. The huge smoker sits over on the side of the backyard, Delfina's only son at the helm. The smell of oak and barbecue permeate the air around the small house. Delfina was always on one side of town and Mom was on the other. Delfina uses oak for her barbecue and Mom (and me) always used hickory. People said that you could tell where North Star was solely based on the competing smells that met in the air just above the town. That little weevil of an idea pops back up. Our plot of land. It's still there.

“There's a table in the back,” Hudson says, gesturing toward the table. I nod and smile, finding myself a bit distracted by the possibilities. About a lot of things. I hold Hudson's hand a bit tighter.

Plastic chairs sit around small tables, and benches line a big wooden community table that runs down the center of the lawn. White Christmas lights are thrown absently over wash lines, but it's perfect. Delfina's Place is heaven on earth. Everyone talks and laughs over the swamp coolers, eating the best food this region has to offer. I wonder where I would fit in. Would I carve out my own place just like Momma did? Would I do better? The same? Different? Where would my cooking fit into North Star's tradition?

Hudson and I settle into the table in the back of the yard.

“Queenie Wake, well, look at what the cat dragged in,” Pansy Mack squeals, setting down two sets of cutlery wrapped in paper napkins. Pansy is one of Delfina's nine daughters. All nine girls are named after some kind of flower. Her oldest and only son, however, is simply named Steve.

“Hey there, Pansy,” I say, smiling.

“And who do we have here?”

“Pansy Mack, this is Hudson Bishop. He teaches over at UT,” I say, looking from Pansy to Hudson.

“Nice to meet you,” Hudson says, offering his hand. She takes it and shakes it ever so slowly. Pansy is all big tits, blue eye shadow, and cackling laughter. She's been married more times than I can remember, but she's also the first person to buy you a beer or bring you a plate if you're going through something. She's also the same person who makes a point of reminding the Wakes that they're a bit lower than the Macks in the town bogeymen pecking order.

“Y'all want some sweet tea, lemonade, Coke, or a Dr. Pepper?” Pansy asks, scanning the full to bursting backyard. With the community table stretching down the middle, combined with the smattering of tables on the fringes of the lawn, there are about thirty people here tonight. Pansy and Daisy, the youngest Mack, are the only waitresses Delfina needs. They are a well-oiled machine.

“Two sweet teas, please,” I say.

“You guys don't have something a little stronger, do you?” Hudson asks.

“Aren't you just the cutest?” Pansy says, walking away from us with a flourish.

“If they don't offer it, you don't ask. They also really don't have any hours. They're open as long as they have food and close when they run out,” I say, settling into the rickety plastic chair.

“Thank you so much for bringing me here,” Hudson says, leaning over and giving me a kiss. It catches me so off guard that he pulls back. “Is that okay? That I do that?” I smile and think of Merry Carole, nonetheless an odd thing to think of as a beautiful man is kissing me without any thought of who sees.

“Delfina has rules,” I say, my face coloring.

“Does she now?” Hudson says, looking around at the clientele.

“We want her food, we abide by her rules,” I say. I quickly look around to make sure no one was watching. We are kind of tucked into the back, so maybe . . . I scan the crowd. It's a hot summer night at the most popular restaurant in North Star. Maybe no one saw. Then my eyes fall on a particularly crowded table set up close to the house. We must have walked right past it.

Laurel. Whitney. And an entire cabal of mean girls staring right at us.

I take a deep breath and continue scanning the crowd as if my heart didn't just stop at seeing them. Laurel takes her napkin out of her lap and excuses herself.

“Excuse me,” I say, getting up to follow Laurel into Delfina's, where the bathrooms are. I wind my way through the crowd in a fugue state. I don't know what I'm going to say when I get there, but apparently having shoot-outs by restaurant bathrooms is going to become a thing. So . . . two for two.

I walk through Delfina's, making sure to keep to the plastic pathways. I walk down the long hallway, past all the family pictures, pictures of Jesus, a picture of Ladybird Johnson, and a poster of the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders. I come to a skittering halt as I see Laurel at the end of the hallway, waiting outside the one bathroom.

“Who is he?” Laurel asks, without any greeting.

“A friend,” I say, slowing my pace as I near her.

“He's not from here, right?”

“Of course not.”

We are quiet as whoever is in the bathroom takes their time.

“Where's Peggy?” I ask, smoothing my skirt, fussing with my skirt, unable to keep still.

“I don't know. Home, I guess,” Laurel says absently. I knew it. Laurel watches as I come to this smug realization. It might have ended with a sniff. Laurel continues, “What was that?”

“What?”

“That. That little hmmpf,” Laurel says.

“I was just realizing that when it comes to town gossip, Peggy is your friend, but when it comes to hanging out as friends, well . . .”

“This is my going-away dinner,” Laurel says, with a sigh.

“What?”

“It's pretty self-explanatory,” Laurel says.

“Going away to where?” I ask. The person inside the bathroom flushes the toilet. We both see this as some kind of ticking clock. We have only so much time.

“I got engaged. I'm moving to Dallas to be with him,” Laurel says, her chin raised.

“Congratulations,” I say, genuinely shocked. The water turns on inside the bathroom.

“You're surprised?”

“Yeah.”

“What's here for me?”

“Your family, your friends . . .” I trail off.
Everett
.

“My family and friends are happy for me. I'm finally moving on.” The person inside the bathroom pulls paper towels from the bin and we can hear them wiping their hands dry. I am quiet.

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

“Because we're stuck in a hallway waiting for the bathroom. And . . . because it's about time we—” Laurel stops. Thinks. She heaves a big sigh.

“No, I get it.” I do. The person comes out of the bathroom, excusing herself as she winds through us and down the long hallway. Laurel steps inside the bathroom and closes the door behind her. I wait. The hallway begins to close in around me. Laurel is leaving North Star. She's moving on and finally ready to take a chance on being happy. And I'm back. Here. I hear the toilet flush and the water go on. Paper towels. There's a moment of quiet as she probably checks her makeup. She opens up the door.

“And Everett?” I ask, finally daring to say his name. Laurel lets out a bitter laugh. She just shakes her head. She folds her arms and I can see her running through a thousand different thoughts (none of them kind, from the looks of it).

“Your friend looks nice. Maybe it's time for you to move on, too,” Laurel says, her eyes fast on mine. I never noticed how delicate she was, maybe because whenever she looked at me, she was tense and pissed. Or maybe . . . was she just in anguish? This entire time?

“Good luck in Dallas,” I say. I offer her a smile. It's tentative, but genuine. She gives me a cold, but polite nod and slides past me out into the hall. I step inside the bathroom and close the door behind me.

I put my hands on either side of the sink to steady myself. I always thought Laurel was the winner in all this. She got to swan around town with Everett and plan a wedding and walk down the aisle and see him standing at the end. She got to share his family name and think about building a family. Why didn't it ever occur to me that she was just as unhappy as I was? Of course she was. She got to swan around town with a man who was in love with someone else. She got to plan a wedding and walk down an aisle to a man who was forced into marrying her. She changed her name, her entire identity, hoping it would make a difference. It didn't. Her last-ditch effort to build a family and present Everett with something that would interest him, commit him, and make him happy. And not even that worked.

Laurel Coburn and I are more alike than I ever knew. Such a stupidly simple realization. I feel like I just walked outside and “discovered” water was wet. Either that or I'm trapped in some terrible romantic comedy where the music swells as the two enemies realize howwww verrrry aliiiiiiike they reeeeeealllly are. I'm a fool. So is she. All these years.

I pat my face with a wet paper towel, trying to compose myself. What a mess. I throw the paper towel into the trash can, take a deep breath, and open the bathroom door.

Now let's see about this moving-on business.

I walk out through the backyard and see that Laurel's group is getting ready to head out. They are standing, hugging, and overloading Laurel with gift bags, cards, and bouquets of flowers. There is crying and pronouncements about being invited to the big Dallas-size wedding. Laurel shoots me a quick look and a smile. And then she's gone. Just like that.

I walk past the wooden community table and find Hudson in the very back of the backyard. I lean down and kiss him. He puts his hand on the back of my head and pulls me in close. He's immediately passionate. Without a second thought.

“What was that for?” Hudson says as I settle in across from him.

“It's all the barbecue. It just gets to me,” I say, flipping my napkin onto my lap.

“Then we should come here more often.” Hudson laughs. Pansy Mack comes over and sets two plates in front of us. She sets another plate down with raw white onion and dill pickle slices. She sets down a bottle of Tabasco in the center of the table.

“Cut that out before Momma sees y'all,” Pansy says, patting Hudson's shoulder and lingering just a bit too long.

“Yes, ma'am,” I say as Pansy sets the two cups of sweet tea down.

“Now,
you
should know better, Queen Elizabeth,” Pansy says, her eyes narrowed. There it is. Like a slap in the face. The past infecting my beautiful present. Don't be like your slutty momma, Queen Elizabeth.

I smile a tight-lipped assent as she walks away from me, tut-tutting me in the process.

“What was that about?” Hudson says, hunkering down and into the food now wafting up between us. It smells delicious.

“My mother had a bit of a reputation,” I say as easily as I can. The last thing I want is for this to become a topic of discussion. I take a sip of the sweet tea and calm myself down.

“Had?” Hudson says, taking a big bite out of his ribs. His face is now covered in barbecue sauce.

“She died a while back,” I say, scooping up some of Delfina's coleslaw. I luxuriate in it and let it erase, if only momentarily, the sludge left over from Pansy's condescending warning.

“Oh, I'm sorry. Do you mind me asking how she died?” Hudson asks, wiping his face and searching the table for more napkins. He pulls a handful from the basket that sits in the middle of the table.

Sigh.

“She was killed when I was sixteen,” I say, woodenly. Eating. The ribs are perfect. Pay attention to this and not Hudson's questions. I close my eyes to really taste the sauce and the perfectly smoked meat. I open them and find Hudson just staring at me. He has a slight tinge of barbecue sauce around his mouth.

“Queenie . . . are you serious?” Hudson asks.

“Why would I joke about something like that?”

“Why would you mention your mother was killed and then casually take a bite of your ribs?” I set down the ribs and wipe my face clean. I take a long drink of sweet tea. Hudson waits.

“I don't mean to be casual about it, I really don't,” I say. I stop. Think. I continue, “I haven't talked about it for so long, mainly because everyone knew. There was nothing left to say. And we don't really talk about things here, if you know what I mean. Plus, I liked that you didn't know; does that makes sense?”