Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,20

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