Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,38
her in for a tight hug. She breaks from our hug and continues, “I know what they think of me, but that doesn’t mean that they get to think they broke me. Broke us. ’Cause they didn’t. They can’t. We won’t let ’em. Now get dressed, and for God’s sake, take a shower and be at that band shell by six so we can watch our boy get QB1,” Merry Carole says, tucking the handkerchief back down into the recesses of her bra. She quickly wipes away my tears and stands.
“Okay,” I say, swinging my legs off the bed.
“You could even wear one of my dresses,” Merry Carole says, opening my door.
“Now you’re pushing it,” I say, standing.
“Six PM. I’ll be right in front,” Merry Carole says and closes the door behind her.
10
Strawberries and champagne
As I walk to the band shell that’s in the center of town, I’m pulling and tugging at the top of Merry Carole’s blue-and-white-striped dress that I’m nowhere near filling out. The red belt cinches at my waist. I hope wearing this very patriotic dress will convince Merry Carole that I’m 110 percent committed to these festivities. No more fetal positions and sobbing over spilt milk.
I make my way through the picnicking citizens of North Star, my bare feet just missing the laid-out gingham blankets, makeshift barbecues, and errant packs of kids lighting firecrackers to the dismay of their overheated parents. I’m headed for the area just below the band shell, by the dance floor with its red, white, and blue lanterns strung high just above it. The lanterns have yet to be illuminated, but I’m sure they’ll add to the beautiful evening. I know I’ll find Merry Carole there. I see the pink parasol first and my red-white-and-blue-bedecked sister second. She sits under the parasol like a 1940s pinup girl, all red lips and oversize sunglasses. So lovely. Cal is pouring some of Merry Carole’s lemonade for himself and West.
“Queen Elizabeth, this is West Ackerman,” Merry Carole says as West clambers to his feet, wiping his hands on his jeans.
“Ma’am,” West says, extending his hand to me. I take his hand and his handshake is firm. He is a dead ringer, even more so up close, for Cal. The icy blue eyes and that strong blade of a nose—even the mannerisms. A shrugged shoulder here and a stifled laugh there. They are brothers in every sense of the word.
“Hey there, West, pleasure to finally meet you,” I say, my face open and my smile easy.
“You, too. Cal was telling me that you’re a chef and that you’ve been everywhere.” We all settle on Merry Carole’s blanket. Cal hands me a glass of lemonade. I thank him.
“I have,” I say.
“And New York?” West asks.
“It’s like nothing you’ve ever seen,” I say, not wanting to burst the poor boy’s bubble.
“I knew it,” West says, looking from me to Cal and back to me.
“We’d better get on. Coach wants all of us backstage by six,” Cal says. He and West pass their now empty lemonade glasses to Merry Carole with a polite thank you and stand.
“Pleasure meeting you, ma’am,” West says.
“You, too,” I say, looking up into the glare of the sun.
“Good luck,” Merry Carole says, stemming the tide on a flood of emotion as the boys make their way to the stage.
“He’s lovely,” I say.
“I know. Like I said, I have no idea how he got that way,” Merry Carole says, with a wry grin. She pours me some more lemonade and we fall into a comfortable, people-watching silence.
I scan the park and notice the clumps of families, laughing and celebrating. I can’t find Everett or any of the Coburns. They’re probably back at the Paragon stables seeing to the horses after their big parade outing. I can’t find Laurel, either, but I don’t look that hard. I’d probably be able to smell sulfur were she near. I see the McKays just off to the right. Whitney is attending to . . .
“Is that Wes McKay??” I ask, unable to believe my eyes.
“Oh, you didn’t know? He got fat,” Merry Carole says, her voice downright gleeful.
“Yes he did. Jesus,” I say, taking in the man who used to be the model of athleticism. Now he looks like the model for the “Before” picture in a weight-loss ad.
“After his knee gave out, he stopped playing football, so . . .” Merry Carole trails off as if Wes’s excessive mass is the logical result.