Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,39

clan. Whitney, Wes, a little boy and a little girl, Whitney’s and Wes’s parents, and various other grandchildren running around.

“Whitney and Wes’s kids are cute,” I say, unable to blame the adorable red-white-and-blue–bedecked children for their mother’s meanness.

“Super cute,” Merry Carole says, offering me some strawberries out of a red Tupperware bowl. I take one and immediately eat it.

“They look happy,” I say.

“Do they? I never noticed.”

“Your lies only hurt America,” I sigh, with a mouth full of strawberry.

“Fine. I noticed.” Merry Carole shifts in her lawn chair, recrossing her legs that go on for miles.

“He wasn’t good enough for you. Even at seventeen,” I say.

“Oh, I know.” Merry Carole’s answer comes out a bit too easily. She continues, “He just has to be good enough to be Cal’s daddy. They’ve actually been getting on these past few years. Thank God for football,” she says.

“And there’s been no one since?” I ask, treading lightly.

Merry Carole lowers her sunglasses and gives me a ridiculous, cartoonish, dismissive look.

“Fine.” I say.

Merry Carole is quiet. A vault. As she always has been. Of course, my decades-long affair with Everett is just as secret. For being each other’s confidante, we sure don’t know each other very well.

“Are you not even going to mention that I wore a dress?” I ask, smoothing out the blue-and-white-striped skirt.

“I know! Don’t you look pretty.”

“Thank you,” I say, flushing.

“I mean, you could have finished it off just a bit. A lip gloss maybe. Some mascara. Maybe even done something with that hair, but . . . no, you look really pretty. I wish you’d dress up more,” Merry Carole says, doing everything she can to not drag me back to the salon right that minute.

“Is that . . . am I thanking you again or . . .” I trail off.

“I’m sorry. You’re right. You look beautiful,” Merry Carole says, smoothing my bangs back off my forehead.

I smile and take another strawberry from the red bowl and bite into it. Merry Carole rushes a paper towel under my chin as the red juice drips and oozes out of my mouth. I thank her through a mouth filled with luscious strawberry.

The mayor of North Star climbs the stairs to the band shell, taps the microphone, and asks everyone to quiet down. Everyone obliges. Merry Carole sits up, getting her camera ready.

“Happy Fourth of July to the people of North Star!” the mayor says. He looks like every mayor of every small town anywhere in the country—gray haired, potbellied, and authoritative. One difference: in Texas, he’s got on a cowboy hat.

The crowd claps, firecrackers go off in the distance, and we all quiet down as we await his next announcement.

“I’m not going to take much of your time because I know y’all see who’s coming up right behind me,” the mayor says, motioning to the growing mob of black and gold just off the stage.

The crowd hoots and hollers as the football team reciprocates with a big wave.

“After Coach Blanchard comes up here and announces your Stallion starters for this next season, we’ll get this party started with a couple of great bands for your dancing pleasure and we’ll end, o’ course, with the fireworks spectacular,” the mayor says. The crowd goes wild. The mayor continues, “So, without further ado, I give you your North Star Stallions!”

To a standing ovation, the marching band and the football team congregate just behind Coach Blanchard—who was just Reed Blanchard when Merry Carole and I went to school with him. He played football, but wasn’t the star. He kept to himself, but wasn’t a loner. He married his high school sweetheart, but then got divorced when they’d grown apart. His wife remarried and now lives a couple of towns over and they amicably share custody of their two little girls. He was always a good guy, fair minded and not easily swayed by public opinion. Most important, he was always nice to Merry Carole and me. But now he’s the mythical Coach Blanchard—one state final under his belt and, with an even better team than that year, on the verge of winning the whole thing again.

“Reed looks good,” I say, standing with everyone else and clapping for the team.

“I suppose,” Merry Carole says, taking pictures of Cal.

“Now that he’s divorced, would you ever consider—”

“How could I possibly settle down with one man when, according to the town gossips, I’m bedding every man from North Star to Austin?” Merry Carole’s voice is tight, even though she’s trying