Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,58

she was taking. Poor Yvonne Chapman put y’all up and look what happened to her. And then Merry Carole and Wes. I mean, that near broke Whitney’s heart,” Peggy says, in an almost mathematical tone. As if our rumored sexual conquests were just another string theory she’s devised.

“We are not anything like our mother,” I say, my voice strong and clear.

“Aren’t you, though?”

“It’s as if you want me to punch you in the face.”

“I certainly do not.”

“Then stop saying shit like that.”

“My, my . . . your language, Queenie. My word.”

“We’re nothing like our mother,” I say again, my voice dipping.

“Laurel’s told us all about you and Everett, you know.”

“What?” My words are a knee-jerk reaction. I don’t even know I’m speaking. My mouth runs dry and I can feel the blood rush to my head.

“Everything,” Peggy says, folding her arms across her chest.

“I don’t know what that means. There’s nothing between me and Everett,” I say. Ouchhhhhh.

“Well, yeah . . . ,” Peggy says as if it’s the most obvious statement in the world. She continues, “But that doesn’t mean you still didn’t ruin him.” Peggy’s eyes are now fixed on mine.

“How did I ruin him?” My voice is tiny. Unguarded. Dangerously open.

“I don’t know. I don’t know how you people do anything.” You people.

“Oh, is there a line?” a woman says, motioning to the women’s bathroom.

“No, ma’am! It’s all yours,” Peggy says as we step back out into the restaurant. The cook dings the bell and Peggy perks up. She continues, “That’s me. I’ll bring you over your coffee.” Peggy flips around and walks—nay, struts—back over to the kitchen. She can’t wait to tell Laurel and Whitney about what happened here. She finally stood up to me! she’ll say. She told me everything she’s always wanted to say! And all I did was stand there and wonder how it all had come to this.

How did both Merry Carole and I turn out to be just like Mom?

“Everything okay?” Cal stands up as I slide back into the booth.

“Fine, darlin’,” I say, my eyes hazy.

“It didn’t look fine,” Cal says, sitting.

“Maybe you’re right,” I say. Peggy walks over to our booth with our breakfasts. She sets down my mug of coffee.

“Anything else I can get for you?” Her voice is triumphant.

“Nope,” I say, not willing to give her the satisfaction that her little outburst by the bathrooms has left me speechless.

“Just holler if you need something,” Peggy says, her voice light and airy.

Cal and I finally leave the Homestead. I leave an enormous tip thinking that I can never let Peggy know she got to me, even though she absolutely did. In every way. Her words shook me to my core. I can be a lot of things in this world, but one of them cannot be “just like Mom.” Because no matter how many cities I run to, how many kitchens I cook in—that truth will follow me everywhere. Am I my mother’s daughter? How can that be?

Cal heads over to the high school weight room to work out and I make a beeline for the hair salon. I need to talk to Merry Carole. Now. I burst through the salon door and find the salon brimming with big hair, twangy music, and rip-roaring conversation.

“Hey there, Queenie,” Fawn says, doing some busywork behind the front counter.

“Hey,” I say, scanning the salon for Merry Carole.

“She’s back in the kitchenette refilling her coffee,” Fawn says without me saying a word.

“I appreciate it,” I say, giving her a quick smile. I nod a quick hi to Dee as I walk by her. She’s deep in conversation and blue rinse.

“So I had a nice little chat with Piggy Peggy at the Homestead,” I say, walking into the kitchenette and closing the door behind me.

“Well, she works there, so . . . ,” Merry Carole says, setting her Lone Star coffee mug on the small table and opening up the refrigerator in search of creamer.

“Sit down,” I say, my arms folded across my chest.

“Don’t be dramatic,” Merry Carole says, pouring creamer into her coffee.

“Don’t be flippant,” I say, pulling out a chair and motioning for her to sit. She arches an eyebrow. Standing.

“I have clients, Queen Elizabeth.” Merry Carole sighs, replacing the creamer in the refrigerator and closing the door. She stirs her coffee. The chair sits vacant as my folded arms slowly tire.

“She knows about Reed. How much longer are you going to keep this a secret? It only fans the fire,”