Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,83

the right thing to do. Whatever happens next, I’m happy I came back. Even if it ends up being just for a little while. This is me. This is now. As I pull the door open to the salon, a thought crosses my mind—what happens when that phone rings the next time and it’s a job offer? What then? I walk back inside the salon.

“That was Hudson, wasn’t it?” Dee asks, her face expectant.

“Yes, it was,” I say.

“And?” Fawn asks.

“He heard about Delfina’s place; I guess they were talking about it at the B and B where he’s staying—”

“He’s staying at a B and B?” Dee asks.

“Yeah, over in Evans,” I say.

“That boy’s from money, peanut,” Fawn says.

“What? No, he’s a professor over at UT,” I say.

“Who stays at a B and B in Evans for the summer?” Fawn presses.

“It doesn’t matter. Look, you guys will be able to check him out tonight. He’s picking me up here,” I say. Fawn squeals with delight as Dee cautiously smiles. Merry Carole just looks worried.

“What time?” Merry Carole asks.

“Five thirty,” I say.

“Piggy Peggy will be here at five thirty,” Merry Carole says.

“Will she?” I ask, my voice unable to hide the fact that I know damn well exactly where Piggy Peggy will be at five thirty.

“Queen Elizabeth, this is my place of business—,” Merry Carole starts in.

I interrupt, “Come on. She has it coming!” Dee and Fawn watch Merry Carole.

“She kind of does,” Dee says, her voice quiet.

“Look, he’ll walk in, we’ll act like it’s not even any of Piggy Peggy’s business, and it’ll all be fine,” I say, my voice giddy with excitement.

Merry Carole just sighs. Then nods in agreement.

“Thank you!” I say, walking back to the kitchenette. I continue, “Does anyone else want some coffee?”

“I do,” Dee says, following me back. She continues, “Shawn said you did real good the other day,” she says, pouring herself some coffee. She opens up the fridge in search of creamer as my entire body deflates.

“Yeah?” I ask, now pouring myself a cup.

“Said the meal was downright beautiful,” she says, not looking at me.

“Well . . . I appreciate him thinking so,” I say, genuinely touched.

“He’s worried about you,” Dee says, putting the creamer back in the fridge and shutting the door.

“I’m worried about me,” I say, bringing my steaming mug up to my nose. I inhale.

Dee is quiet.

I continue. “What is it?” My entire body is in a holding pattern. Do I want to hear what she’s about to say? It’s clearly a big deal.

“Shawn’s leaving Shine. He starts up with the sheriff ’s at the end of summer,” Dee says, speaking quickly.

“That’s amazing,” I say, relieved.

“You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“He thought . . . well, we thought you’d feel left behind, you know?”

“I couldn’t be happier for you guys. Honest to God. I’m so glad he’s getting out of there. It was just . . .” I trail off.

“He was turning into someone else, Queenie,” Dee says, her voice barely a whisper.

“Oh sweetie,” I say, stepping closer. She gives me a smile, trying to be strong.

“I’m so happy he’s getting out,” Dee says, tears now streaming down her rosy cheeks. I set my coffee down and pull her in for a hug. I can feel her trying to steady her coffee as she hugs me back.

“I’m going to spill my coffee!” Her giggling is contagious and I love that she’s laughing. We break from our hug and check for spillage. There is none. “You going to be okay out there by yourself?” Dee asks.

“I honestly don’t know how long I’m going to be there. I talked to Merry Carole about it and I’m going to play it meal by meal. When the bad outweighs the good, I’ll leave,” I say, robotically repeating what we decided. I’m still unable to absorb what really happens in the Death House down down down to where it settles in my psyche. It’s somewhere. It’s feeding my subconscious. I’ve been dreaming of deathly metal doors and empty trays coming back with just bones on them. I shake my head. Enough of that.

“Leave and go where?” Dee asks.

“I don’t know. I thought that phone call was a job offer. I applied all over, but . . . ” I trail off.

“But what?”

“I just don’t know anymore,” I say, overwhelmed. I’m surprised by the feelings that bubble up in that moment. The idea of my own kitchen. My notebook of recipes. This is what passion feels like.