Nowhere but Home A Novel - By Liza Palmer Page 0,93
look at that barbecue. Excuse me, ladies.” He gives me a quick wink and ambles over to the barbecue, falling quickly into conversation with the already gathered men.
Then it’s just us. Merry Carole and I facing off against a group of women who look as though they’re about to feast on human flesh.
“How long is this little standoff going to take, Whitney? This coleslaw needs to be refrigerated sometime today,” I say, annoyed. Merry Carole tenses next to me. I will myself to take it easy. Well, easier. The party crowd mixes and mingles around us.
“Oh, is that left over from Shine? I do hope we won’t have to eat the food you served to a convicted murderer,” Whitney says, clutching her pearls.
“He was a triple murderer and he ordered fried chicken,” I say. Whitney and her Gang of Idiots are actually taken aback.
“Even for you, Queenie Wake, that’s low,” Piggy Peggy says, looking from Whitney to me. Yes, Peggy, you delivered your line perfectly.
“You’d know,” I say, stepping forward. She flinches.
“All right now. Come on,” Merry Carole says, her voice measured, but strong.
“Control your dog, Merry Carole,” one of the other women says. They all think it’s hilarious.
“That’s quite enough. That’s quite enough,” Merry Carole says, her face coloring.
“Why don’t you call in Coach Blanchard to help you?” Piggy Peggy asks, her voice raspy with excitement.
“No, ma’am. We can handle our own business,” Merry Carole says, her voice becoming more and more eerily calm. The women don’t know what to do with Merry Carole. Me, easy. I’m the uncontrollable dog. But Merry Carole is a pillar of calm. She continues, “Now if there’s nothing else, I’d like to see if my son needs anything. Queenie, the refrigerator is through the French doors and to the right.” Merry Carole’s face colors as she realizes she’s said too much. Her knowledge of the ins and outs of Reed Blanchard’s house is obvious. Whitney doesn’t even attempt to suppress her joy. Merry Carole gives Whitney and her Gang of Idiots a polite nod and goes off to find Cal in the crowd.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say. The women ooze off into the crowd like a big blob of hate, looking for their next victim. No wonder Laurel had to get out of this town. I walk into the kitchen and come face-to-face with Everett.
“Jesus Christ,” I say, unable to help it. This barbecue is like a haunted house.
“Hey, I didn’t quite recognize you without some male model hanging all over you,” Everett says, taking a long pull on his beer. I open the refrigerator door and finagle my coleslaw onto an already stuffed shelf.
“Oh, does that bother you? Is that hurtful to you? Seeing me with someone else? I mean, if I could only understand how that could possibly feel . . . ugh, it’s soooo hard to imagine such a thing!” I say, my hands in fists and dramatically thrust to the heavens.
“Queenie, come on. He’s ridiculous,” Everett says, motioning out to where Hudson is standing with the other men.
“I like him. He’s nice,” I say.
“You like him and he’s nice,” Everett repeats, slamming his beer down a bit too hard on Reed’s tiled counter.
“Yeah. I like him and he’s nice. Is that so revolutionary?” I ask.
“Is his shirt tucked in or isn’t it? Did he go to the bathroom and not quite tidy himself up after? I mean, I don’t get what that look is about,” Everett says, gesticulating wildly at Hudson and the offending plaid shirt.
“What’s happening over there?” I ask.
“Nothing,” Everett says. His voice subdued. Caught.
“How was that nice lady your parents were setting you up with on Sunday? Talk about ridiculous,” I say, walking past him and out toward the backyard. Everett reaches out and stops me. He leans down and speaks softly, intimately, into my ear.
“Go ahead and have your fun with Mr. I Like Him and He’s Nice. I know how this ends and so does he.” Everett’s eyes are locked on mine. Green, brown, and yellow pinwheels intense and focused.
“So does he what?” Hudson asks, standing in the open French doors, partygoers hustling past him. Everett straightens and approaches Hudson. In that moment, I honestly don’t know what Everett is going to do. With everyone outside, the three of us are alone.
“Everett Coburn,” Everett says, extending his hand to Hudson.
“Hudson Bishop,” Hudson says, shaking his hand. Everett looms over Hudson, I’m sure reveling in the few inches of height he’s got on him.