Nowhere but Home A Novel

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.

I take in the entire McKay 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 to make a joke.

“Reed’s always been a good guy,” I say.

“I thought Wes was a good guy, remember?”

“No one ever thought Wes was a good guy,” I say.

“I know,” Merry Carole says, laughing.

“I’m just putting it out there, is all,” I say.

“Oh you are, are you?” Merry Carole asks, focusing back on the stage.

Reed’s wearing a black baseball cap with a gold stallion on it, pulled low. His dark brown hair is cut in an almost militaristic style. His broad shoulders thrown back and his chest puffed out. Reed Blanchard’s always ready to be the man people hold up as the shining example of decency.

“All right now. Quiet down. Let’s get down to business,” Reed says, his voice an annoyed sigh. Everyone obliges. The football team behind him settles down. Reed continues, “We’ve got some great boys coming out this season and I’m proud of all of them, but—” Reed motions for his assistants to bring out the lawn signs. The holy grail for proud Stallion parents across the town. These signs announce the player’s last name, jersey number, and position he plays, along with the usual rearing black stallion. Every player gets a lawn sign, but—and this is crucial—the starting lineup’s signs are black with gold writing as opposed to gold with black writing. Merry Carole hasn’t breathed in minutes. Cal stands off to the side. His face is creased with worry. He’s about to find out, along with the rest of us, if he’s the starting quarterback. The suspense is killing all of us. Reed starts with the defense, wending his way through the offense. He announces each boy’s name and presents him with his sign. A posed picture is taken with each boy, his sign, the now beaming parents, and an inconvenienced-looking Reed.

Reed announces that West will be starting as one of their wide receivers and the boy just looks relieved and happy. Whitney’s parents (West’s grandparents) make their way to the stage and are absolutely beaming as they pose for their picture. I look over at Whitney and Wes and they just look . . . broken. In all of this, I never thought about what it must be like for them not getting to be West’s parents. And he’s such a good kid. Wes takes Whitney’s hand as she brushes away tears—that she’ll pass off as tears of joy—and she collects herself long enough to take a few pictures of the big moment.

And then it’s time for the starting quarterback—the coveted title of QB1. The fabled black sign is brought out, accompanied with much fanfare.

“This year we have an embarrassment of riches when it comes to quarterbacks. North Star is very lucky to have so much young talent, but I’ve decided that one player can lead the North Star Stallions to the state championships this year,” Reed says. The crowd goes wild at the mention of North Star’s team reaching the championships.

“I can’t believe he’s just a freshman—Cal Wake, come on up, son,” Reed says, turning around and extending his hand to Cal. The rest of the football team proceeds to stomp on the stage as hard as they can. At first I’m thrown. Then they start chanting, “CWake! CWake! CWake!” as the stage rumbles like an earthquake. Cal’s face lights up and he takes a second to gather himself. I know he’s holding back a torrent of emotion. Cal and Reed shake hands and I look over at Merry Carole to see how she’s reacting to all of this. But she just shoves her camera at me and bolts to the band shell. The people of North Star go crazy as Cal raises his sign high above his head.

Wake.

The citizens of North Star are applauding for a sign that is emblazoned with the name “WAKE.” I never thought I’d see the day. I snap pictures of Reed and Cal shaking hands, Cal celebrating with his team, and then Merry Carole taking her place by Cal’s side. She’s trying to keep herself together, dabbing at her mascara, poufing up her hair, collecting herself on her proudest day. Merry Carole, Reed, and Cal gather around the sign and the official photo is taken. She hugs Cal, shakes Reed’s hand, and walks back and sits down with me.

As the rest of the football team is announced and presented with their signs, Merry Carole and I just sit in silence.

“I can’t believe it,” I finally say.

“I know,” Merry Carole says, her eyes still covered by her oversize sunglasses.

We fall silent again.

“I thought . . . I thought for sure they were going to switch him out, you know? That, like everything else in this town—”

“It wouldn’t be fair,” I finish.

“Damn right,” Merry Carole says, pulling out a bottle of champagne she’s been hiding in her cooler up until now. I’m sure she thought she’d jinx Cal’s chances if she brought it out early. She pops open the bottle with ease. She kneels on the blanket and pours the bubbling contents into our plastic cups.

“To Cal,” I say, raising my glass.

“To Cal,” Merry Carole repeats, clinking her glass with mine. We drink. In that moment I realize I didn’t look to see what Whitney and Wes were doing as Cal was being named QB1. I didn’t check and see what the enemy’s faces looked like as we vanquished them. This is new. Every success was only half experienced while I searched the room for that one disapproving face. My glories were never mine, just a pie to throw in the face of my adversary. What would life be like if I was just happy? Not happy because it would drive someone crazy, but happy because I want to be happy? Celebrating Cal felt great. For once, I let happiness just live and didn’t allow the stench of North Star’s usual disapproval. As I sip my champagne, I realize I might like to try that a bit more in the future. Maybe those are my terms. And maybe that starts with taking the job at Shine Prison. It seems odd that such a grisly job could make me happy, but there’s something pulling me to it. Something I want to figure out. So, instead of inviting everyone to look down on me, why don’t I just decide what I want to do . . . and do it.

A band takes to the stage and the twang of country music floats through the town square. Couples take to the floor. Country western dancing’s roots are firmly held in the waltz and polka genres, but there’s an elegance and effortlessness to it that belies any modern take the dance could have. Couples move as one, and the older, more experienced couples barely touch the floor at all. Men in cowboy hats hold their women tightly as they guide them across the floor. Shuffling cowboy boots leave scuff marks on the wooden dance floor as the sun finally dips below the horizon and the day finally begins to cool down. The dance floor is awash in light from the red, white, and blue lanterns as the couples drift and sashay. Merry Carole and I sit, slightly buzzed off the champagne we drank too quickly because of the heat.

“I think I’m going to head home,” I say, standing.

“Well, we sure appreciated you coming out today,” Merry Carole says.

“I’m going to see what you’ve got around the house and throw together something for supper, if you’re interested,” I say, smoothing my skirt down in the back.

“Oh sure,” Merry Carole says, taking out her cell phone.

“Are you checking in with Cal?” I ask, just about to head out.

“Oh . . . no, I’m sure he’s off somewhere with the team,” Merry Carole says, covering her cell phone.

“So you’re not going to tell me who you’re texting?”

“No.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

“I’m going to assume it’s a man and that you’re passionately and quite secretly in love,” I say, standing over her. Merry Carole just rolls her eyes and continues texting.

“Just go on now,” Merry Carole says, shooing me away.

I walk across the park past the food booths that have been set out on the street at the edge of the town square. I think about the day, about Cal standing up there holding that sign over his head: WAKE. I trot across the main street in a happy haze, reliving it all. I turn the corner by the post office.

Everett.

“Oh hey,” I say, caught completely off guard.

“Hey,” Everett says, just as startled.

We stand there frozen once again. The live music floats throughout the town.

“Well, good seeing you. Hey, say hi to your folks for me,” I say and continue walking down the street. I can’t be alone with him. I won’t set myself up for that. I have to get away from him or else—

“Queenie, it’s just us here. Can we—,” Everett says, turning around.

“Just how you like it, right?” I call, not looking back. My voice is breathy and desperate. The pain of being without him is fueling my anger.

“You should be real proud of Cal,” Everett says, calling after me. I whip around.

“I am. He’s an amazing kid,” I say. Everett is slowly but surely, inch by inch, backing me up into an alley in between the post office and an antiques shop. The old brick walls of each building rise high above us as the dusky night becomes an inky black. I can hear the music in the distance, the occasional crack, crack, crack of a firecracker.

Everett is quiet. He leans forward mere centimeters, just as he did last night but without the safety of the bar, and the crowds of people in it. I feel outside of myself. My breathing quickens as he bends his head low and tilts it just enough for my entire body to react to him. His eyes are fast on mine and my heart races to catch up with the fantasies of what the next few moments might bring. I make my hands into tight fists, hoping this will keep them from reaching for him. His face is now inches from mine.

“An entire town is lit up just over there and we find the—,” I say, my voice an intimate whisper.

“I’ve missed you,” he says, taking his hands out of his pockets.

“Don’t,” I say, willing my voice not to break and catch.

“You look beautiful.” Everett steps closer, his hand lacing around my waist and pulling me in.

“That’s not helping,” I say, my body restless and shaky.

“Be still.” Everett just looks at me, his eyes washing over every part of my face. I slide my hand around him and hold on. He leans down and kisses my neck. I bring my other hand up and grasp him. I’m losing my balance—always a problem around him. My hand grips his shoulder, feeling his shirt shift and tighten over the sinewy muscles just beneath. I slide my hand up and let my fingers brush his glistening neck. Goose bumps dot his olive skin as I run my hand farther up and explore the curls at the nape of his neck.

“You’re finally back,” Everett sighs, whispering in my ear.

Stillness. The air around us waits. Even the music in the distance takes a breath.

“Everett, I—” Everett covers my mouth with his and I can feel his breath quickening. I feel alive for the first time in years as the fireworks crack and pop high above North Star.

“Please . . . just—just give me a minute,” I say, trying to catch my breath. He tilts back, but only slightly. Something’s different. I can’t breathe. He kisses me again and I feel claustrophobic. He’s too much. This is too much. I’ve been running from this feeling for years and now with each kiss I can feel it bearing down on me. It: the pain of knowing we can never be together. With each kiss he peppers down my neck, I am forced to admit that the love of my life will never really be mine. It’s one thing to run from ghosts, it’s quite another to let them catch you. My eyes dart around the darkened alley and I catch the glint of his belt buckle.

“I can’t believe you still have that,” I say breathlessly, pointing at the belt buckle. He looks down at his crotch and arches an eyebrow. My face flushes red and I clarify, “The belt buckle, I mean the belt buckle.”

“Why wouldn’t I still have it?” he asks. I study him. The man I once knew so well that I could draw a map of his freckles from memory. I gather myself. Everett tucks my long bangs behind my ear. He covers my mouth once more with his. The cracking and popping of the fireworks light our faces in the colors of the rainbow. Flecks of red and blue color the side of Everett’s face as he watches me.

“I thought when you married Laurel that—”

“That what? She had nothing to do with us.”

His words hang there just as the smoke from the spent fireworks hangs over the town center. Something is different. I’m different. I am older. I am smarter. And most of all, I am stronger. The haze begins to lift. This isn’t going to work. No matter how badly we want it to. In this age of princes marrying “commoners,” it’s easy to think that the days when one’s social strata dictated who you married are behind us. As much as I hate that Everett is loyal to his family, it’s why he’s the man I’ve loved since I was five years old. Asking him to turn his back on them would mean eroding the very character that both mystifies me and makes me believe in better things. Maybe if I can believe I’m not my mother, Everett has to learn he’s not his parents.

And maybe I need to let him.

I said I would come back to North Star on my terms. Maybe my terms start right here. With Everett.

“I can’t do this again,” I say.

“What?” Everett says. With the firework spectacular over, the live music has started back up. The citizens of North Star are beginning to wander out into the town square.

“I’m different now. Maybe I was always different, but just—”

“I don’t understand,” Everett says, reaching out to me. I step back. He immediately tenses.

“I didn’t come back here to pick up where we left off.”

“Why did you come back?”

“Because I had nowhere else to go.”

“So you’re off to the next city then,” Everett says, folding his arms across his chest. His chin is high and defiant.

“No, I’d like to stick around and watch you marry another suitable woman who’s not me,” I say, stepping toward him.

“That was a mistake.”

“A mistake I paid for.”

“You’re not seriously insinuating that I wanted that.”

“You’re a grown man, Ever.” His brow furrows and I can tell my offhanded use of his pet name has shaken him.

“A grown man with responsibilities. It was the right thing to do at the time. My father was very clear about that.”

“Always the good little soldier,” I say, my eyes darting around the dark alley.

“It’s probably hard for you to understand what it’s like to have consequences for your behavior, or any responsibilities, for that matter.”

“What?”

“Someone tries to be the boss of you and you what—quit? Get fired? Move on? That’s how it works, right?”

I am quiet. Shaken. The thing about someone knowing you better than you know yourself is that you can’t shut off their knowledge when it hits too close to home. He’s right, of course.

“I never moved on from you,” I say.

“No, you just left,” he says.

“The night before you got married to Laurel. You couldn’t have expected to . . . Could you have watched me walk down the aisle with another man?” I ask, stepping closer.

“No.”

“You broke my heart, Ever,” I say, laying my hand on his chest. He covers my hand with his and holds it tight. He dips his head and can’t look at me.

“I did what was right by my family. You have no idea how . . . I tried to honor the family name. Shit, Queenie—my parents made it perfectly clear that the future of Paragon rested firmly on my shoulders. Dad would never let Florrie near the business, and Gray’s turned into some idiot playboy. And . . . I mean, this all would be a whole lot easier if I didn’t love my parents and love Paragon, but I do.” Everett’s voice catches and he turns away from me. He continues, “But I fell in love with you and I didn’t know how to handle that,” Everett says, pacing around the alley.

“You didn’t know how to handle that? What am I—a disease you caught?”

“What? No!”

“I knew your parents saw me as trash, but I never thought you did.”

“I don’t.” Everett pulls me close and says, “I don’t.”

“Then why do you treat me like I am?” I ask, freeing myself from him.

Everett is quiet. He turns away from my gaze.

“Don’t you think we get to be happy, Ever?”

“We’re happy right now,” he says, kissing me again.

“Are we?”

Our shared pain is palpable and yet I can’t help but hold on to him. Even still.

I continue. “I’m taking a job over in Shine. I’ve decided to stay for a while,” I say.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I want you to stop me from walking away by yelling that you love me. I want you to sweep me up on one of your beautiful Paragon horses and let the entire town see how we feel about each other. I want what I’ve always wanted,” I say, taking his face in my hands.

“Which is what?” Everett says.

“For you to be proud of me, proud of us. I want you to not be able to contain yourself and let everyone know that you’re my man,” I say, and it hurts. It hurts to say it out loud. It hurts to admit it.

“I am your man,” he says, letting his forehead fall onto mine. His voice is low and frantic.

“Prove it,” I say, pulling away from him and taking in the people streaming past us on their way home. Everett is quiet. Still. Tortured. I continue, “That’s what I thought.” I turn and finally walk away.

I don’t look back.

I burst through Merry Carole’s front door and straight into my little guest room. I strip off all of my clothes and wrap a towel around my body. I put Merry Carole’s dress and all of my undergarments into the washing machine, measure the detergent, twist the knobs, and close the lid. I don’t let myself think. I don’t let myself stop. I press my lips together and try to erase the taste of Everett still on them. I walk out of the laundry room and into the guest bathroom, turning on the shower. I lock the door behind me and let the towel fall to the ground. My mind races with thoughts of Everett. I try to stay ahead of them as I step inside the shower, letting the water fall over me.

I feel light. The weight of loving Everett had held me so tightly for so long, it’s all I knew. I feel a sense of panic move through my body. I steady myself on the tile wall.

“What am I going to do without him?” I whisper, the sobs finally coming. I let the water wash over me as I think of a life without Everett. No more fantasies. I need to see the reality of what we have become. We’re not happy. Whatever momentary joy we have can never equal the love that’s felt when you commit yourself to someone and decide to live out your days together. The peace of mind that comes from building a future with someone is not even in the same ballpark as the scraps we’ve been living on. Time. The promise of time is something we never got. What kind of future would we have based on a past and present filled with stolen moments?

The truth is, I came back to North Star because I left something here. And it wasn’t Everett. Or Merry Carole. Or Cal. Or even my mother. I didn’t leave it somewhere in high school or even as I sat at that blinking red light at the edge of town just before getting on that first highway that took me anywhere but here. No, I lost this when I was a little girl. And now I want to find it.

I want to be happy again. Be happy for the first time.

Maybe the first step is doing something just for me without judging it or fearing the consequences.

I shut off the water and step out of the shower. I wrap the towel around my body, grab another towel for my hair, and walk into my guest room. I find my cell phone and dial.

“Shine Prison, how can I help you?”

“Warden Dale Green, please?”

“Who may I say is calling?”

“Queen Elizabeth Wake.” The woman puts me on hold and I settle on my perfectly made bed. The prison has music playing while you’re on hold, which I find odd. As I try to towel-dry my hair, I find myself singing along with Johnny Cash’s “A Boy Named Sue”: “Well, I grew up quick/And I grew up mean . . .”

“Ms. Wake, happy Fourth!” Warden Dale says, cutting through the music.

“Happy Fourth to you, sir,” I say.

“You got an answer for me, Ms. Wake?”

“Yes, sir. I would like the job, if it’s still available,” I say, my wet hair sticking to my damp shoulders.

“It sure is. I appreciate you calling me back. How about if you come on in tomorrow and have Juanita give you the walk through? I’d like you to cook the Death House crew supper that night and then we’re going to need your last meal services this Friday. You can understand why I was pressing you for an answer,” Warden Dale says.

“Yes, sir,” I say. This Friday. My first last meal. I can do this.

“Now, Juanita’s got today off, but I’ll hand you back over to one of the other fine ladies at the front desk and she’ll set you up with all the details. I’ll see you at ten AM sharp tomorrow morning.”

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Can I bring knives?”

“Pardon me?”

“Knives, sir? I have a set of knives I prefer to use.”

“Oh, we’ll have Juanita inventory them and you’ll have to check them in and out when you come to work. That suit you?”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

“Welcome to Shine Prison, Ms. Wake. And I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” Warden Dale signs off. Last meals and inventorying knives. This is going to be an interesting day. I beep my cell phone off and stand up. I get dressed, throw my wet hair up into a ponytail, and head to a hard-core German butcher I know is open in New Braunfels. Even on the Fourth of July that German flag flies high. I’ll grab some chicken to fry up tonight, as well as a brisket for tomorrow’s supper. I’ll have to smoke it all night, and even with the time I’ve got, it can always go longer. This’ll have to do. I swipe my keys off the table by the door and head out. I’m already listing appetizers and desserts in my head as I pull out of Merry Carole’s driveway and past all the meandering citizens of North Star, the live music still floating through town.