ever. Time flies as I roll out the crust for the pecan pie. Iâm happy and contented as I cut out the biscuit rounds one by one. I havenât a care in the world. Being in Merry Caroleâs kitchen has washed away everything I left in New York, along with everything thatâs happened in the whirlwind of being back in North Star. Laurelâs little tantrum at the salon is a distant memory. However dramatic and ridiculous she is, she also gets to go home to the man Iâve loved since I was in kindergarten. I focus back on the cooking. Itâs almost time for supper. The front door opens and closes.
Merry Carole walks into the kitchen with a bouquet of Texas yellow bells. I can see the emotion on her face as she approaches me. With everything warming in the oven, the last thing to do before the guests arrive is fry this steak.
âI know,â I say, taking her hand.
âI canât believe youâre cooking the Number One. I havenât . . . I havenât walked into a house with that smell in years. It smells exactly the same.â Merry Carole dabs at her mascara.
âLetâs face it, toward the end there I was in that kitchen more than she was,â I say, lifting the steak out of the skillet.
âThe kitchen is a lot cleaner than I thought it was going to be,â Merry Carole says, scanning the already set dining room table and spotless kitchen.
âI guess thatâs the one positive by-product of working in all those fancy kitchens. If you donât have a clean workspace, thereâs hell to pay,â I say, quickly swiping at the counter.
âItâs like you were shipped off to the culinary army,â Merry Carole says, setting the flowers on the counter and pulling a vase down from one of the upper cabinets. She arranges them quickly and sets them in the middle of the table.
âThatâs certainly what it felt like,â I say, pulling my arm away from the splattering lard. The front door opens and slams.
âWhatever that is I smell, bless you,â Cal yells as he walks through the front room.
âChicken fried steak, my dear. Now go take a quick shower and put on something presentable. Weâre having company,â Merry Carole says, reaching up to fuss with his bangs. She continues, âI wish you would let me cut these. Just a touch . . . You have such pretty eyes, sweetness and light.â Merry Carole calling her varsity-football-playing son sweetness and light damn near melts my heart.
âIs thatââ Cal stops. Iâm sure heâs heard the stories. Merry Carole sighs and drags her gaze away from Calâs overgrown bangs.
âIt is, in fact, the Number One. Youâre in for a treat,â I say, turning away from the stovetop briefly.
âI didnât think it really existed,â Cal says, gazing into the kitchen.
âOh, it exists, but if you donât shower up, itâll become a myth,â Merry Carole says, pushing him toward the bathroom. He obliges, his gait quickening as he realizes whatâs in store.
âTired, my ass. That boy is amazing,â Merry Carole says, her voice breaking.
âShe was deliberately messing with you,â I say, taking the last chicken fried steak from the lard.
âWest Ackerman is the pride of North Star,â Merry Carole mimics.
âDoes Cal know?â
âNo!â Merry Carole shushes me, checking to see if he is out of earshot. The guests are due in minutes.
âHeâs in the shower,â I say, washing the last of the dishes. I squeeze out the dishrag, take my apron off, and hang it back up. The kitchen looks just as I found it.
âHe has no idea who West really is to him, so please, you canât breathe a word of it.â
âHoney, I have no intention of telling him, but I do think youâre kidding yourself if you think he hasnât heard the rumors. Heâd heard about the Number One. Do you
Merry Carole walks into the kitchen with a bouquet of Texas yellow bells. I can see the emotion on her face as she approaches me. With everything warming in the oven, the last thing to do before the guests arrive is fry this steak.
âI know,â I say, taking her hand.
âI canât believe youâre cooking the Number One. I havenât . . . I havenât walked into a house with that smell in years. It smells exactly the same.â Merry Carole dabs at her mascara.
âLetâs face it, toward the end there I was in that kitchen more than she was,â I say, lifting the steak out of the skillet.
âThe kitchen is a lot cleaner than I thought it was going to be,â Merry Carole says, scanning the already set dining room table and spotless kitchen.
âI guess thatâs the one positive by-product of working in all those fancy kitchens. If you donât have a clean workspace, thereâs hell to pay,â I say, quickly swiping at the counter.
âItâs like you were shipped off to the culinary army,â Merry Carole says, setting the flowers on the counter and pulling a vase down from one of the upper cabinets. She arranges them quickly and sets them in the middle of the table.
âThatâs certainly what it felt like,â I say, pulling my arm away from the splattering lard. The front door opens and slams.
âWhatever that is I smell, bless you,â Cal yells as he walks through the front room.
âChicken fried steak, my dear. Now go take a quick shower and put on something presentable. Weâre having company,â Merry Carole says, reaching up to fuss with his bangs. She continues, âI wish you would let me cut these. Just a touch . . . You have such pretty eyes, sweetness and light.â Merry Carole calling her varsity-football-playing son sweetness and light damn near melts my heart.
âIs thatââ Cal stops. Iâm sure heâs heard the stories. Merry Carole sighs and drags her gaze away from Calâs overgrown bangs.
âIt is, in fact, the Number One. Youâre in for a treat,â I say, turning away from the stovetop briefly.
âI didnât think it really existed,â Cal says, gazing into the kitchen.
âOh, it exists, but if you donât shower up, itâll become a myth,â Merry Carole says, pushing him toward the bathroom. He obliges, his gait quickening as he realizes whatâs in store.
âTired, my ass. That boy is amazing,â Merry Carole says, her voice breaking.
âShe was deliberately messing with you,â I say, taking the last chicken fried steak from the lard.
âWest Ackerman is the pride of North Star,â Merry Carole mimics.
âDoes Cal know?â
âNo!â Merry Carole shushes me, checking to see if he is out of earshot. The guests are due in minutes.
âHeâs in the shower,â I say, washing the last of the dishes. I squeeze out the dishrag, take my apron off, and hang it back up. The kitchen looks just as I found it.
âHe has no idea who West really is to him, so please, you canât breathe a word of it.â
âHoney, I have no intention of telling him, but I do think youâre kidding yourself if you think he hasnât heard the rumors. Heâd heard about the Number One. Do you
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