The Liar

“Oh, we won’t worry about that. So I stopped into Vi’s, and there was Maxine Pinkett—you remember she moved to Arkansas a few years ago, but she was back visiting, and came into Vi’s hoping I could give her a cut and color. I don’t do hair anymore as a rule, but she’s an old customer, and I know what she likes.”

Shelby had a misty memory of Mrs. Pinkett, so made assenting noises as she began to fill the pastries with cream.

“She told me that she was disappointed when Crystal told her I was off, then I walked in, and she asked if I couldn’t please see to her hair. She’s not happy at all with the stylists she’s tried in Little Rock. So I set her up. Turns out her daughter’s husband may take a job in Ohio now, and this after she moved to Little Rock to be close by her daughter and three grandchildren. She’s in a state, let me tell you. I know just how she feels, so I . . .”

Ada Mae shut her eyes, gave herself a shake. “I can’t keep my mouth shut with a stapler.”

“You don’t have to. You didn’t get to make many memories with Callie for more than three years. And more, I see now, she didn’t get to make them with you. That’s on me, Mama.”

“It’s all over and done now, and we’re making plenty of memories all around. What are you making there? Little cream puffs? Oh, she’s awake.” Ada Mae looked toward the baby monitor on the counter. “I’m going to take her new things up, and we’ll have some fun. You need help here, honey?”

“I don’t, Mama, thanks. I don’t want you to do a thing but sit down to this meal. You go have fun with Callie.”

“Oh, I hope the pink Mary Janes fit, ’cause they couldn’t be cuter.”

She’d take pictures of Callie in the pink Mary Janes, Shelby thought. Callie might not remember them when she grew up, but she’d remember her grandmother loved her, enjoyed getting her pretty clothes. She’d remember her granny had fixed her hair like a princess.

That’s what counted. Like a good family dinner at the dining room table, that’s what counted.

She finished the pastries, basted the chicken, got the potatoes and carrots going.

She needed to change, not only for dinner, but to go out and meet Emma Kate. With a glance at the timer, she ran upstairs, tiptoed from the landing to her room so she didn’t distract Callie and her mother and their fashion show.

And spent the next fifteen minutes agonizing over what to wear. She’d once had three, maybe even four times as many clothes, and had never agonized.

Maybe, she thought, because it had stopped being important.

It was the bar and grill, she reminded herself. People didn’t dress up especially to go there. It was at least three giant steps up from Shady’s, but about an equal amount down from the big restaurant at the hotel.

She settled on black jeans, a simple white shirt. And she’d put the leather jacket she’d kept—one she just loved—over it. The pewter gray went well with her hair, and wasn’t as harsh as black.

Since the evenings ran cool yet, she chose heeled half boots.

Mindful of the meal, she slipped straight back down and into the kitchen, grabbed an apron this time to start on the biscuits.

It was fun to fuss, she thought, and after hunting up a pretty platter for the chicken, stood trying to imagine if it would look better if she laid the potatoes and carrots around the chicken or if she put them in bowls.

Forrest came in the back door.

“What’s all this?” He sniffed the air. “What is that?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“I didn’t say anything was wrong. It smells like . . . It smells like I’m hungry.”

“You can stay for dinner if you want. Granny and Grandpa are coming. I’m cooking.”

“You’re cooking?”

“That’s right, Forrest Jackson Pomeroy, so take it or leave it.”

“Do you always get dressed up to cook dinner?”

“I’m not dressed up. Hell. Am I too dressed up to go to Bootlegger’s?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because, you idiot, I’m going to Bootlegger’s and I don’t want to dress wrong.”

“I meant why are you going to the bar and grill when you’re fixing dinner?”

“I’m going after dinner, if you need every detail of it. I’m meeting Emma Kate.”

His face cleared. “Oh.”

“Am I too dressed up or not?”

“You’re okay.” He opened the top oven, peered in at the chicken. “That looks damn good.”

“It will be damn good. Now stay out of the way. I need to set out the appetizers.”

“Aren’t we fancy?” He stepped around her, got himself a beer.

“I just want it to be nice. Mama’s getting me massages, and Granny’s fixing Callie’s hair, and—you saw how they fixed the rooms upstairs for us. I just want it to be nice.”

He gave her shoulder a rub. “It is nice. The table looks like a company meal. It’s good you’re meeting Emma Kate.”

“We’ll see how good when I do. She’s still awful mad at me.”

“Maybe you should fix her a chicken dinner.”

It felt good to have her family around the table enjoying a meal she’d made. And made her realize it was the first time. There’d be a second time, she promised herself, and she’d make sure Clay and Gilly and little Jackson were around the table that next time.