The Liar

“She grew up. She’s about the happiest person I know, but then she always had a sunny nature.”

“Despite being bullied and picked on half the time. I remember in high school especially how Melody Bunker and Jolene Newton made deviling her a mission.”

“Melody’s as sour and snotty as she ever was. She was second runner-up in the Miss Tennessee pageant—something she tosses around like candy wrappers. You know she’s never forgiven you for beating her out for Homecoming Queen.”

“God, I haven’t thought about that in years.”

“Melody’s existence is based on being the prettiest and most popular. She fell short. And Jolene hasn’t evolved much, either.” Emma Kate leaned back, settled into the corner of the booth, diagonal from Shelby. “She’s engaged to the son of the hotel’s owners, and likes to drive around town in the fancy car her daddy bought her.”

A waitress brought over Shelby’s wine. “Tansy says enjoy, and just let me know if you want anything else.”

“Thank you. I don’t care about Melody or Jolene,” Shelby continued while she turned the wineglass around and around in small circles with her fingers. “I want to hear about you. You got your nursing degree just like you said you would. Did you like Baltimore?”

“I liked it well enough. I made some friends, had good work. Met Matt.”

“It’s serious, you and Matt?”

“Serious enough I dealt with my mama’s shock and horror when I told her we were moving in together. She still gives me pushes toward marriage and babies.”

“Don’t you want that?”

“I’m not in a rush about it, like you were.”

Shelby accepted the hit, took a sip of wine. “You like working at the clinic?”

“I’d have to be stupid not to like working for Doc Pomeroy. Your daddy’s a good man, a fine doctor.” After another sip of her beer, Emma Kate straightened a couple of inches. “What did you mean, you didn’t have the money to come back? The word I got was you were rolling in it.”

“Richard handled the money. As I wasn’t working—”

“Didn’t you want to work?”

“I had Callie to tend to, and the house. And I’m not qualified for any serious work. I didn’t finish college or—”

“What about singing?”

It flustered her not to finish a sentence. There’d been a time when she and Emma Kate could finish each other’s—but this was different.

“That was just a childish fantasy. It wasn’t like I had any real skills or experience, and I had a child, and he married me, provided for me and Callie, gave us a good home.”

Emma Kate sat back again. “And that’s all you wanted? To be provided for?”

“With Callie, and having no skills or the education—”

“Did he tell you that you were stupid? You want my forgiveness, Shelby?” Emma Kate said when Shelby went silent. “You tell me the truth. You look me in the eye and you tell me the truth.”

“All the time, one way or the other. How was he wrong? I didn’t know how to do anything.”

“That’s a big bucket of bullshit.” With her eyes fired up, Emma Kate set the beer down, shoved it aside and leaned across the table. “You didn’t just sing in that band, you did most of the managing and marketing. You figured out how to do that. They made you assistant manager at the college bookstore after a month so you knew how to do that. You started writing songs, and they were good, Shelby, damn it, so you knew how to do that. You redecorated my bedroom when we were sixteen—and not only did it look beautiful, but you figured out how to get around Mama on it. Don’t sit there and say you didn’t know how to do anything. That’s him talking. Speak for yourself.”

The words, fast as machine-gun fire, left Shelby breathless.

“None of those things were practical or realistic. Emma Kate, things change when you have a child depending on you. I was a housewife and a stay-at-home mother. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“There’s not a thing wrong with that if it makes you happy, if it’s appreciated. It doesn’t sound like it was appreciated, and when you talk about it you don’t look happy.”

She shook her head in denial. “Being Callie’s mama is the best thing in my life—it’s the light in it. Richard worked so I could stay home with her. A lot of mothers who want to can’t, so I should be grateful he provided for us.”

“There’s that word again.”

She felt sick inside, with a thin layer of shame coating it. “Do we have to talk about this?”

“You want me to forgive you for running off—and that I could—but to forgive you for cutting me off, for staying away, for not being there for me when I most needed you. But you’re skirting around the truth of it.”

She was because the center was so dark and sticky. The noise of voices and dishes that had seemed festive and fun when she’d come in now pounded against her head.

Her throat felt so painfully dry she wished she’d asked for water. But she pushed the words out.