The Welcome Committee

Liv and Delilah find their footing in the quiet hills of Arkansas

Apr 20, 2025

If you’re new here (yay!)—or need a refresher—Liv-ing Stories are fictionalized tales told through my alter ego, Liv. They exist in a world adjacent to mine—made up, but stitched with real life.

The Welcome Committee is the latest installment.

If you’d like to start from the beginning (totally optional), check out The Angler—a story of catch-and-release dating, and continue with The Mother Load, where Liv helps her mom, Delilah, pack up her house.

This chapter picks up as they settle into a new home in Mountain View, Arkansas—and new characters welcome Liv… more or less.

You can read more about the different types of writing I do here—or just dive in and let the stories sort themselves out.

Thanks for being here. I appreciate you.

Settling in

“Mom, this is the third box I’ve opened that says ‘bedding’ on it, and it’s full of dishes,” I said, holding up yet another serving platter.

She didn’t answer—just stayed bent over a box in the sunroom, unwrapping a colorful piece of pottery.

“This platter makes—what? Twelve?”

“Nine,” she corrected, glancing up. “Maybe ten.”

I shook my head. “I can’t wait for the occasion when we’ll need to serve ten turkeys.”

She shrugged. “You never know. We might host Thanksgiving this year.”

“Right,” I nodded, pretending to understand her logic.

It was pointless, this conversation. We’d had versions of it since we started talking about the move. But as I thought back to where we were eight months ago, I was amazed that we were, in fact, standing in Mom’s new home in Mountain View, Arkansas—almost fully unpacked and settled in.

I sighed and returned to the kitchen. Stepping on a stool, I made room in the back of a cabinet and rearranged the other platters and serving dishes we’d put away the day before.

Outside, the spring air wrapped around the house like a lightweight blanket. The windows were open, and I could hear birds of all kinds chirping and cawing over the distant hum of someone’s riding mower across the hollow. It was my favorite kind of quiet—country quiet. Not pure silence, but soft constancy. Something you could relax into, like a warm bubble bath.

I’d taken over one of the guest rooms and made it my own, though there still wasn’t a bed frame—just a mattress on the floor, waiting for someone to help me reassemble the rest.

The back screen door creaked open.

“Anybody home?” a voice called out—deep and familiar.

I didn’t need to look. Koda left my side to give the visitor a thorough security check.

“Hey there!” He greeted Koda. “Why, this dog is big enough to ride!” He chuckled.

“Over here!” I called from the kitchen pantry, and a moment later, Uncle Ray’s frame filled the doorway.

Ray was Mom’s older brother. Vietnam vet. Retired prop mechanic. Full-time teller of tales. Even at 80 years old he still had the strength and fortitude of someone who could build his own cabin in the woods and the posture of a man who wouldn’t apologize for anything—least of all how many deer heads he kept on his wall.

In one hand, he held a metal toolbox with a long-forgotten name Sharpied across a strip of peeling masking tape.

Ugly.

“Well, well,” he drawled, setting it down in front of me. “If it ain’t Ugly.”

As a little girl, I used to flinch every time he said it. I couldn’t understand why he called me that. Surely I wasn’t ugly, I’d think. Everyone else told me I was pretty. I’d beg him to quit, cry to Mom—but she’d just laugh and say, “Honey, if Ray didn’t like you, he wouldn’t talk to you at all.”

At the time, that felt like the world’s worst consolation prize.

Now, I knew better.

Uncle Ray’s nickname for me was a crooked compliment. If Ray called you Ugly, what he meant was: you were a little too pretty, and he didn’t want your head getting big.

I smiled and pulled him in for a hug. “Hey, Ray.”

After a tight squeeze, he leaned back and studied my face just long enough for the water level in his eyes to rise a bit. Then he cleared his throat and looked away.

“Brought you some tools,” he said, opening the box. “Figured you’d need ’em if you’re fixin’ to stay awhile.”

I glanced down at the gift. It was a proper starter set—hammer, wrench, screwdrivers, level, tape measure, pliers, even a stud finder.

“Thanks,” I said, caught off guard. “This is… really thoughtful.”

Ray shrugged like he hadn’t gone to any trouble at all. “Heard you were still sleeping on a mattress on the floor. Figured we could get that bed frame put back together.”

Mom reappeared then, wiping her hands on a dish towel, smiling in that way she always did when her big brother showed up—like the weight of the world had gotten lighter.

I picked up the toolbox and made my way toward my bedroom.

Hearing them fuss over each other made me happy, like I was exactly where I was meant to be.

Even if I was still called Ugly.

A place at the table

Ray had just tightened the last bolt on the bed frame when he looked up and said, “Wanna come to Toast with me tomorrow?”

“Toast?”

“Diner off the square. That’s where the guys meet for coffee and breakfast. I’ll pick you up at 6:45.”

“In the morning?” I blinked.

“Honey, you know what time a day breakfast is,” he said,

Koda nudged him, asking for a pat on the head. She’d taken to him and hadn’t stopped trying to make eye contact since he arrived.

I was trying to reestablish my morning routine, but the fact that Ray was inviting me to men’s coffee felt like an honor. That was sacred time. Where local gossip got passed around like salt and pepper, and opinions were handed out hot.

Naturally, I said yes.

The next morning, I heard the gravel crunching as Ray’s truck pulled into the driveway right on time.

“Morning,” I said as I hoisted myself up into the passenger seat.

“Mornin’.”

We drove into town and parked at the cafe without another word.

Ray trailed a few steps behind me as I pushed open the glass door to Toast. A bell jangled above me and the scent of bacon, coffee, and warm bread got my appetite going. I scanned the room and spotted Ray’s crew huddled around a long table in the back.

Some wore overalls. Others wore pearl-snap western shirts tucked into worn denim. All had on ballcaps.

I walked over and slid into an empty seat.

Their conversation stopped. A couple of coffee cups froze midair. The two men on either side of me turned their heads to get a better look.

No one said a word. Just a few nods and sideways glances.

Clearly, Ray had not informed them I’d be coming.

He appeared a moment later, pulled up a chair, and gestured in my direction. “This is my niece.”

I braced for it—Ugly—but instead he looked at me and with a wink said, “Liv.” In the same breath, he signaled the waitress for two more coffees.

Ray pointed around the table. “JT, Vernon, Clint, Doyle, and Marlin.”

A few of them gave me another small nod. Still no one said anything.

Finally, JT, who looked about the same age as Ray but with deep-set eyes, freckled skin, and a crackly voice, broke the silence.

“Where you from, girl?” The question was asked in a way that was long and drawn out.

“San Francisco,” I said with a smile.

Marlin, a round man in a feed-store cap, looked wide-eyed across the table at Doyle, who kept a straight face.

We sat in silence for a bit.

“You married?” Clint asked, not looking up from his cup of coffee.

“Nope.” I replied.

“Gotta boyfriend?” Vernon asked.

“I do not.”

I briefly considered saying I was into women, just to crack their skulls open a little—but decided not to blow up the entire breakfast.

JT slowly leaned back in his chair, appraising me. “You gotta job here? I can get ya work down at the bank.”

It was sweet—an unexpected gesture of kindness, maybe even a step towards acceptance.

“I appreciate that,” I said.

Ray interjected. “She’s got her own business.”

Vernon tilted his head to the side. “Oh, yeah? What’s yer biz-ness?” He asked with a slight smirk before bringing his mug to his lips.

I launched into my usual explanation—brand and marketing consultant, mostly helping coaches—but somewhere around “positioning strategy,” I felt the table glaze over like a donut.

“You work on the computer?” Vernon tried to clarify.

“I do.” That was a much simpler answer. “Yes, I work on the computer.”

JT turned to Ray. “Whose girl is this?”

“Lilah’s.”

JT leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Well then—we’re cousins.”

“Seems like everyone’s my cousin around here,” I said.

The waitress slid a steaming mug of coffee in front of me and, without missing a beat, said, “Everyone’s related ‘round here, sis.”

Then she smiled and asked, “What can I get ya? These boys don’t need a menu.”

“I’ll just take a couple eggs over medium, sausage, and hash browns. Thanks.”

She nodded and moved on, calling out the rest of the orders without writing anything down. Most of them just said “the usual.”

Conversation resumed—mostly about the forecasted storm, Doyle’s latest tractor breakdown, and a disagreement over how the quality of the fried catfish had changed at JoJo’s restaurant on the river.

Marlin brought up Trump’s speech to Congress from the night before. I’d watched it. Closely.

I took a slow sip of coffee. Now or never, I thought.

“What was your favorite part?” I asked casually.

Marlin didn’t hesitate. “When he said he’s bannin’ men from women’s sports. We don’t need no men in women’s sports.” He took a beat. “And how there’s only two genders: male and female. ‘Bout time we put an end to that ‘they/them’ nonsense.”

I considered asking how many transgenders he actually knew, or how many were actively competing in women’s sports in Arkansas—but I let it pass.

If I wanted to get invited back, my best strategy was equal parts observation and curiosity.

The conversation shifted to fishing. When I mentioned Ray was going to teach me how to fish, JT grinned.

“Well, that’s good. Get some skills, girl. I don’t know what they teach out there in Cal-li-for-nee, but ya best get yer head on straight if yer gonna live ‘round here.”

Half-joking. Half-serious.

I nodded, amused. It really did feel like I’d landed on another planet. One where I was technically related to everyone—and still unmistakably alien.

But I didn’t mind.

In fact, I kind of liked it.

Wouldn’t be the worst thing

A month passed.

I’d settled into a new rhythm—one that started early and moved slow. Most mornings began with Ray’s crew at Toast, followed by a long walk down the gravel road with Koda, an hour of writing, then tending to my business.

Mom was officially settled in. The furniture was in place, the pictures were hung, and the garden beds were staked out. The chaos of the move had quieted.

That evening, we sat on the porch and watched the sun dip behind the wooded hills. The light stretched long and golden across the yard. Delilah sat beside me in her favorite chair, swinging her feet gently, humming something I didn’t recognize.

She’d been humming a lot lately.

She seemed lighter here. She spent her days cooking and tending to the porch pots, moving them around like chess pieces to catch just the right slant of sun. She’d started mapping out her summer garden in a spiral-bound notebook, making lists in her neat cursive.

We sipped sweet tea as the crickets and frogs began their first concert of the season.

“I’m not ready to be social yet,” she said suddenly, her eyes still on the horizon.

“Why?” I asked.

“I don’t want to talk about Ted. Not yet.” She paused. “I know most people here would understand—half my friends have lost their husbands too—but I’m still tired of saying it out loud.”

I nodded. “That’s fair.”

She glanced sideways at me. “Is that bad?”

“I don’t think it’s bad. If you’re not ready, you’re not ready.” I paused. “Just… don’t stay reclusive for too long,” I added gently. “You’re still allowed to have fun.”

She gave a half-smile. “I know.”

A soft breeze moved through the trees, and we sat for a while enjoying the quiet.

“How do you like it here, Liv?”

I squinted toward the tree line, thinking I saw a deer just beyond the brush. “I’m surprised how much I’m enjoying myself. I mean, it’s nostalgic. I have so many fond childhood memories here.”

Koda stood up, alert—rapidly sniffing the air. She concluded there was no threat and settled back into a swirl at my feet.

“It’s great,” I continued. “The pace of life. The quiet. Except we are in the middle of nowhere. That’s an adjustment. But I like that I can walk Koda for a few miles without seeing a car or another soul. I love the birdsong. The deer. The first dogwoods starting to bloom…” I trailed off. “It’s… soothing. In a way I didn’t expect.”

Delilah started humming again, softly.

“I’ve been wondering if I could stay here,” I added. “Like, make this my home base. Go on adventures, travel to see Anna and friends as time allows.”

The words hung there.

It wasn’t something I could’ve imagined saying—not even a year ago. But here I was, saying it out loud on a porch in rural Arkansas, watching the sky melt from lavender to peach.

Delilah didn’t respond right away.

She took a sip of tea and said, simply, “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

I nodded and leaned back, letting my weight settle into the rocker, the wood still warm from the day’s sun.

A year ago, I was bouncing around the Southwest, a full-blown digital nomad. A year before that, I was still in the Bay Area—fighting bridge traffic, fretting over rent and cost of living increases, layering jackets in June.

This—this life—was unrecognizable from then.

And yet, that had been the point. I’d left San Francisco with a promise to let life unfold without force. To see what happened when I stopped gripping the wheel so tightly.

I wasn’t sure what I’d hoped for. Freedom, definitely. Peace, for certain. Maybe a version of myself I hadn’t met yet but sensed was there.

And somehow, without trying, I’d ended up here—in the Ozarks with Mom and Koda, a new set of tools, a strange little breakfast club, and a quiet kind of magic.

Life had flowed in the most unexpected ways.

And I wasn’t in a rush to change any of it.

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