Cemetery Silk by E. Joan Sims Page A

whatever is the matter? I don’t know what you said but it sounded really nasty. Remember what your father used to say: only the uneducated need to express themselves with curses. The wise man has the whole English language at his command.”
    I looked at her in disbelief. “Then bloody hell! You and Cassie have fought and argued for the last one hundred miles, and you want to know what’s the matter?”
    â€œWe were not fighting. We were just having a spirited discourse.”
    â€œSpirited discourse, my hind foot! You were fighting over the route, the gas station, the color of the cars, the weather, when to eat.…”
    â€œHey, Gran,” Cassie said as she opened the back door, “how about a sandwich?”
    â€œWhy of course, darling.” Mother gave me a sugary smile. “Be right there.”
    I banged my fists against the steering wheel. Why didn’t I ever learn? I knew I could never beat them, so I might as well join them.
    â€œPass me a sandwich, please,” I begged humbly.
    â€œSure thing, Mom. I hope you can relax now and enjoy the rest of the trip like Gran and me. Want some tea?”
    Full stomachs made us all more even-tempered and the last few miles of the trip went by quickly. We were almost in Lanierville when Cassie made another announcement.
    â€œMom, I have to pee again. It’s Gran’s fault, all that iced tea.”
    Since we had to stop and use the facilities, as Mother called them, we decided to pick a place in Lanierville where the town folk might congregate and chat. After a few passes up and down Main Street, we settled on Molly’s Steak and Coffee House. It looked clean and neat and had three big windows in front. Cassie tried to peer in all three and check out the food, but frilly green and white checked curtains blocked her view. She did manage, however, to attract the attention of every customer in the place. Our entrance, therefore, was far from unobtrusive. To make matters worse, a little bell over the door signaled our entrance with a merry little “ting-a-ling.”
    Molly herself, according to the nametag adorning her ample bosom, saw us to a table in the back. I guessed the window booths were reserved for regulars.
    When Cassie ordered a cup of coffee and apple pie, Mother and I decided to follow suit, and I added a bowl of vanilla ice cream for a la modes. We must have done the right thing because Molly was all smiles. It was like ordering the right wine at “21.”
    Mother followed Cassie to the ladies room and left me alone at the table. I stretched and relaxed back against my chair and looked around the room. Only two of the front booths were occupied. Two old codgers wearing overalls and denim jackets sat in the one closest to the door. On closer inspection I realized they were not that old, just worn and weather-beaten farmers.
    Another waitress, a skinnier, younger version of Molly, was having a quiet flirtatious conversation with a young man sitting in the second booth. He was wearing jeans, a chambray shirt, and a Braves baseball cap. The girl twirled her impossibly blonde hair in her fingers while he fiddled with the long ends of his mustache. She had really lovely ankles and nice legs and kept crossing and uncrossing them to keep his attention. Every time she made this maneuver Molly would frown and grunt in her direction.
    I heard Cassie and Mother returning to the table. So did the Braves fan whose attention was suddenly focused on my daughter. The skinny little waitress almost fell off the stool trying to get him back by gyrating her lower limbs. When he asked her for something from the kitchen without taking his eyes off of Cassie, she flounced out to get it with a sour expression on her face.
    The pie was delicious, a perfect flaky crust with just a hint of nutmeg and cinnamon in the apples. When we complimented her, Molly was ripe for the picking. We asked her to join us for a second cup of