Free The Quaker Café by Brenda Bevan Remmes

loosen her hair, maybe even go to a hair dresser, a different style would soften the features in her angular face; but Liz didn’t have the nerve to make such a suggestion. Grandma never wore make-up or jewelry and discouraged vanity in any fashion.
    Chase’s sister, Sophie, looked like her mother, and was a beautiful woman in her simplicity and style . She started to wear a small bit of make-up when she followed Chase to UNC. After she married Jack Reardon, a dentist, and moved to Charleston, she paid more attention to style with her hair and clothes, but always in modest good taste.
    “Where’s Chase?” Grandma asked.
    “At home with the boys. He came last night.” Liz said.
    “You call him to come pick you up . You don’t want to be driving after drinking.”
    Liz looked as obedient as you could: “Yes, Grandma.” 
    “I’m glad he’s staying with the boys, though. They shouldn’t be left with babysitters too often.”
    “They’re not, Grandma,” Liz kept her voice steady.
    “Nathan?” Grandma turned, expecting he might add something.
                     Grandpa Hoole murmured. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his nose. He had not yet made eye-contact with Liz.
    “Can I get you a cup of coffee or a cookie?” Liz asked.
    “No, thank you, dear,” Grandma said. “You go on up and sit with Maggie. She needs her friends around her tonight. We’ll see you at meeting for worship before the funeral tomorrow.”
    Liz walked with them to the driveway, opened the car door, kissed them both on the cheek, and went back into the house . Billie met her with her glass of Chardonnay.
    “Thanks,” Liz said . “Remind me not to drink and drive.”
    “Helen is still upstairs . Probably should take the whole bottle if you’re going up.”
    “I’m not enthusiastic, ” Liz said.
    “Better you than me . You’re a political rival. She won’t want to say anything you can use against her in a campaign. That could help.”  
    Liz climbed the back stairs and heard the low mumbling of several voices . Through the dining area she saw the casket on the opposite side of the living room under the portrait of Maggie’s mother. A yellow cascade of roses, orchids, snapdragons and lilies placed at the head filled the room with the perfumes of spring flowers. A spray of confederate roses interspersed with cotton bolls rested on top of the lower half of the casket.
    Liz stopped at the partition between the dining room and living room . Maggie sat in a winged Queen Anne chair half facing her father’s body. Helen and two other women had their backs towards Liz.
    “Maggie, dear,” Helen was talking . “Your father would not want to be remembered in this way.”
    “In what way, exactly?” Maggie asked. Liz knew by the tone in her voice that Maggie had already grown weary of Helen.
    “Well, he would not want his death to be the cause of a split within the church . Surely you can see that.”
    “W ho’s planning to split, Helen? You?”
    The other women shifted uncomfortably in their chairs . This was never a good way to approach Maggie. Unlike her father, who would spend days, even years cajoling and negotiating a mutual agreement, Maggie had neither the patience nor the inclination to play games.
    “Maggie, we have a small congregation,” Helen said . “You know that. There are only thirty or forty regular members. If anyone should leave,” she hesitated, “well, a loss of five or more would make a big difference.” Helen paused a moment and looked at Maggie. Maggie was not receptive.
    Helen continued . “I hear talk. Quite a number of people are upset that this situation has been thrust upon the church with no warning. This is so unlike your father.”
    “No warning, Helen? You know my father spent many years in an effort to improve race relations in this community. He was an invited guest at Jerusalem Baptist and other black churches in the county numerous times. Not once did our church