Free The Sisterhood of the Queen Mamas by Annie Jones Page B

less than a minute.
    Because the Bernadettes of the world—and there aren’t nearly enough of them around, to my way of thinking—understand that the time to give up on another one of God’s children is never.

Chapter Five
    A ppearances. It’s said they can be deceiving. Obviously, I agree. Chloe, it now seemed, might be more intimidated than intimidating. Sammy might be more snake than charmer. Maxine, who is the one always pushing me to get us a pair of sparkly tiaras, wants all the trappings of being a Queen Mama/Rescuer of Girls Who Just Need a Small Nudge to Find Happiness but is less excited about taking on the responsibilities. And Bernadette just might have a little wildcat underneath that mousy exterior of hers.
    Then there’s Jan Belmont.
    If ever there was a woman ruled by the deception of appearances, Jan was it. Cool, collected, in control. That’s what she wanted everyone to see when they looked at her. And then she wanted them to make the next step in the old adage, “Seeing is believing.” She wanted everyone to believe it. She did not just hope for this, she relied upon it, as sure as Maxine and I rely upon the goodness of the Lord.
    It was her husband, she wanted everyone who looked upon her situation to construe, who was the needy one, the helpless one, the wounded one. And over the past year, he had worn the casts and contraptions and carried not one but two canes to show everyone the extent of his brokenness. Her? She was fine.
    No one bought that, of course. But then again, no one had reason or the means to challenge it. Until this morning.
    This same morning, when I had made up my mind to no longer allow myself to think I know anything about a person based on outward appearances, Jan Belmont chose to put me to the test by sitting all by herself on a rooftop—a universal distress call, make no mistake about it.
     
    “I’ll drive.” Bernadette had said it in a way that left no room for argument. And what would anyone have said to dissuade her anyway?
    Me? No, let me take my truck. Y’all don’t mind riding in the open truck bed, do ya?
    Or Jake? Hey, let’s all pile into my junk heap and see how many it can hold without the doors actually falling off and sending half of us flying out into the street the first time we hit a bump.
    Why not Sammy? Why don’t I untether this hot-air balloon and show you what this baby can really do?
    That’s how it happened that we pulled into the Belmonts’ drive way in a big white van with silver wedding bells and At Your Service painted on the side. And out we came, like clowns spilling into the center ring, me and Maxine, the gangly but gallant minister, the suddenly take-charge Bernadette and the little girl in the twirly skirt over a pair of jeans and orange-streaked hair. I don’t know why Mr.Belmont didn’t rush right out to welcome us, maybe even invite us into his home and offer to make us cold lemonade and hot pigs in a blanket.
    “What’s he doing?” Jake asked, focusing on the man in a rumpled pajama top and baggy sweatpants staring blankly out the big picture window in the front of the white circa-1970s split-level house.
    “He gives me the creeps,” Chloe whispered, and considering the source, we all took that comment seriously.
    “Jan must be around on the back side of the house. That’s the direction of the drive-in.” Bernadette pointed. Then she bobbed her head and shifted around in a way that made me think she was actually trying to see the flea market grounds from there. “We wouldn’t have been able to see her from over there if she’d been sitting in the front—I mean, on the front of the house.”
    “But her neighbors would.” That was Maxine’s way of agreeing with Bernadette. Jan would be unhappy enough to know we had spotted her. She sure would never have exposed even this hint of odd behavior, of potential weakness, to the whole neighborhood.
    Maxine clearly did not think I shared that trait—the unwillingness