Free Temple Secrets: Southern Humorous Fiction: (New for 2015) For Lovers of Southern Authors and Southern Novels by Susan Gabriel Page A

a week, Queenie has spent every day at the hospital with Iris. Her only visitors were Violet—who stopped by every evening on her way home— and Spud Grainger, who stopped by twice a day, once in the morning before going to the Piggly Wiggly and then afterward to relieve Queenie. Although she has a hard time understanding it, she appreciates Spud Grainger’s loyalty to Iris.
    Rose walks out of the house and latches the gate behind her. She looks tired. In an earlier conversation, Queenie and Violet discussed how difficult this trip back to Savannah must be for Rose. To come home after an absence of twenty-five years, her mother in a coma—a woman too stubborn to show any love—must be hard. Not to mention, seeing Edward again after all these years.
    Queenie can’t believe he showed up at his mother’s bedside. When she called her half-nephew after his mother’s stroke, he seemed indifferent and inconvenienced. At least tonight he didn’t stay long. Just enough time to give Rose a prolonged sinister look before rushing off to meet someone at the country club. Queenie has never liked Edward. He acts more like a spoiled brat than a man. Edward and Rose are about as different as two siblings can be.
    Rose gets into the car and buckles herself into the passenger seat, giving Queenie a faint smile.
    “Seeing Mama will be good for you.” Queenie pats her hand. “You two have a special bond.”
    “I’ve missed her,” Rose says. “I don’t think I realized how much until now.”
    “She’s missed you, too,” Queenie says. “You’re family.”
    Twelve years separate Queenie and Rose in age, but because of her mama’s influence, they have similar sensibilities flowing through them.
    With Rose silent next to her, Queenie lets her mind wander. She has driven this route thousands of times and never tires of it. The Talmadge Bridge stretches across the Savannah River, a ribbon of concrete reaching toward the horizon. The water fans out in every direction and the late afternoon sun glistens across the grassy marsh.
    Crossing this bridge suspends time for Queenie, as if the bridge itself is a timeline for her family. Her ancestors made this crossing, at first in boats, and her descendants will make this crossing long after she is gone. At the highest point, where the bridge arches upward, she feels weightless, a water bird soaring up and out on a heavy wind. She wishes this part could last longer. But then the bridge delivers her to the land on the other side, as waterways skirt off in different directions.
    Her mama never learned how to drive a car. Her entire working career, Old Sally caught rides into Savannah with different maids and housekeepers who worked the same hours. A wide assortment of family and friends are available to call upon whenever she needs a ride. But for Queenie, learning how to drive a car was a statement of independence.
    Daughters need their differences , even if their mamas are wonderful, she tells herself.
    As they near the ocean, Rose sits straighter. “So many memories,” she says. “You used to drive us out here all the time.”
    “Mama loved bringing you and Violet to the beach,” Queenie says. “I think it gave us all a break from your mother.”
    “Do you remember how we used to sing while we crossed this bridge?” Rose asks. Her eyes sparkle with recollection.
    Queenie hums the melody of Michael, Row Your Boat Ashore . Her alto voice resonates, tickling her cheeks. Her hum becomes words and to Queenie’s surprise, Rose joins in on the chorus. After they finish, Rose smiles.
    “That was wonderful,” Rose says. “I forgot how well you sing.”
    “Violet is the real singer in the family,” Queenie says. “A few years back, the preservation society in Beaufort did a recording of her singing some of the old Gullah songs Mama had taught her.”
    “I never knew that,” Rose says, her tone thoughtful.
    For several seconds they ride in silence, until Queenie breaks the quiet.