The Sisterhood of the Queen Mamas Read Online Free PDF Page B

people who once cherished us but now see usand quaint and perhaps cute but not really useful anymore. What could we possibly know about a modern single girl’s problems? What could we possibly have to add to help her cope with a world that we fit into about as well as June Cleaver would fit with those Desperate Housewives?
    I’m realistic enough to know that Bernadette would think that way.
    She’d be wrong. But her way of thinking would stop her from listening to what we had to say anyway, so why push more problems on her?
    “What did you find today?” she asked, quick and bright, as if maybe she suspected I was toying with the idea of foisting some advice on her and had to be stopped. “Any of those Royal Queen party plates you two love so much?”
    “Royal Service, Hostess Queen pattern. And no.” Maxine plunked the canvas bag that she used for carrying around her purchases on the counter. She had that look in her eye. The same look I’d seen the first time she and I had met. It spoke of a young bride’s dreams of owning one nice thing, just for herself, bumping up against the harsh realities of a young minister’s budget and expectations. That look was all longing and wistful, a bit sad but tinged with gracious acceptance. “We didn’t find any Hostess Queen today.”
    “Yet,” I added, emphatically. I know it’s corny but I do believe that someday Maxine and I will each own a complete set of Royal Service Hostess Queen partyware of our own. “We still have another acre and a half to explore.”
    “I got a couple vintage aprons, very cute.” Maxine pulled out a yellow piece of fabric with big red apples stitched on it.
    “And I bought a mint-condition eggbeater.” I didn’t openmy bag, just pantomimed the motion of cranking the handle of a small appliance.
    Bernadette made the motion right back at me. “An egg—Do you need an eggbeater?”
    “You’d be surprised.” I laughed. Actually, I’d bought it out of pure sentiment. I remembered my elderly neighbor having one just like it. I grew up in a house with a Sunbeam stationary mixer myself. Anyway, the vendor said a man had almost bought it to crush flat and use in a “found object” modern-art piece, and I just couldn’t bear the thought of that happening to it, so I rescued the thing. But I didn’t confess all that to Bernadette, or else she’d never take romantic advice from me, ever, because she’d forever suspect I was just trying to save some piece of human junk from hanging in life’s gallery of bad art. I know God doesn’t make junk, but at that age, a lot of women don’t realize it yet. So I smiled and said, “Even us mild-mannered minister’s wives run across our share of bad eggs that need whipping into shape.”
    As an afterthought, I shot a glance in the direction of the health-food salesclerk with the toxic attitude.
    Bernadette shut her eyes. “I know your heart is in the right places, Mrs. Pepperdine, but you can’t whip an egg into shape once it’s already been hard-boiled.”
    “Hard-boiled? At her age? I don’t believe that. Do you, Maxine?”
    “No, I don’t. She may want everyone to think that about her. To give the idea that she is already hardened through and through. But look at the way her eyes dart around all the time. And she bites her nails, the act of someone consumed by conflict, not crammed with confidence. And eventhough I do not at all get what she’s going for at all with her style, she does make an effort with her hair. Those are signs that she’s scared inside and wants to be liked.”
    “Maxine’s right.”
    “That doesn’t mean we should mix in,” Maxine added.
    I opened my mouth to protest, but Maxine didn’t give me a chance.
    “Not when we have Bernadette here, and the case of the perfectly marriageable new minister—”
    “Sounds like you’ve got wind of our big news, ladies.” Helen Davenport, who I know mostly from seeing her name on the interfaith committee membership