The commercial refrigerator in the basement of First Methodist had a new, metallic rattle that made the folding tables vibrate. On the edge of the nearest table, my mother’s silver-plated cake stand was slowly sliding toward the linoleum floor.
I caught the stand by its fluted pedestal just before it tipped, then adjusted the paper doily on top.
Clara, my closest friend from the church choir, pointed at me with her reading glasses.
“You have powdered sugar on your chin, Eleanor,” she said.
I reached up to wipe it away, my fingers automatic as I smoothed the fabric of my apron down over my skirt.
“It is just from the lemon bars,” I said, lifting the heavy glass dome to set the yellow squares in neat, concentric circles.
The heavy wooden door at the top of the basement stairs groaned on its hinges.
Heavy, slow footsteps came down the wooden steps, too heavy to belong to the pastor or the youth minister.
