Fear of Frying

sitting by the fireplace. Wondering if this was Liz Flowers and not particularly eager to rejoin the group wrangling over sexual separation of teens, Jane approached the other woman and introduced herself.
    “I’m Edna Titus, Benson’s mother,“ the woman said. “You look chilled, Jane. Sit here with me for a minute.“
    “Gladly,“ Jane said, putting her hands out to the fire.
    “Are you enjoying yourself?“ Edna Titus asked.
    “Oh, yes. But I’d underestimated my responsibility. I guess the word ‘Wisconsin’ has always meant `vacation’ to me. This is a lovely place.“
    “It is. We’ve been here about ten years, and I still wonder at the beauty. You’re not a smoker, are you?“
    “I’m afraid I am,“ Jane admitted. “I’ve been trying to stop for years and I can manage on about five cigarettes a day, but go berserk on any fewer.“
    “Oh, good! Somebody to be sinful with,“ Edna said. “This fireplace has such a nice draw that the smoke goes right up if you sit close enough.”
    She rose from her chair, sat on the raised flagstone hearth, and drew a battered pack of cigarettes from her sweater pocket. Jane studied her as Edna searched for a lighter. She was a tall, rangy woman who had probably never been pretty, but had an air of handsome dignity. Her gray hair was pulled into a casual knot on top of her head, her slacks and striped shirt were well worn and well kept. She was a woman who cared about her appearance, but not excessively so. She finally found her old-fashioned wick lighter, lit Jane’s cigarette, then her own, and said, “So...? What do you think?“
    “Of what?“
    “Of the chances the school board and city council will contract with Benson.”
    Jane felt instinctively this wasn’t a person who could be tactfully lied to. “I have no idea. I really haven’t been involved in the discussion until tonight: I assumed it was all but a done deal and we were just here to give a final approval, but now I’m not so sure.”
    Edna nodded. “Thanks for your honesty. Oh, it looks like our stragglers have arrived,“ she said as headlights swept across the front door. “I need to get their dinners ready. Would you mind greeting them?”
    She hurried back to the kitchen. Jane put out her cigarette and went to the door. A tall, stately black woman with very short hair and a red, fringed poncho was coming across the parking lot with long, determined strides. She stepped onto the porch and took Jane’s hand in an almost painfully firm grasp. “I’m Liz Flowers,“ she said. “You must be Jane Jeffry. And this is my husband—“ She turned around and realized she was alone. “Al? Have you lost yourself in the woods already? Where are you?“
    “Just coming, hon.“ Al emerged from the darkness. He was taller and much darker skinned than Liz, and considerably heavier. Jane thought he looked like a Massai warrior who’d let his weight get out of hand.
    “The owner’s mother is warming up your dinner,“ Jane said. “Come on inside.“
    “See, Al? I told you that you wouldn’t have to starve,“ Liz said. “You didn’t need to stop and get that packet of Oreos. Everyone else is here, I guess?“ she added to Jane, who was holding the door open. “Thanks.”
    Jane trailed along, bemused by the couple. Liz headed straight for the dining room without a moment’s hesitation, as if she had an internal compass. She greeted those she knew, introduced herself to everyone else, told Al where to sit, and took Benson’s now vacant place at the end of the table. Liz was forceful, energetic, and brisk.
    Al Flowers appeared to be a mellow man happily caught in her force field. He gazed around the room, shaking his head slowly in approval. “Nice place,“ he said, smiling vaguely.
    “Well, of course it’s nice,“ Liz said. “We knew that from the brochures. Now, what’s the plan?“ she demanded of the others. She hauled a large tote bag out from under her colorful poncho and plunged her hand into it. “I’ve made some notes of things we need to look at, and propose that at least two people, working independently, evaluate each.“
    “Now, Lizzie,“ Al said softly.
    Amazingly, she stopped talking for a second, and stashed the notebook. “Okay, okay. But we have limited time and shouldn’t be wasting it.“
    “There’s plenty of time, Liz.“ He had a deep, rumbly voice.
    Benson came through the kitchen doors with a tray of desserts just as Marge Claypool