The ladies of the East Wilmington Crocheting Guild always assembled on July the 23rd, the possibly apocryphal anniversary of their founding (no one actually remembered founding the guild, but this didn't bother a membership that had mostly ceased serious attempts to recall what they'd had for breakfast), as they hosted a car wash in the Church Street lot to raise money for yarn and scones.
"Slide on in here, big boy," called Sheila Masters to the driver of a dusty old Buick, running her thumbs up the spaghetti straps of that lipstick red bikini her daughter had called "garish" when photos of last year's fundraiser enjoyed a brief notoriety online.
She could perhaps be forgiven for not recognizing the vehicle, as it spent time in the Kingsleys' garage, while she spent time elsewhere. But forgiveness was of little interest to Betty (written "Mrs. Charles Kingsley" on the return address labels in her roll top), whose suspicions had been fueling feverish scarf-and-mittens work, when Charles cranked the window and blurted an overly cheery hello.
The silence frothed as wrinkled bikini babes began to scrub at years of neglect. Charles hastily reversed the window crank. Betty and Sheila locked eyes. Betty, smoldering with the fire she usually reserved for those who dared suggest a cane, eventually closed the distance, bringing them nose to nose.
"The hat you presented on Tuesday," she said sweetly, "Was loose and sloppy."
Sheila's cheeks reddened. "Well," she replied airily, "I found a large head to fill it."
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